India: who needs insurance when you've got Puja

Puja. It could well be one of those regional curries I’m still struggling to integrate into my daily diet,  a town near Bangalore or one of the man gods who permeate Indian life. The last is closer to the mark because Puja is actually a prayer ritual that is performed at home or at a Hindu temple to mark important life events or - and we’re getting closer here - to bless new beginnings. In the priest-assisted Puja around which I am circling, food, fruits and sweets were also included as offerings to Ganesha, the elephant God. 

^{And what, my children, might we have been blessing? Yes, of course, you guessed it from the headline: my new bike. And when I say new, I mean  brand spanking, straight-out-of-the-showroom-for-the-first-time-in-my-life-new. It has been a long time coming and, frankly I think I could have built a motorbike in less time than it’s taken my bank to transfer the necessaries out here but let’s try and rise above that now. It was probably my fault in some obscure way. The point is that for either an absurdly small amount of money, I have acquired a brand new Royal Enfield Silver bullet -  350ccs of gleaming chrome, classic styling and sari guard complete with electric start and front disk brakes.}

^{Surely this is a giant leap away from the ruthlessly efficient and frankly rather boring germanic machines that have graced my bottom hitherto? Well, yes, (though, now you mention it, I haven’t seen a single BMW in this land where everyone uses two wheels.) The fact is that every fourth bike out here is a RE and even the smallest village will have an Enfield wallah who can compensate for my pathetic inadequacies in the field of mechanics.} 

^{But how does it go, I hear you ask. The answer is 'Not at all' until it’s been Puja'd.} 

^{Actually that’s not true. From the showroom in Mysore I had to get it back to where I was staying last night, a journey that reminded me of my very first ride ever, after buying a Honda 250 in north London and having not the least idea how to ride the thing (we didn’t need tests and CBTs in those days). I think Mike Venning might have come some of the way with me on his Guzzi but I suspect he thought it best to leave me to work things out for myself. I didn’t know what gear I was in for the whole journey!} 

^{But I digress. First thing this morning I had a thorough shower in order that I would be allowed in a Hindu temple. Then we went to find one. As always in India there are plenty of people on hand to advise you, so the old lady told us where to park and to leave our shoes (50R please), she also pointed us to the stall where we bought the flowers and the lime (70R please). The chap in the queue then explained that I had to buy a ticket (50R please) and give it to the priest who was moving down the line of what I suppose are called supplicants. He took my garland and lime, asked my name and offered a quick prayer there and then. He then passed the bits and pieces to anothe priest who whisked everything off into the temple proper where more prayers were said. Meanwhile a separate priest emerged with a candle and flowers and sprinkled the bike with holy water. It was all quite businesslike and relaxed, with lots of advice and smiles. Next to my bike was a brand new car that was also being ‘done’. Quite soon, the blessed flowers emerged from the inner sanctum and, before I knew it, my little Enfield was getting the works with dye and oils being marked all over it very thoroughly, from tyres to instruments to the tank  (200R please). The only thing that remained was for me to drive over the two limes that had been placed under the front and rear wheels…for reasons that I didn't and don’t understand.} 

  

^{To be honest, the whole thing was so thorough and professional that I drove away with more confidence that the Puja would look after me in the event of an accident than the so-called insurance policy that we bought from the dealer!}

^{Did I say we? Foreigners are not allowed to buy a new car/bike here. Not sure if this is for anti-terrorist reasons or something more obscure. However I was rescued by Satij, one of Stephen’s ever-helpful rickshaw drivers who has suffered the many bureaucratic demands for paperwork and in whose name the bike is now registered. I think this will make it impossible for me to ship the machine back to the UK when I leave India but I haven’t the heart to tackle the bureaucrats who can, it is rumoured, change registration names for those who are super patient, resourceful and have the necessary paperwork - none of which apply to me.}

^{Sorry, I nearly forgot to mention how it goes! I had a perfect trip planned for our first date - a journey from Mysore to Ooty in the Nilgiri Hills. It’s about 140km and the last 30km involve a climb to about 2000m up a famous series of 36 hairpin bends (I didn’t count them - they are marked on signs). Some of these are extremely sharp - and the camber is all over the place.  But what the hell: it was great}  to be pottering along, independent of buses, taxis, rickshaw wallahs and trains. To take the rest of my Indian adventure at my own pace and go where I want to go has to be worth all the hassle and delay in getting this bike. 

The God Ganesha, the elephant God, is the relevant deity here folks. Apparently Ganesha is a kind of ‘sorter out of problems’ and remover of obstacles. Maybe I should have gone to him earlier!

Ireland: a scenic return journey

If you're counting, you'll notice that a day has been missed out. Sorry but the day concerned - Friday -  was one of torrential rain and high winds so no cycling for us. We spent the morning tucked up in our little cottage, packing for the next day's return, ploughing through the vast supplies of buns, cakes and nuts that we seem to have accumulated, and the afternoon in the local cinema!

Here's some pics of what we saw on our return journey, driving across Ireland to the ferry. 

The roof of Kilkenny Cathedral

Nowadays, every early death is a tragedy; in 1844, they saw things differently. 

Street art in Limerick

Cool candelabra in Limerick

More graffiti in, yes, you guessed it! Limerick. 

Jan and Mark recreate the infamous 'runner' incident in Cashel. 

Ireland: saving the best for last

Going back to the hand thing, Dingle is your index finger - the most northerly of the four, with more mountains, better roads and - for some reason - the most interesting buildings (let's not get on to my pet moan about the dreadful euro bungalows). Our Airbnb is just down the road from Tralee, overlooked by the Slieve Mish mountains and backing on to Tralee Bay. 

Following our by now well established routine of driving half down down the peninsula, we left the car at the top of Conor Pass, took some pics and skedadled down to Dingle town to commence the Slea Head tour. 

A rather dramatic panorama back looking north from the Conor Pass car park in a rare moment of sunshine.

This turned out to be our best day. The road around Slea Head was dotted with car parks and viewing points for the many tourists who were enjoying some clear weather and the best views of the WaWa we had yet experienced. It was here that Stanley Kubrick filmed Ryan's Daughter and he certainly got a cracking location! Lovely shots out to the Blasket Islands and across innumerable wild and unspoilt bays.

This is what we hoped to find along the WaWa and, clever old Ireland, she had saved the best for last. 

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.