365 True Things: 36/Travel (Ireland)

Twenty-nine years ago, in May 1986, David and I spent a month bicycling around Ireland. We'd brought our own bikes—packed them in large cardboard boxes and watched from the plane as they were blithely tossed around by luggage handlers.

"Wait! Those are fragile!"

When we landed at Shannon, sure enough, one of the bikes was missing the bolt that holds the skewer in place. It probably just vibrated off. Fortunately, our plan had been to take the train to Dublin anyway, and it was easy enough to find the proper part there.

Our itinerary took us south from Dublin and across the southern middle, then north along the west coast. We stayed at B&Bs, where each morning we'd fill up on a hearty breakfast of eggs, bacon, and lots of soda bread. That kept us going until a Mars bar break in the afternoon, at which time we would peruse the map and a B&B guide, find a phone box, and call to reserve a room for the night in a place two or three hours ahead. Each evening involved a visit to a pub; I remember frequent delicious salmon dinners. And Guinness, of course. Lots of Guinness. Not to mention Harp. Or my favorite: black and tans.

Rock of Cashel

We were lucky with the weather. On one of our first days out, a jaunt to the neolithic site of Newgrange, it started to rain. We stopped, pulled out our rain gear and put it on, and kept riding. Soon we realized we were just as wet inside our rain jackets as outside. Meanwhile, the squall passed and the sun came out. With the next shower, we bypassed the rain gear. We got wet. The sun came out. We dried off (good old polypropylene). It was actually quite refreshing. Only one day did we have miserable rainy weather all day long: the day we cycled the Dingle Peninsula, a thirty-mile loop. The cheery peat fire at the end of that journey was ever so welcome!

Cemetery adornment

We did cross into Northern Ireland from Donegal. Short of the border was a tall hill that we trudged up, standing on our pedals. I took many photos of the surrounding countryside—I remember fields of rape, brilliant yellow against the many greens. Zipping back down the hill was a treat. At the border, we showed our passports to the burly young soldiers, then continued a couple hundred yards. Not thinking, I turned and snapped a photo of the border crossing. "Oy! You there! Stop!" we heard, and saw the burly men chasing after us. They wanted to confiscate my camera. I think I started crying. They relented—though they probably shouldn't have. Thank you, boys.

Whereas the roads in the Republic of Ireland are narrow and hilly—up, down, up, down—the British-built roads in the North were wide and beautifully graded. Our pace picked up remarkably.

We visited the Bushmills distillery on a deeply foggy morning. Inside, a fire burned, and shots of whiskey—including Black Bush and the 10-, 16-, and 21-year-old single malts—were lined up on the bar. We were nicely warmed up once we staggered back onto the road and on our way toward Belfast. Coming into that city proved an adventure as the country road we'd started on gradually transformed into M5. We had a Michelin map, which doesn't show much detail—or point out the parts of town one might want to avoid. (This was during the "Troubles," mind you.) Somehow we found our way to downtown Belfast, but once there we learned we couldn't lock our bikes up and go explore. Any "abandoned" anything was treated with suspicion. So we climbed back on our bikes and continued south, toward the Republic.

There are other stories, but I'll leave my reminiscing there. It was a wonderful trip. Almost makes me want to do another one, lo these thirty years later. But first, I should probably start riding my bike around home. Without loaded panniers.

(The illustrating photos are the only three shots that I converted from slides to digital files. I'm sure I have many more slides where these came from. Maybe someday I'll get around to converting them too . . .)