Belfast in Northern Ireland had been on the original itinerary. But work schedules, expense and sea sickness forced a reluctant hand to draw a line through this last unvisited quarter of the United Kingdom. Final plans put us through Shannon and all was set. That is, until we arrived in Newark 5 minutes after the plane to Shannon left.

My reaction was, well, let's say, peevish. Mumbling our way to the Continental service desk, we stood in line for a while and then approached Tirisit(?), overworked but, as it turned out, a fount of miracles.

We identified ourselves as the tribe standing in the jet wash of the recently departed Shannon flight. She confirmed our predicament and I asked, "Any more flights to Shannon tonight?". A few clicks yielded "no".

Backing up a moment, I must say an alternative had been booked in the event the Newark flight was delayed due to rain at Newark. A gate agent in Denver had come up with Newark > London Heathrow > Shannon arriving 1600 in Shannon. Since our original arrival time was 0730, this alternative was barely palatable.

I found myself asking Tirisit if there were any flights to Dublin. A few clicks and a shaking head preceded her dejected "no". I blurted out "Belfast? Any flights to Belfast". Click, click - her entire countenance brightened, a smile arose from the depths of a person used to merciless glares.

"Yes - a flight leaving at 9:25", a few gates down." Angels in heaven sang in glory.

"You have your luggage with you?" Tirisit couldn't believe her ears, angel song morphed into Dixieland, we headed to C137, and Belfast.