Rest, I have discovered lately, is a lot like pain killers. Not enough and any temporary effect that it has had is soon undone. Too much, and it very easy to become addicted.
After nearly 3 weeks of lazing around Ireland, I’m coming to the end of my rest rehabilitation. I must stress that this self-proscribed course of rest entails much more than simple long lie ins, naps after breakfast, lunch and dinner and early nights (all of which are of course integral), but can include anything, such as reading a book, walking dogs and watching cows being milked (evidently it isn’t milked directly into the plastic bottles we buy from the supermarket – there is a middle man from Kerry involved somewhere). My latest resting technique has involved pouring over a map, meticulously planning a route for a walk up one of Ireland’s highest mountain. This may not sound like your idea of rest, but fear not, for this is a walk that will invariably not happen due to Ireland’s “summer”*.
Soon my travels will begin proper, with backpacks, long-haul flights, hostels and anti-malarials. But first, there is family to be visited – a real test of one’s R&R. I envisage myself in the foetal position, shaking back and forth on the road to Scotland, via Dublin, Belfast and The Giant’s Causeway. Giving up rest can be hard, but perhaps I’ll be able to pick up some crack on the way.
*Unlike Britain’s, whose summer’s are akin to those of the southern Mediterranean and typically involve droughts and hosepipe bans.