Day 14

Sunday May 22nd - Dungloe to Derry - 101 miles - Total so far 1375 miles

From My Pictures

A wonderful nights sleep which came to a premature end when somebody ran past the patio doors to the apartment for a pee in the garden. Either that or he saw my bike I decided to take it for a joy ride but was frustrated by the lock. Needless to say I made my presence known and nothing un-towards happened. It was 4.15am so not a lot of point in going back to bed. I had my breakfast of rice crispies and bananas along with a cup of tea before packing and getting out on the road by 5am.

The ride through the area known as The Rosses was glorious. One of the most beautiful areas I have ridden through so far with stunning backdrops out to the sea with islands dotted off the coast, undulating lanes with high banks, gorse with yellow flowers and little lakes and loughs. This is the area that gave birth to the band Clannad and I could feel the music in my head as I wound in and out of the little settlements. The early morning mist on the water and then a glorious sunrise. A wonderful way to start the day.

Once through The Rosses the next destination was the North West Passage and Bloody Foreland. This remote part of Ireland signalled turning the corner and heading East. The whole weekend I had seen dotted here and there references to "Remember the Maze" and pictures of the various hunger strikers who had died such as Bobby Sands. Here in this remote corner Sinn Fein had an office, flags hung from lampposts, slogans were daubed over walls, everywhere things had been vandalised and rubbish was dumped on the road side. It was a wild area evidently populated by wild people. The views though were again stunning.

The weather tried to rain and a few drops did fall (the first so far this weekend) but it soon gave up. Soon I was cycling through the tiny village of Meenlaragh "famous" for the fact that this is one of the places from which you can catch a ferry to Tory Island. Why I mention this is because of a book I read "Round Ireland with a Fridge" by Tony Hawks which describes his adventures of hitch hiking round Ireland carrying a fridge. Part of the bet was that he had to visit a number of Islands and Tory Island was one. It was at this spot that he spent a few days trying to get out to the island. I had a somewhat different impression in my mind as to what this spot would look like.

The ride around to Creeslough was on main roads but it wasn’t busy. I was making good time so I took to the side roads again and headed to Milford going past Doe Castle.

Once I reached Letterkenny it was all main road to Derry so I once again put my head down and went for it. I was very tired though with the combination of the mileage, the hills and the wind. I also had a deadline to make as the bus from Derry to Dublin was due to go in a couple of hours and I stiil had to get there plus get some lunch. I had been able to eat a sandwich and some bananas but I needed a proper meal and once again finding somewhere suitable was proving difficult. Luckily one of the petrol stations I passed had a cafe attached so I was able to grab a quick Sunday lunch before heading to Derry.

Crossing the border into Northern Ireland was strange. It was like being thrown back in time with signs in miles and yards. Since at least the 12th century the yard has been subdivided into 3 feet or 36 inches. It was formerly (before the 15th century) also subdivided in a binary fashion, mainly by clothmakers, the chief divisions being 4 quarters and 16 nails (nayles). How archaic. I have 10 fingers and 10 toes, as a human being I am metric, who the heck came up with this as a measurement and why do us Brits still cling onto such an out of date concept. It actually makes the United Kingdom seem backwards and out of touch along with our stubborn insistence of keeping the Pound instead of joining the rest of Europe and adopting the Euro.

Also cycling into Derry I was once again reminded of the legacy of the troubles; Banners, slogans, placards shouting the innocence of various imprisoned locals, murals and graffiti. All the hatred over events that happened 100’s of years ago compounded by recent events. It is such a shame that all this energy is channelled into negativity and violence instead of being used for the benefit of the Northern Ireland community. It struck me then, and it strikes me now, what a waste.

Day 13

Saturday May 20th - Sligo to Dungloe - 116 miles - Total so far 1274 miles

From My Pictures

It's sad to say that I shall forever associate Sligo with torrential rain. Having cycled in the rain to get here last time I cycled here, having arrived on the bus the previous day only to be greated by rain, and having heard the rain spatter on my window all night it was with great relief that waking up this morning it had at last exhausted itself and stopped.

The bus trip had been long and uneventful up from Dublin so when I at last arrived at 21.30 I was looking forward to a relaxing evening at the B&B and something to eat. Using the directions that I had been given by some of my work colleagues I easily found where I was to stay. Sad to say the B&B was a huge rip off as it was shabby and obviously more used to providing a bed to partying out of towners who didnt really mind that the beds had plastic undersheets. At least dinner was nice as I found a little Italian Bistro and had some pasta, good complex carbohydrates for tomorrow.

Not the best nights sleep as the combination of crackling plastic, cheap nylon sheets, singing in the streets and drunks coming back to their rooms at 3.30am meant that by 5am I was eager to get out and start what was going to be most likely a tough days cycling, Further disapointment when I found that, despite assurrances made the previous evening, that the dining room was locked. No cerial for me this morning. So I started the day with a banana, one of the most disgusting coffees I have had the misfortune to drink and a packet of digestive biscuits (you know the type, 2 biccies next to the kettle you find in most B&Bs)

Just North of Sligo was the first expected find of the day, the burial place of WB Yeats.

I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My county is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death


I have always liked that poem.

Like most people my life has been marked by events which on reflection have been instrumental in defining who I am today. Some I share in common with most people such as first starting school, leaving school, getting a job, and falling in love. Then there are the personal events which mark more your individual experiences; for me there was getting married, starting my own business and employing my first person. Riding through this area of Sligo though bought back the event that marked my early life; it bought back the fact that I once was a soldier serving very close to where I was now.

Yeats poetry sums up my feelings at the time:

Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;

Why I became a soldier at 16 had more to do with wanting to start my life, though in reality it came closer to ending it, and wanting to do something different.
Something to mark me as being an individual and capable of breaking the mould, I hated the idea of conforming, so in my youthful naivety I joined one of the few orginisations that does it's best to strip every ounce of indivduality and non conformist attitude from you and rebuild you an obedient soldier.

In 1983 I found myself based in Belfast and for one month in the winter of 83/84 I was based in Enniskillen just across the border in Fermanagh. What bought all this back was not just the sign posts to this small town but the sign post to the tiny border village of Balleek.

One of my roles in those distant days was to visit the various bases my battalion had dotted around the county. Some were PVCP (Permanent Vehicle Check Points) which were little more than a couple of portakabins by the side of the road surrounded by blast walls and protected by chikanes and pillboxes constructed of brieze blocks. Others were police stations that resmbled forts and it was to one of these in Balleek that I visited one cold and wintry morning.

I remember driving into the forecourt through the reinforced gates to be greeted by a typical buff coloured police station that stood out from the normal because it was draped in blue plastic sheeting. In addition the tarmac surrounding the station was cratered and split. Only a few days prior it had been subjected to a mortar attack from just across the border which was barely 200 meters away at the bottom of the road and over the bridge. It was a stark reminder of the hatred directed at me and all I stood for. It was going upstairs into the "ready room" where the troops spend there spare time in between patrols though that really bought home the dangers. On the wall was a payphone above which was a huge stain which seemed to spray itself up the wall. Enquiring as to what it was I was told that the previous unit here had had an accident. A young recently married lad was on the phone talking to his wife when one of the soldiers accidently shot him dead. The stain was in fact the residual remains of the blood and brains that had sprayed all over the wall. Guns kill, they do not distingious between friend and foe, and the difference between life and death is the merest pressure from a finger.

I didnt really need this reminder though. I was only 20 when I serverd in Northern Ireland but this wasnt my first encounter with violent death. I was 18 when, just over a year earlier, I had gone through the Falklands War. As a stretcher bearer and ammunition mule on Tumbledown I was all too aware of the effects of the impact of metal and the human body. The smell of blood on wet grass mixed with cordite and the sounds of battle are something that never leave you. I can honestly say that I found Northern Ireland a very scarey place in those days.

It would be fair to say that as I cycled through Ballyshannon I was glad that was all another lifetime and although I did feel somewhat reflective it was good to turn my back on it and cycle north knowing that it was something that was behind me both figuravitely and physically.

The morning was damp and clouds were heavy overhead. First priority was to try and find somewhere for breakfast because what I had had so far was really going to do the job. As the first part of the ride was pretty dull I put my head down and determined to find something in Donegal as everywhere I was cycling through at this early hour was shut. Reaching Donegal though at just before 8.30am I still couldnt find anywhere that served breakfast so had to do with some more bananas and cereal bars.

Some of the early morning views were wonderful though even if I couldn’t find anything to eat

By the time I reached Killybegs I was no longer in need of breakfast as they morning was going well. I had been able to keep a steady pace but the roads were very "undulating" which combined with the gentle head wind that I seemed to be constantly fighting meant my average miles per hour was back down to the 10-12 rather than the 15-16 of the previous weekend. This told me that I was going to have to be careful with committing myself to too many miles.

The town of Killybegs, Irelands most important fishing town, came and went. Was funny to see lorries bearing the names of other fishing ports that I remember passing through on my journey. The one from Union Hall bought back memories of oatmeal biscuits from Centra and eating bananas.

At last the clouds lifted and the rolling countryside out to Glencolmcille was a joy to cycle through

Next priority was to get some lunch for the day was far from over yet. Derry was still a long way away and I had set my sights on Dungloe as my stop for the night. The hills and wind though were taking there toll so a large lunch and rest were essential. On reaching Glencolmcille I planned to get some food but arriving there it was just a pub that didnt do food, a shop and few houses. Asking directions in the shop was interesting as the chap replied in Gaelic which meant that as soon as I left the shop I asked 3 teenagers having a crafty cigarette by my bike. They pointed me in the direction of a resteraunt but before leaving them I couldnt refrain myself from asking what the heck they did for fun in such a small place as this at the end of the world. The 2 lads and a girl, all probably 16 or 17 replied that today a lot was going on as it was time for mass and confirmations. Hmm, can't think of many teenagers that would get too excited about going to church on a Saturday afternoon.

So off I cycled the "3 miles down the road" to the resteraunt. After 6 miles I was beginning to think they were winding me up especially as I was cycling deeper and deeper into the foothills with mountains in the background. Houses were getting less and less and I was getting worried when suddenly there at a cross roads in the middle of nowhere was a resteraunt. Actually it was a transport cafe for farm workers run by two girls, one of which didnt see smile once the entire hour I was there. The serving girl was all smiles though I took my order and before long I was tucking into my omlette with enough potato's to feed a small family.

Somewhat refreshed and certainly refuelled I then tackled Glengesh Pass before dropping down and cycling on to Dungloe keeping to the main roads and taking the most direct route.

On reaching Dungloe I was dismayed to find that there were no B&B in town. Nor was there a tourist information that I could find (though there were signs) so I was just about to go to the local Guarda station when I spied a sign advertising a B&B at the top of a hill. Now my normal reaction when faced with a steep hill at the end of a long day of cyling was not to bother but for some reason I made the effort and was rewarded not with a B&B (they had stopped doing that) but instead with my own little self contained apartment. I had everything I could possibly want for a mere 25 Euro so this more than made up for the previous night in Sligo. The only thing that I couldnt work out was the hot water and after mistaking the switch for the hot water with the light for the bathroom I eventually managed to have a shower. The apartment was heaven with a kitchen, TV, fireplace and big comfortable beds. On top of this there was even a Chinese 2 minutes walk away!! Enough to say I had a very relaxing evening, a nice meal, read my book and was in bed early.