By the time we made it to Bray, we was tuckered. Rather than get our traditional Dart home from such treks though, we suddenly realised that it had been far too long since GG got the bus out across Windgates.
Of course, being millionaires now, thanks to the Guide (truly, it’s like squeezing blood out of a Greystonian), it’s rare these days that we have to mingle on public transport – but that upstairs front-seat was free, and, so, how could we resist?
You can tell a lot about a town by its main street bus stop. In Bray, there’s a handwritten sign on the door nearby. It reads, ‘DO NOT SPIT IN FRONT OF THE DOOR’.
Once we were up and running, memories of a million bus journeys along this run came flooding back, especially when the occasional branch threatened to smash on through to the other side. Sweeping down into Greystones, you couldn’t have scripted it better. The low sun had the driver pass by one poor sod just beyond The Grove; Stephen Hackett and his shady associate were lurking outside Dann’s bar, trying to figure out when last night ended and tonight begins; The Commander was strolling back up from his daily South Beach escapade just as Joe Redmond was heading home on the bus from his…