Driving Solo
in Ireland
Veteran journalist Sathya
Saran breezes by the Wild
Atlantic Way
“The engine started with a
cat-like purr, happy to be active, the automatic shift stick
was easy, the tyres floated just
above the ground, as I headed
with a faster-than-usual heart
beat towards the highway to
Killarney, 308 kilometres away.
My helpful Hertz assistant had
set the GPS for me, I was told
the toll had been pre paid on
my behalf, and all I had to do
was press the accelerator and
keep my tiny craft on the road,
till I reached ‘ Home’.”
62 Travel Secrets November-December 2015
T
umbling out of a long
haul flight which
included a security check
at Heathrow that made
me feel like an ant under
a microscope, I found
myself in a shuttle bus which dropped me
at the end of a long queue.
All prospective drivers like me, but
unlike me, people who had been there,
done that, many times over.
“What are we going to drive off in?”
A drawl unmistakably West American
was asking, and the answering drawl
responded with, “I always upgrade at
the counter. Remember the BMW?” A
question that was answered by a giggle
most unbecoming of the rather elderly
throat it emerged from.
I had no such aspirations. I was
driving solo for the first time in a foreign
country; and small was what I had
ordered. Small, light, manouverable.
When the lady at the counter pointed out
the relevant section which showed a natty
Volkeswagon, I nodded happily. It was
not The Bug of course, but any relative
was good enough for someone who had
once loved the Love Bug!
Painless procedures, and a signature
later, a key was th