Ireland: the blarney in Kilarney

After the rigours and the rain of yesterday - not to mention a startingly indifferent meal in Kilarney, we set our sights fairly low on day four: just a quick tour round the lakes of Kilarney before driving up to our next Airbnb at Tralee.

Jan thought it would be nice to ride up through the Gap of Dunloe and then back to town in a scenic little loop, past the lakes. Mark and I weren't fooled for a minute but the route had the advantage of simplicity and, this being Ireland, you are never more than 100m from a coffee shop… 

But, as the road wound up the valley, it narrowed, forcing the coach passengers to disembark and take a strategically placed pony and trap up the hill. But there were few takers and, other than a few brave walkers, we had the road to ourselves. 

And, behold, it was good. Perhaps the prettiest bit of cycling we've encountered: no coaches, no cars, no cake shops - just a lovely little track crossing and cross-crossing the stream that tumbled down the hill. Oh, and no rain either. Hurrah! 

Caption time? Encouraged by Jan's helpful exhortations from the top of the hill, Mark decides to walk!

We reached the top of the pass in high spirits and set off along an excellent path through unspoilt valleys with a bit of off-road biking by one of the lakes to add to the adventure and some bike-carrying up a rough footpath to detract from it. We emerged at a charming crossroads where stream and bridge met sky and sun, inviting us to whizz down the 10km back to Kilarney for lunch. Still dry! Thanks St Bernadette.

One hiccough: we managed to 'forget' that we had some bikes on top as we emerged from the car park in Kilarney, until a nasty crunching noise brought our progress to a grinding, anxious halt. No serious damage, except to the roof rack and to our sang froid. 

Ouch!

Ireland phase 2: from Cork to Kerry

After three nights with super-relaxed Chris in Bantry, it's time to move on to the next phase - the Ring of Kerry. Actually this is just across the water from where we were yesterday, on the north shore of the Beara Penninsula - not that we could see if for the mist! 

We had planned to start with a lovely ride over the Caha mountains near Bantry, including hand carved tunnels and dramatic mountain views. Alas the day dawned misty with outbreaks of fog. Or was it foggy with outbreaks of mist? So plan A was abandoned...postponed until our next visit as the ever-optimistic locals would probably say. 

The family cemetery of the O'sullivans was remarkable for the way that half the cemetery was bog-standard marble forest, with a traditional range of uninspiring memories of loved ones gone to glory, while the other half was, unaccountably,  derelict - as if the good Lord had unleashed a rightous thunderbolt on a funeral procession. Did someone other than a member of the O'Sullivan clan attempt to gain entry? Did someone say a bad word or think an impure thought? 

Instead we drove on down through Kenmare (where I had encountered some apocalyptic market scenes in my previous visit) and on to Smeed, where I let Jan and Mark out to ride up the hill in the rain and the mist, while I motored safely to a meeting spot. The coast road round the corner near Lambs Head was a beauty. You could tell by the quality and number of coach-friendly lay-bys that it's a top notch bit of the WaWa. The sign at the local pub said it all, 'The best views in the south west (fog permitting)'

But, again, a patch of clearer weather blew in and we found ourselves pedalling round the end of the peninsula, near Valencia Island and the romantically named St Finan's Bay. In truth it's not massively romantic; civilisation, such as it is, hangs on by a thread in all these remote communities which are great to visit but maybe not to live in. 

I won't go into any detail of the mountainous climb that appeared, as if my magic from the mist, which Mark and I ascended cursing roundly as we struggled past yet another shrine to Our Lady of Bewildered Bikers. 

Ireland: like a whore's knickers

If you imagine the four peninsulae of this area as four 'fingers' sticking out into the Atlantic, our second day of cycling took us along the ring finger, the Beara (pronounced like Nearer) Penninsula. It's too large to circumnavigate in a single go, so we used the car to leapfrog - one person driving, two cycling - along the south coast. Even so, the mist that closed in around us made it hard to enjoy the scenery and eventually left us all pretty soaked/in need of some dry clothes from the back-up vehicle. 

Dry-ish, we arrived at the head, Dursey Island, on four wheels, singing along to Adele. As we pulled up, what appeared to be a garden shed swung through the mist, bizarrely hanging in the cloud. A cable car links the mainland to Dursey Island itself, though the idea of jumping in and being winched into the fog didn't have much appeal. Instead we ate our sandwiches and mooched around for a while reading up on the history of the O'Sullivan clan who were grand fromages around here in their day.

Eventually the fog lifted a bit and the island hove into view, just a couple of hundred meters away. But by then we'd had enough and decided to point our wheels homewards, along the north coast of the peninsula. As we did, the weather lifted a bit, revealing a stunning rugged stretch of the WaWa punctuated by little coves, a winding road that was not unlike parts of the Hebrides - water water everywhere in pools, tarns, inlets - and the road snaking its way round a series of beautiful little inlets and hidden coves,  quite different from the south coast. 

We were tempted to get the bikes off the car and start cycling but, on cue,  the mist would descend again frustrating our hopes of getting going again. The route was much longer than the southerly section too - all that winding about, up and down and round the twists and turns of the the coastline marked this as a place worth returning to, for a longer explore. 

And then we encountered Coln. 

This is Coln (not his real name; not a real photo of him). We met him in the middle of the road on the Beara Penninsula. Literally the middle of the road because he was standing there, leaning on his bike, possibly in trouble. So we stopped and asked if all was well. 

He started from his middle of the road reverie and pronounced that he was fine, but that he needed to fix the gears on his old bike because he'd been all over the world, including the Auvergne, and, pardon his French, but this road was the fecking worst he'd ever encountered and he was knackered.

He certainly looked it.  We began to size up this pirate-like figure, propped up against a bike held together with string and distinctly short of up-to-the-minute cycling accessories. The red nose was a bit of a giveaway: this was yer actual bag man on a bike.  

But there were no flies on Coln. He had managed to bring traffic to a halt and he had an audience. So off he went again, bemoaning the state of his bike and of the road. Why,  this road was a fecking bitch was it not, pardon his french, it was up down up down...like a pair of fecking whore's knickers!

There was no obvious answer to this gobbet of wisdom and it seemed a good moment to squeeze past, stifling our giggles and marvelling anew at the diversity of human life to be found on the road.

Ireland: getting there and getting going

Whether you see the Wild Atlantic Way as a 1600 mile route of personal discovery along the west coast of Ireland or a clever marketing campaign devised by some desk bound publicity honcho in order to link together assorted tourist boards up and down this island, it's a  part of the world that has to be worth exploring. Ever since I drove along much of the route back in 2012 with four large teenage surfers in search of the perfect wave and the perfect pint of Guinness, I've been keen to return on two wheels and explore at a more civilised pace. 

Fortunately the traumas of cycling through Dumfriesshire in 2013 have faded in the minds of Jan and Mark since both have  agreed to come along for another ride, even though they could only spare a week from their respective busy lives. So, no messing about then! A midnight ferry was caught and day one was spent haring across the Emerald Isle to reach the area we wanted to explore: the four peninsulas of the very south west (called Mizen Head, Beara, Kilarny and Dingle). 

The wiggly stuff on the left was, mostly, covered on two wheels; the rest on four.

En route to Bantry Bay, Jan and Mark both got slightly excited by the plaster casts in Cork Museum - though they nearly walked right past the best exhibit, some conceptual corrugated iron by the enigmatic artist Ainee On. Geddit? Anyone could do it....

After a few cultural and caffeine-related fill ups, we got to Kinsale, south west of Cork,  which is a pretty busy tourist town & officially the start of the WaWa. The Old Head at Kinsale is a suitably wild and dramatic headland to commence the ride but, alas, it has been colonised by a posh golf club with forbidding gates and a no-visitor policy. So we parked just up the road, by the Lusitania Museum, and Jan set off. No point in us all getting wet. 

Jan sets off in front of an admiring crowd.

This is a bird's eye view from the other side of the golf course gates. Wow!

After that 'official' start, we drove along the coast to Clonakilty, Skibbereen and up to Bantry,  where we're airbnb'ing with Chris, an ageing hippy from London who moved out here in 1971 and never went back. 

Another one of those fabulous, jaw-dropping travel shots.
Don't you wish you were here?

Day 2: Getting going on Mizen Head

Tyres pumped, maps folded, sarnies on board,  off we went to explore the Mizen Head peninsula. When you eventually get to  its tip, you are at the most southwesterly point of Ireland and, not far off shore, shrouded in a little haze, you can see the famous Fastnet Lighthouse - another shipping forecast destination ticked off!

To get there, we had cycled along about 50km of quiet, rural road, not that different from western Scotland or northern Cornwall, especially as we neared the end of the cape which echoed John O'Groats' 'end of the world' feeling. Sadly for us lovers of waterside light, the road didn't all follow the sea's edge but it still offered plenty of interest for Mark and I.

Jan, bien sur, was soon a speck in the distance, happily speeding along at her own very unique pace while Mark and I happily weren't. Had we, by chance, come up with a possible solution to the perennial problem of riders going at different speeds which has so plagued my motorbike touring? Here we each ride at our preferred speed, having agreed in advance, where we were going to meet up. It requires that the fastest rider is prepared to wait for the slower at some point and also means that chance discoveries cannot be shared after the ride ('Did you see that church/neolithic picnic site/Arctic tern?' etc) but it seems a relatively small price to pay for good companionship. 

At Mizen Point, my legs told me they needed some calorific revival before I could attempt the return journey, this time on the north coast of the peninsula. And, 50km later, we got back just as the forecast rain began to fall in earnest...on the remaining member of our group who, natch, had extended her ride onto nearby Sheep's Head peninsula. LIke the sheep, we were all eventually gathered in safely, in time for pub supper and early to Bedfordshire. 

T de T: fin de ballade

Farewell from Nick

Farewell Georg, fairwell Neri. They set off from Ibis Budget Mark 6 at about 8.30 am, G determined to cross the border into Deutchland as soon as possible. 

We left beautiful Tours a little later on our final leg. This would be Loire day. Stephane took us as close to the North or Douth bank as the excellent country roads permitted. There was little traffic. Les Anglais - usually Loire-loving folk from June to September - have been staying away this year, a cafe owner said. She didn't know why but the bad weather might be a reason. Nothing to do with Brexit.

The Loire is such a wide and peaceful river. Hardly any craft on it. Occasionally a small boat with a single occupant fishing or contemplating the universe. Restful just to gaze at its slow flow from right to left as we sip some cold wine. All to soon I began to recognise the familiar South bank as we near Paimboeuf and le Pont de St Nazaire.

We arrived around 7 pm and there was just enough time to organise white wine in the fridge, showers and a final aperatif round the table which, in typical French style became supper.

Jony and I gave Stephane and Karine a bottle of whisky and a map marked with our journey and signed by us all. 

Our five-day tour is the little loop at the bottom;
Georg & Nery's one-day return journey stretches out to the right...

It's a screw Nick, not a nail.
Call yourself a Homesteader? 

To this I added the nail that had to be dug out of Stephane's rear tyre, that the mechanic handed to me. Stephane seemed pleased with the souvenir.

Now on the ferry, and England beckons. Hey ho.

T de T: two German pilots go into this pub

Sorry to see Georg and Nery returning to Germany today but they leave us with this classic, as recalled by Nick.

George began his joke in halting (very) English thus, as we strained to catch his meaning. "Zere were two German Luftwaffer airmen coming down in parachutes. Zere plane ist shot down kaput. Zey land in England und zey are very...sirsty. So zey komst to a pub, but problem. Zey haf no English (Ed. And don't want to be caught). One komst to ze bar and he says to landlord "Martini?" Ze landlord says "Dry?". Ze flier says "nein, Zwei".

Sorry but it's the way he tells them…

Georg' s audience react to his classic joke telling technique. 

T de T: joke of the tour

While we were enjoying a quiet coffee yesterday, Nick announced to the company, in his best French, that he was going to 'inspecter vos noix' later that day. After a moment of silence while the assembled company absorbed this news, Nick thought he should reinforce the point. 'I'm going or inspect Stefan's nuts, then Georg's nuts and finally Jony's nuts.'

A glance at our biker babes suggested that they were both horrified at the prospect of a testicle inspection. Surely, this time, the always-unpredictable Neek had gone too far?

A thought flashed across my mind. 'Nick: are you thinking of chicken strips by any chance?'

'Yes, of course,' he flashed back, ' I had some particularly good corners back there and I want to check whether their tyres are as worn at the edges as mine.'

At the news that Nick was talking about a pneus inspection, with a P, not a noix inspection, there was a general letting out of breath and much merriment at the pronunciation of this wonderful language.