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.

Day 12

Sunday April 29th - Dooagh to Sligo - 147 miles - Total so far 1158 miles

From My Pictures

Compared to yesterday today couldn't have been more different.

There are days that you wish only to be out in the sunshine on a bike, yesterday was one of those days, and there are other days you wish you were home in the dry and warm. Today was one of those.

Up at 5.30am I packed my bags including the sandwiches that had been made for me. I even pored the orange juice into my recently acquired bottle only to leave it behind in the room (though I didnt realise this until I was 30 minutes away and couldn’t return).

Stepping outside I realised today might not be so great. It was raining. Not the downpour that tells you that this is short, sharp and sweat but that steady drizzle that tells you its here for the day and that you are going to get very wet.

Having skipped the "Atlantic Drive" without doing I was told I hadn't experienced the Achill Island I decided I had best take the time to cycle it. I am in fact quite glad I did as it was the highlight of a torturous day.

I really had been in two minds with the rain making visibility very poor but in the end the 43 miles around Atlantic Drive with miles of coastline in which no sign could be seen of mankind was very tranquil. One of the lay-bys is at the site of the Spanish Armada memorial. This plaque was erected to commemorate the ship San Nicolas Prodaneli which was wrecked on the shore at Toorglass, Currane Peninsula, in 1588.

It was at this point that the camera packed up (damp had gotten to it) as well as the trip computer on the bike. The computer I was able to salvage but alas the camera will need to be repaired. Not that there was much to see for the rest of the day anyway,

It was one of those days of just getting your head down and going for it. I was tempted to stop and wait for the next day to see what the weather was going to be like but the thought of spending a day hanging around a B&B reading a book, watching TV and generally trying to kill time before bed didn't really appeal compared to being able to get back to Dublin and spending the next day resting.

I got to Bangor and had a break in a cafe getting warm and having my second breakfast. I spread my soaked maps out on the table, wrang my gloves out put them on the radiator and looked at the mileage to Sligo. If I kept to my plan and went to Belmullet and then along the coast I probably wouldnt make it to Sligo in time to get back to Dublin. Plus the weather was foul and the area in North Mayo very remote and bleak. If I sustained a puncture I could find myself in a pretty bad place to be looking for shelter. So I decided to just head down the N59 and go to Sligo which was 100km away.

I arrived in Sligo very wet and tired at 1630. The railway station was illusive to find and when I did find it I was informed that the Sligo to Dublin train didn’t take bikes. Luckily there was a bus that would so ended up leaving Sligo at 1800. Arrived back in Dublin at 10pm and cycled home.

Strange to think that I have used Heuston station for the last time and that from now on its most likely to be bus or train from Connelly. Also looking at the map and the distances left only have about 6-7 days cycling left and I was just getting warmed up as well

Day 11

Saturday April 28th - Galway to Dooagh - 150 miles - Total so far 1011 miles

From My Pictures

Over 30 years ago my parents used to take my brother and myself on caravan holidays to Ireland. I have to be honest and say I can remember little of them except disjointed memories of various "incidents". I do remember long boring car rides from our home in the UK to the ports either in South or North Wales punctuated by stops for something to eat and drink. I remember the rain drumming on the caravan roof with us all playing Monopoly for hours. I remember setting fire to a hedge, kissing the Blarney Stone, falling asleep in a pine forest, seeing a pony and cart in Kerry, walking along the Liffey in Dublin, writing a journal of when we went to Bantry, and of course if I didn’t already mention it did I say I remembered the rain?

One memory that does stick out was of a visit by the family to Galway, or as I discovered this weekend, to the resort of Salthill just a few miles outside. It was one of those rainy days and we had been couped up all day in the caravan with little to do. The rain had stopped so we jumped in the car and went for a drive. Ending up in Salthill father parked up and we went for a walk along the seashore. We passed an amusement arcade and my brother and I pestered my parents about going inside to play. We were given a choice. We could either get 10p each or come with them for a cup of tea at a cafe just down the road. Well it was no contest and grabbing the 10p each of us we offered we entered the amusement arcade to play the slot machines. I was probably 10 or 11 years old and my brother 6 or 7.
We exchanged our 10p into shiny 1p coins and headed to the slots. Now I have to be honest I dont remember if they were pennies or 1p coins. I have a feeling that they were big old pennies. Anyway I go upto a slot machine and I put in my coins anxiously watching the wheels spin round hoping to win something. My little brother watching by my side eagerly holding his 10p hoping to have a go after me. On my last coin the most fantastic thing happened, I won the jackpot, which at that time was £1. Ka-chunk Ka-chunk, Ka-chunk and our ears were filled with the sound of 100 pennies being disgourged from the slot machine made two little boys very happy. With big smile on our faces we took our winnings to the change booth and in return was given a £1 note, probably one of the first ones I had ever had.

My little brother eager to have one of his own gave me his 10p and asked me to get him one as well. Being confident that it would be no problem I gladly took his money and then made a big show of walking up and down looking for a suitable machine. I would stop at one and look at it and my brother would look up with expectation, I would shake my head and say "no, not this one" as though I knew what I was doing. Eventually I chose a machine and inserted the coins. After 5 tries I had won nothing and my confidence was beginning to wain. After 8 I was thinking that all was over and that I would have to share my newly won £1 note. On the last coin I won 2p which was hardly what my little brother was expecting. His face looked up at me with an expression of bemusement and he couldn’t quite understand why I hadn't won yet. So I went for broke and inserted the 2p winnings and unbelievably on the last try I once again won the jackpot. A huge smile lit up my brother’s face and once again we exchanged the coins for a £1 note.

At this point my parents came to pick us up expecting us to have lost the money only to find two very happy little boys clutching our winnings and with big smiles on our faces. And thats about all I remember of Galway.
So why did I mention this? Well I caught the 6pm train from Dublin to Galway after work on the Friday and then cycled the short distance to Salthill going right past the amusement arcades and tea shops that had been the scene of my one and only gambling success story from 30 years ago. The place looked so much smaller and less impressive than it did all those years ago but it did bring back the happy memories.

I stayed in a B&B run by the mother of one of the chaps I am currently working with and who happily agreed to supply me with a cold breakfast in the morning. The only bad aspect of the start to this weekends cycling was that I had forgotten to bring my water bottles with me having left them on my desk back in Dublin. After settling in I popped out for a Chinese meal around the corner, where I was complimented on my skill with chopsticks so I guess not many people in Salthill get to use them, and then to the supermarket for more bananas for the next day.

Waking at 5.15am I crept around the B&B so as not to wake people and ate my breakfast. Heading off into the pre dawn gloom I was soon flying down the road to Spiddle with my sights firmly set on Clifden which was my destination for lunch today.

The bike was performing well after having been repaired this week. Last weekend my gears started to really play up with the chain constantly slipping off when using the middle cog. When I took it to the shop they told me that my gears were completely worn out and that they needed to be replaced. Then they didn’t have the set in stock so it was a bit of a panic to get them delivered and fitted before I left. I shouldn't complain as the bike has done something like 4000 miles.

The scenery was stunning with the sea to my left and the rolling mountains of the "Twelve Bens" to my right. I could also make out the Arran Islands and The Burren.

I was making such good time that I covered the first 60 miles in 4 hours so instead of having lunch in Clifden I in fact had breakfast. This made me feel a bit like a hobbit having "second breakfast" but I needed the calories. One nice thing that had happened was that I had stopped for a roadside chat with a fellow cyclist who seeing that I had no bottles kindly gave me one of his. A lovely gesture that I was unable to resiprocate as I had no spare gloves (he had lost his).

From My Pictures

I had planned to finish the first day at Leenaun but yet again because of the speed I was going I reached there by midday. A lovely little town at the end of Irelands only fjord it was very tempting to stop but apart from nipping behind the church to apply some vaseline to a very sore butt I decided to press on and get lunch elsewhere.

I did bump into another cyclist outside Leenaun who was probably the most ill prepared cyclist I have come across todate. He was riding a mountain bike and had a tent tied to the cross bar with remaining gear hanging off his rear rack. Wearing jeans and a heavy woolen top he had just stopped claiming himself to be "feckin bollox'd" having cycled 4 miles and in need of a fag break. Mick was quite a character and we chatted for 10 minutes, him smoking a cigarette from which he had removed the filter and me munching an oatmeal biscuit. His declared destination for the day of Letterfrack was about 10 miles away while mine was still a good 6 hours cycling away. With a cheery wave we set off in opposite directions with a hearty bon voyage. He was heading for the closest pub and I couldnt help wonder if he had the right idea.

The ride upto Loiusburgh was delightful and I passed a French couple eating their lunch. They were mighty impressed when I told them I had cycled from Dublin but it somewhat paled when they told me they had spent last year cycling all over the Far East. We exchanged stories about Vietnam and I moved off with me feeling somewhat jealous of them to have been able to do something so adventurous.

I found a cafe and had lunch being served by an English lady who had been a taxi driver in Brighton for 18 years before deciding that enough was enough, sold up, and moved to Ireland to waitress in a cafe and semi retire. Couldn’t fault her choice of location as it was truly a beautiful area.
Conemarra with its bogs and mountains was a delight to ride through and with the weather turning out to be glorious I couldn’t think of a better place to be.

Westport and Newport came and went and before I knew it I was on Achill Island somewhere I thought I would have been having lunch the next day. Not far from my final destination for the day I bonked and had to lie down and rest for 10 minutes to regain some energy. Lying flat out on my back looking up at the sun munching a biscuit I took a rest though I did get a few glances from passers by and one old lady stopped to ask if I was ok. Eventually I arrived in Dooagh where I had a wonderful meal of local fish before checking into the B&B and grabbing a shower.

Watched the sunset and then headed to bed. My longest day in the saddle yet and a heck of a distance covered

Day 10

Sunday April 23rd – Kilkee to Galway - 90 Miles - Total so far 861 miles

From My Pictures

It all started so well yesterday evening when I booked into the hotel. In fairness I had been warned by a work colleague that Kilkee was the favourite destination for party people from Limerick and I should have twigged this from the fact that somebody had tried digging a hole through my bedroom wall. I was tired, it was raining and at the hotel promised a bath, buffet breakfast for me in the room for the morning and a restaurant in the hotel so I didn’t have to go out in the rain.

The food was grand and I watched Chelsea get knocked out of the FA cup by Liverpool on the big TV before retreating to my room. The bath had turned out to be a tad disappointing as it was actually made for dwarfs and I didn’t fit so well. I did get to have a soak though my legs were propped up at 90 degree on the wall at the end.

Sleep came very quickly.

The problems started at about 1am when the drunks came back to their rooms. It seems that people are very hard if hearing when drunk cause they shout a lot and for some reason hotels that seem to cater for hard of hearing people tend to have paper thin walls and doors. It was so reminiscent of Wexford except rather than kids running around it was drunks speaking to their mates on mobile phones. Still it didn’t last too long and I was soon sleeping again.

The biggest problem came at 5.15am when I woke up to discover that the breakfast I was promised never materialised in my room. Nor was it outside my door, though that was probably a blessing as some guy with the nibbles would have probably taken it away. The breakfast room door was locked so it wasn’t in there either so I resigned myself to heading out with only a banana and a bottle of water.

The next problem was how to actually get out of the hotel as every door was locked and there was no sign of any night porter to let me out though I had been told one would be on duty. It was so tempting to open one of the fire doors and probably set the alarm off, payback time for all those people who had woken me up to abruptly the night before. I’m just not that sort of guy though so instead I climbed out of my bedroom door like some thief at night, in fact if I had been spotted their probably would have been some explaining to do “Hello officer I know it looks suspicious climbing out of a hotel room window at 5.30am on a Sunday morning but I can explain…”

Roads were once again completely empty and the rain from last night had stopped. County Clare beckoned and the day promised to be fine weather and I was not to be disappointed.

The first stop of the day was Spanish Point which is where one of my colleagues’ girlfriend comes from. A lovely spot and with the sun up and the weather starting to heat up the cycling was proving to be very enjoyable.

One of the highlights of today was to be the glorious Cliffs of Moher. The Cliffs of Moher are one of Ireland's most spectacular sights. Standing 230 metres above the ground at their highest point and 8km long, the Cliffs boast one of the most amazing views in Ireland.

To the south of the cliffs is Hag's Head and the cliffs reach their highest point just north of O' Brien's Tower. The Tower was built by Cornelius O' Brien, a descendant of Brian Boru, to impress female visitors. The seastack, Breanan Mór, stands over 70 metres above the foaming waves.

Strange things people do to impress their women folk.

As I was visiting the cliffs at 8.30am on a Sunday I thought I was going to have them almost to myself but this is a very popular destination. A coach load of American ladies were already descending down from the cliffs which have been turned into a horrendous building site with the construction of a new visitors centre and car park.

I dropped down the other site and caught my first glimpse of the Arran Islands which lie just off the coast here. Famous for the wild scenery, weavers, mountains, old stone forts, and Gaelic traditions the Aran Islands in Galway Bay attract a lot of tourists. On the largest of the islands, Inis Mor, there is an 11-acre stone fort that overlooks a 250-foot sheer drop to the sea.

Breakfast was in Doolin which was a lovely little village. I cycled right past a pub serving cooked breakfast so I couldn’t resist. I even had the pleasure of sitting outside in the sunshine.

Cycling through Clare I kept thinking at anytime I would look into the fields and see Hobbits working away, to meet cart and horses on their way to market and to be ever fearful of the black riders hunting for the ring.

With the ever present castles dotting the land it’s hard to believe that this area was once so wild and desolate that many a fight was fought.

At last the rolling fields gave way to the more barren aspects of the area known at “The Burren” which are huge formations of limestone that march down from the hills and mountains all the way to the sea.

In the far distance I was also to get my first glimpse of Galway bay and the area known as Connemara, but for now I just enjoyed the Burren.

Finally after what seemed like a very short day, in fact it was just gone 1pm, I reached Galway. Always striving to be efficient (I annoy myself at times being so anal) I found the train station with the intention of catching the train I was told left at 3pm. In fact it was leaving in 10 minutes so I elected to get home to Dublin early and jumped aboard.

The trip back to Galway flew by due to two very good reasons. The first was that Galway to Dublin by train is just over two hours, compared the 7 hours it took me to get to Dingle, and the second was my conversation with Pat Flannigan. Now that’s a great Irish name except she was an English lady who married an Irish builder and had lived outside Galway for 31 years. She proudly told me of her 6 children and we chatted away about this and that. Yet again, just like meeting Liam the day before, I was struck by how exciting my life must seem to people who have been happy to make a life in one place. She told me she had only been on one holiday in the last 31 years and that was to Paris for a weekend.

A glorious weekend of cycling.

Day 9

Saturday April 22nd - Dingle to Kilkee 116 Miles - Total so far 771 miles

From My Pictures

Dingle, along with north Donegal is about the furthest you can get from Dublin so correspondingly getting there is quite an epic journey. In order to make an early start on Saturday I had to leave work at 2pm on Friday to catch the 3pm train from Heuston station that would take me the closest I could get my rail at Tralee. Arriving at about 7.30pm this is the longest train ride in Ireland and the cause of many a complaint amongst my fellow travellers as inevitably there was no buffet due to staff shortages. The ride was pleasant enough especially as I got to chat with one of the passengers who turned out to live around the corner from where I am staying in Dublin. He was the accountant for large electrical appliance store chain in Ireland so we got to chat about IT systems and accounting. Strange that many years ago this is the career I had started out doing when I was an accountant in the military, boy how our lives have turned out differently. At Tralee I grabbed some fish and chips and waited for my bus to take me to Dingle. While waiting I got chatting to a German couple who were walking in the Kerry area and heading to Dingle to finish off their holiday. Seeing my bike they got reminiscing about the bike holiday that they had undertaken a few years earlier in Kerry and told me all about the Connor Pass that I was to tackle the next day. The boyfriend turned out to be a very keen cyclist as he cycled 60km a day to get to and fro from work, makes my 12km a day seem a trifle wimpy. I arrived in Dingle as the light was fading at 9.30pm and eventually found my B&B that I had booked the previous day tucked away on the outskirts of the town. The lovely landlady had put a pot of tea in my bedroom so I sat in bed munching a couple of digestive biscuits and watching TV.

I was up at the crack of dawn, in fact I woke up at 3am, 4am and finally at 5am I was standing at the bedroom window trying to decide if it was light enough to leave by. In the end thought what the hell and off I went into the pre dawn gloom. Dingle was quite sensibly fast asleep and didn’t notice me as I whizzed through on the way to my first part of the day which was to be spent going around Slea Head.

Pre dawn Dingle with a very faint moon over Dingle harbour.

The roads of course were completely deserted at this hour the morning and I had an extremely pleasant two and a half hours going around the very well sign posted circuit. The area is rich in archaeological sites dating back to the pre historic era. Quite remarkably some of the conical huts in use at the time have survived to this day and the ones I saw from the road looked in remarkably good shape considering their age. Seems the Irish were as good builders in those far off days as they are today though I am sure some of the buildings I saw had maybe been “restored”.

As dawn came on the outlines of the Kerry peninsular across the bay began to appear. The views were stunning.

At the end of Slea Head are a group of islands the most famous of which is Great Blasket island.

With a halo of cloud the island looked beautiful. These islands were in fact inhabited until 1953. Though it sounds romantic it must have been a bleak existence to have lived there. I find myself wondering what sort of life it must have been and romantically consider moving to a number of the many spots I have cycled past so far. But the reality of having no easy access to Tesco and at least a 6mb broadband connection soon squashes such thoughts.

This is the area where the film “Ryan’s Daughter” was filmed back in 1970 with Robert Mitchum, Trevor Howard, John Mills and Sarah Miles. A wonderful film and a wonderful area to have filmed it.

Sunrise eventually came just as I was past Blasket and though it was cloudy I was rewarded with a glorious fireball of radiant sunshine peeking over the distant mountains. Acting as a beacon it hovered over me all the way back to Dingle where I arrived at 8am just in time for breakfast. This was gratefully consumed as I had already covered some 40km and knowing that I had a fair few miles to cover today it was just what I needed to restock the energy levels. At breakfast I got chatting to a couple of American girls who were touring Ireland having just finished their finals.

The Connor Pass was one hell of a climb but not as bad as I thought it was going to be. Having had a bit of rest before attempting it I fairly shot up like a Tour De France mountain climber (dream on). At the top I awarded myself the polker dot jersey as king of the mountains and drank in the view.

With a last look back over my shoulder at the distant Kerry mountains I dropped down the other side and raced for Tralee. The road coming up had been widened, the road down to Dingle though was hard up against the mountain and wound down with some very narrow places. At one spot I reached 42mph before I cam back to my senses and slowed down after I realised the consequences of hitting a pothole or getting a puncture would result in some pretty grizzly knee grazing.

Passing through the village of Camp there was a memorial to a train accident so I looked it up on the web when I got home and found this rather interesting entry.

“The road between Killeton and Camp bends sharply at the Curraduff bridge, and just above the road bridge stands the old Tralee and Dingle Railway viaduct. As David G. Rowlands write in "The Tralee & Dingle Railway" (Bradford Barton, 1977), this line had "some of the most frightful curves and gradients ever engineered on a light railway. On Whit Monday of 1893, Locomotive Number One came off the rails and fell 30feet to the river; 3 men and 90 pigs were killed. To ease the bend here, another bridge was built in 1907 a few hundred yards upstream.

Opened in 1891, the 3-foot gauge railway, with a branch line to Castlegregory, was extraordinarily slow and accident-prone. Undulating between sea level and 680 feet (207 metres) above, trains were often stopped and sand spread on the tracks to give sufficient grip to tackle gradients. In 1939 the Castlegregory Branch was closed; in 1944 the Tralee-Dingle goods service ended, largely because of the wartime coal shortage; and from 1947 until closure in 1953 the only business was the cattle train for Dingle Fair on the last Saturday of each month. Less than a mile along the road to the east from the viaduct bridge, the water tower at Knockglassmore is all that remains of Castlegregory Junction; on the opposite side of the road Fitzgerald's, or the "Junction Bar", was much frequented by railwaymen and passengers alike and was the cause of many delays.”

The town of Tralee is somewhere I had been twice before to catch the train. Now that I was at last to arrive on a bike it all seemed a bit of an anti climax so without any hesitation I went through it and out the other side.

The road from Tralee to Tarbert was in fact very plain. The “coast” road was in fact a good few miles inland so the sea was rarely seen. So for the four hours it took me to get to the ferry it was fairly much head down and grind out the mileage. I had a very unusual lunch at “Sir Liam’s Celtic Kitchen” with Liam turning out to be a bachelor in his 70’s who had opened the restaurant in 1976 and been serving burgers and pizza ever since. Packet soup, the most weird salad made from pizza and fast food components and a pot of tea later I was ready for the open road. We did have a very pleasant chat at the end of which he most generously gave me a little Saint Christopher. I also got to listen to the quite unique local Irish radio which I had heard announced deaths. For the first time I got to hear them and was most unusual hearing about “Jimmy James from Shanagolden passed away this Friday”.

I arrived at the river Shannon just in time to catch the 3.30pm ferry across to Moneypoint. What an ugly crossing with power stations staring at each other across the river. It also started to rain so I got to commiserate with a motor biker who was also crossing with me and heading for Edinburgh via Galway. Apparently he was in no hurry and had some friends to visit on the way. An interesting chap who was part of the mountain rescue team in Kerry he certainly had some tales to tell and was a shame that we didn’t have more time to chat.

Arriving on the other side I quickly cycled in the rain to Kilkee where I made the mistake of booking into a hotel and paying twice as much as I had the night before.

Day 8

Sunday April 2nd - Cahersiveen to Dingle - 78 miles - Total so far 655 miles

From My Pictures

There is nothing more likely to get to out of bed in the morning than knowing that I have a hard day of cycling ahead and its not getting done by lying there. That and a lumpy mattress and a sea of squashed yoghurt raisins.

A cold breakfast courtesy of the landlord had been laid out for me and off I went into the pre dawn gloom heading back on myself and back to Waterville with the idea of following the Inny river into the heart of the Iveragh peninsular. I had been debating with myself if I was going to do this or whether I would go for the easier option of hugging the coast and taking the N70, especially as Dingle looked a long way on my map and I had a deadline of 4pm to get there. In the end I chose to go the hard way and boy was I in for a reward, the morning ride was a joy that would have been a shame to have missed.

In contrast to the well trodden Ring the interior of the Iveragh peninsular is peacefully quiet. Only after Glencar does traffic become noticeable (and the roads more potholed). Though it's surrounded by mountains the route mostly follows the valleys. However its also known as "the road over the pass", Ballaghisheen Pass is a tough climb, almost 3km of moderately steep gradient incorporates a couple of very steep sections. Just before the top you can see down the valley to the sea. At the pass MacGillycuddys Reeks, among which is Carrauntoohil, Irelands highest peek lie ahead

What had been a rather dull and drizzly start to the day was suddenly transformed as the sun at last shone down on the rain sodden countryside. Everywhere I looked the valley lit up and sparkled with silver where the sun hit water. Roads and rooftops glistened in the early morning sunshine and my spirits sawed as I just drank in the beauty. It was one of those moments that only few people get to see and I felt so privaliged to witness such a magical moment.

A long gradual descent to Glencar (which they say translates to "Valley of the Happy People") follows the initial swoop down from Ballaghisheen Pass.

After some scratching of my head and careful map reading I was able to find the various roads that eventually deposited me at the shores of Lake Caragh. I would like to say that I had heard in advance of the beauty of what I was to see but in all honesty a body of water is normally found at the bottom of a hill rather than the top of one and that sounded to me like a great idea concidering the size of the mountains surrounding me. What I had forgotten was that bodies of water are where all sorts of insects hatch and munching a biscuit while cycling means that there is a good chance of ingesting a few.

Once I had rejoined the N70 the rest of the ride to Dingle was on main roads and was destined to be a test of endurance rather than one of jaw dropping scenery. What I hadnt know was that Dingle was hosting a car rally and that everyone and his brother was off to spectate. At first I thought it was just the hillbilly locals taking their ford escorts with go faster stripes for a Sunday spin but once I was past Inch I saw the marshalls and the taped off roads and realised what was the cause of so much traffic.

Inch itself had a wonderful beach but the cars, wind, aching legs and intermittent rain were all contributing to me spending more time looking down and grinding out the miles rather than taking in the scenery. That plus the fact the road was long and straight which only seems to taunt you with its perceived infinite length made for a gruelling couple of hours.

The last few miles into Dingle was accompanied by the roar of high performance rally cars that Dad would have been thrilled to watch as they roared down the main road between stages pursued by wanabee boy racers in their souped up cars. Even me, who hasnt driven a car in almost 20 years and is constantly cursing them as unfriendly enviromental menaces was taken in by the high octane charged atmosphere and couldnt help myself from wandering around the tents and displays at Dingle.


I found a nice quiet pub, well quiet if it wasnt for the 150 rally cars going by outside, and had Sunday lunch and an icecream. I had made it to Dingle with 2 hours to spare so had a walk around the town and took in the sights. Did that a few times as its a small town.

The bus was on time and I had a sneak peek of Tralee (next destination) before catching the train home. Found out the next day that one of work colleagues had been at Dingle watching the rally. In fact he would have loved to compete as he is an international rally champion but this event was only national and he and his team didnt think it would have been a good idea to compete as budgets, as always, are limited.

A great weekend and now I am almost half way around Ireland