First of all, I need to preface the beach-trip-from-hell story with the story of how Kaitlyn and I found ourselves sleeping at a haunted bed&breakfast.
As my sister had booked the rooms for us, we had no prior knowledge of the place; we just knew there were beds there in which we'd be sleeping, and breakfasts there which we'd be eating. And that was that.
Oh -- well, I should mention we also knew that a woman named Mrs. Doyle was the caretaker...or, supposedly the caretaker. You see, several hours into our stay, Kaitlyn and I realized we had yet to meet this Mrs. Doyle. Her thirty-something-year-old son had answered the door to greet us, had showed us to the rooms, and had referred to his mother a few times, always stating that she was busy, preoccupied, or otherwise engaged. We began to wonder, Kaitlyn and I, if this "Mrs. Doyle" really did exist.
And at some point, that curiosity about Mrs. Doyle's actual existence manifested itself into one big ball of angst, resulting in a million and one outlandish theories, each more terrifying than the next, the worst of which being, "Mrs. Doyle's son is Norman Bates and we are going to be murdered in the shower. Tonight." (There were also some "Mrs. Doyle is a ghost -- she's an Irish ghost!" theories in there, but we won't get into that.)
The next morning, we went downstairs for breakfast, only to be greeted by Mrs. Doyle herself! That was something. Turns out, she wasn't her son in drag and she wasn't a ghost at all; she was a real, live, elderly, Irish woman, and she was funny! I tell you, she was a funny lady, that Mrs. Doyle.
After breakfast, she offered to drive us to the beach and we accepted, grateful for a) a ride to the beach and b) that we weren't going to be murdered anytime soon, after all. On the drive to the shore, she warned us once or twice, "I won't be able to pick you girls up tonight, so you'll have to find your way back on your own. Are you paying attention? Are you reading the road signs? Do you need me to write down directions for you? It's a tricky path back to the bed & breakfast, girls!".
Naturally, we told her we needed no help, because how hard could it be? I mean, the drive to the beach took, what, 5 minutes? So the walk home should take, like, 6, right?
Well, as seen in yesterday's post, we had a lovely time at the beach. The only trouble was, when it was time to walk back to the bed & breakfast, we came to a sobering realization: we had absolutely no earthly idea how to get there.
Part of the problem was that we had walked a mile down the stretch of the beach and weren't even sure at which point we'd started. Finding our point of origin took some time.....but we eventually arrived at a place that looked somewhat familiar. I think Kaitlyn said something like, "Hey, I might've seen that pole before" and I shrugged, which meant: onward!
So, we took a right at the pole, left the beach and began walking down a country road, one that led....nowhere.
We tried road after road after road -- at first, laughing at our stupidity and taking photos and talking about boys and giggling until... the mood shifted. Kaitlyn's patience began to wane first and mine shortly followed. Before we knew it, we were halfway yelling at each other, halfway cursing Mrs. Doyle for suggesting we go to the beach and then abandoning us so heartlessly, without leaving so much as a trail of bread crumbs behind her as she returned home. "Who does she think she is, anyway!?", I screamed at one point. "Who is she to drop off two innocent little girls at the beach and then drive away without even leaving us her phone number!? That horrible, awful, evil, scheming ghost!"
Never mind the fact that neither of us had phones on us. Never mind the fact that we hadn't thought to ask her the name of the bed & breakfast, should we need to stop for help. Never mind the fact that she had offered multiple times to write down directions. Never mind all of that -- we were tired, sore, hungry, dehydrated, lost and confused and it was the ghost's fault!
The worst part of that trek was the fact that we were walking down country roads -- roads which were lined with no sidewalks or footpaths. There was one especially narrow road with several bends in it. Every time a car came around one of those bends, Kaitlyn and I had to cling to the hill on the side of the road -- halfway climb it, even -- to avoid getting hit. There were weeds that stung and scratched our legs in the process and those were Mrs. Doyle's fault, too -- she probably planted them.
To this day, I have no idea how we made it back to that bed & breakfast, but made it back we (eventually) did. Mrs. Doyle was standing on the front stoop wringing her hands, clearly worried, when we came up the lawn. She let out the loudest sigh of relief when she saw us, hugged us both, and then begged of us, "What on earth took you girls so long?! You've been gone for twelve hours!" to which I replied, "Oh, we were just....hanging out at the beach. We just loooove that sunshine. Love it. Love it so much."
As we hobbled upstairs, bones and joints aching and throbbing, I said to Kaitlyn, “We need to document this in some way, so that the misery we experienced this day will always live on in infamy.” She agreed, and we placed my camera on the bathroom windowsill and set the timer.
With that said, I leave you with this: