I’ve been injured in some pretty fascinating ways. During my adventures around the world and across the street, I’ve tumbled down cliffside staircases, been hit by cars, hit cars right back and instantly regretted it, and fallen out of trees only to land in some asshole moose’s heaping gift to the forest aroma. Suffice it to say, I have some stories.
But now, after my trip through Counties Clare and Galway, I have another cautionary tale for my future children and grandchildren about what never to do on an adventure. I wasn’t injured while posing for Facebook at the edge of the Cliffs of Moher:
…or while clambering around inside this old shipwreck:
I didn’t receive a lip-smacking amputation from this Irish shark:
…or come down with a case of the awwws from this mustachioed horse:
I didn’t even suffer from the terrifyingly heartwarming effects of my tin-whistle serenade to the sea:
Nope. My injury – a sprained ankle and possibly a fractured wrist, along with minor cuts, scrapes, and bruises – came from this:
Hm? Oh, wait, sorry. I was trying to substitute the real culprit with anything that made more sense. No, I was injured while admiring this ancient portal dolmen:
And by “admiring,” I of course mean “I’ll race you to that cliff over there because I can totally skim over this barren rocky landscape of dubious stability better than you.”
In a plot twist worthy of M. Night I Can’t Spell His Last Name Well Enough To Even Google Search It, I didn’t fall into a sinkhole. I slipped in the dirt and fell onto some rocks. It still really hurt.
Characteristically undeterred and uncharacteristically not using my injury to justify getting out of writing obligations, I continued for the next three days before finding out how charmingly old-fashioned and horrifyingly hospital-closure-prone the Irish medical infrastructure can be.
On another note, this is one of the first posts without my charmingly curmudgeonly travel companion, Brillo. He’s probably off being adorable or posing for another maga…