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the bartender , put a Guinness in front of me and suggested a clam chowder . It occurred to me to order a local whisky . I was amused that in Irish pubs you ask the bartender a question and four partisans answer in unison ; I asked Thomas to recommend an Irish gulp , and an old man in the corner shouted with authority , “ Jameson !”
I couldn ' t believe it ! Jameson is the “ go-to ” whiskey in my house
in Turkey . Thomas suggested one from the region , but I listened to the Irishman in the corner . When he brought the glass , I poured it into the pint where only the foam remained , swirled it around three times , and gulped it down . The four partisans raised their pint in a sign of good health and life . What happiness , my God !
I returned to the desolate hostel , from where the owner had disappeared , and went to sleep early , somewhat drunk .
I woke up late the next day and walked in the pouring rain to the pub again where I had a thick bacon sandwich with mayonnaise and tomatoes and a Guinness . I put my old boots with holes in the soles in front of the fireplace and patched them with black duct tape .
When I got back from the pub , the bed was waiting for me again , as it was getting dark . I heard someone knocking insistently on the front door . I got out of bed and saw a young man in an Oxford Rain Seal waterproof suit , a biker who mistook me for the owner of the hostel and started begging me to rent him a bed . I told him that I was not the owner , but to come in , that I was alone and there were forty-four other beds available . He was happy . He was riding an old Yamaha with Northern Ireland plates . I explained that the owner had been gone for hours but that he could leave everything in the bedroom where I was until Steven , the owner , returned . He did at 12:05 pm , and by that time , there was a bunch of teenage Alaskan backpackers , a team of French hikers , and Robert Smythcon , the one on the bike , waiting for him .
The next morning , before leaving and with La Más saddled , I said goodbye to Robert and his Yamaha and headed for Malinger , in search of another hostel , in the arse-end of the world , three hundred and thirtynine kilometres away . Riding in heavy rain , it took me ten hours . The rain never stopped , and I thought it was perfect that it didn ’ t because that ' s precisely the reason for the trip : to do it in the rain . I stopped in small villages where there was no one in the streets and photographed cemeteries , houses , and landscapes .
Arriving in Malinger , in the rain and dusk , completely soaked , I saw the hostel , I sensed it was closed and yes , it was . I got a tremendous shock ,
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