August 23, 1996 - September 6, 1996
Wendy Strutin & Jeffrey
Riedy
Jeff's Prologue:
The story you are about to read is the result of many months of
research, reading, planning, and long, sometimes drawn-out discussions. In the
end we made the decisions together, we being my girlfriend Wendy Strutin, and
myself, Jeff Riedy. The choice of vacation destinations was an idea I had thrown
out during the early stages of vacation planning. Ireland was always my idea of
a dream vacation. My blood runs thick with Irish heritage and DREAMS OF
GREEN.With Ireland as our goal, we mapped out courses, considered the proper
gear, rethought the course chosen, and constantly sought out more ideas,
resources, and friendly help from friends, family, and strangers on-line. With
my faithful and info-hungry Wendy at my side, we seemed to collect an
overwhelming supply of maps, guidebooks, and tourist information. With pens in
hand and only months before the journey, we pressed on through the mountain of
stuff, until finally just days before our scheduled departure all plans were in
tentative position and Ireland lay across a wide Atlantic Ocean, waiting to be
discovered.
Friday, August 23, 1996.
Bethlehem, Pennsylvania to Dublin, Ireland
2.5 miles out it started raining.
3.25 miles out we passed a McDonald's.
Is this how it's going to be? We arrived on the red-eye into
Dublin. The 5 evening hours we lost should have left us exhausted, but instead
we were both exhilarated with anticipation. By the time we cleared customs,
claimed our luggage, and reassembled our bicycles it was nearly 11:00. We made
plans to meet a friend at the Guinness Brewery downtown at noon, and we were
wondering if we would make it. We attempted to orient ourselves and find our way
into town. We asked at the Tourist Office, and were told there was a bicycle
route we could follow. "Just follow the signs," she said. Well, we saw
exactly one sign, and then were left to fend for ourselves. We ended up on some
pretty major roads, without a map or a real sense of where we needed to go.
Riding on the left proved to require some getting used to, and our bikes felt
heavy and slow. Stopping several times to ask directions, we finally found the
Guinness Brewery at about 12:15. We searched frantically for our friend, but he
was nowhere to be found (in hindsight, I now know he was actually 45 minutes
late himself). Amid a bit of anxiety, we locked our bikes in the rainy parking
lot, and went on the factory tour. The tour was a self guided walk through a
mixture of real but retired brewing equipment and replicated machinery
accompanied by an overwhelming amount of written information. We learned quite a
bit about the history of Guinness, and of beer in general, and then got to the
good part: the beer tasting. The beer was of course quite smooth and flavorful.
Wendy surprised us both by liking it. Eventually, the rain stopped and we headed
back into the city to find a room for the night. We stopped at several hostels
listed in "Let's Go" but they were are full - it was Friday night in
Dublin. Finally, on a recommendation from the Avalon House, we ended up at the
Malaysia House just a few blocks away from the Temple Bar area. This section of
the city is very young at heart – reminiscent of Greenwich Village (NYC) or
South Street (Philadelphia) - where it seems everybody has something pierced.
Our room was tiny and equipped with bunk beds, but it was an oasis to us. We
unpacked our stuff, locked our bikes in the basement, and set out to explore the
city on foot. We visited the massive St. Patrick's Cathedral and the Dublin
Castle before we felt hungry enough to investigate a meal. We wandered up and
down the streets looking for the spot befitting our first meal in Ireland:
something cheap, and typically Irish, and filling. There is, of course, no such
place, and we ended up opting for excellent Italian fare at Mezza Luna (probably
part of the chic chain by the same name found in cities throughout the United
States). After our meal, we stopped at the Square Wheel bike shop and chatted
with an extremely friendly chap who gave us some route advice and a smile. We
stopped at the Avalon House hostel for a cappuccino, and returned to the
Malaysia house for some much needed rest.
Saturday, August 24, 1996
Dublin to Wicklow
We woke up shortly after 8am and were the first to enjoy the continual
breakfast in the cute dining room. Breakfast was coffee, orange juice, and
toast. It was drizzling as we walked around Dublin expanding our wandering to
include areas north of the River Liffey and back across the Ha' Penny pedestrian
bridge. Near noon, we walked eastward and back to the hostel to pack up for our
coastal ride. We then did something we've never done before: set out on our
bikes in the rain. We have both ridden in the rain, but it has never been by
choice. We suited up in our rain gear and wondered if this was how it was going
to be. We headed south through the suburbs of Dublin and as the city traffic
diminished, we were happy. The rain stopped, it warmed a little, and we removed
our rain gear. We traveled through coastal towns including Dun Laoghaire and
Bray. Since we were not able to bring ours on the plane, we needed to purchase a
camp stove, and heard of an army-navy store in Bray that might be able to supply
one. We searched for 45 minutes, asking directions constantly from friendly but
apparently misinformed locals. When we found the store, they were sold out. But
we were guided to the Anvil Hardware store where we eventually got our stove.
While Wendy shopped, I watched the bikes and was approached by an older local as
to our "county of origin." This charming man enlightened us both with
his words of wisdom. The most memorable of these was, "Love all, trust
none, and paddle your own canoe." And so with that, we proceeded to paddle
our two wheeled canoes down the coast through Gravestones, another beautiful
village. After awhile, my stomach and bladder begged for attention, and we
stopped roadside for rest, relief, and a small snack. We pressed on towards
Wicklow while drizzle fell again and the wind picked up. We put our rain gear
back on. It was starting to seem like the weather was changing in direct
response to whatever we were (or were not) wearing. We were wondering if the
whole trip would be spent changing clothes to match the constantly changing
weather. We continued towards Wicklow and eventually saw signs for the tourist
office. While we were following those, we saw signs for The Marine House,
Wicklow Bay Hostel. We took a chance, and went to check on a room. Upon
entering, I fell in love with the construction, refinishing, charm, and
appearance of the interior. We checked in. En route to our room, the proprietor
told us of the structure's history, including past lives as a military
installation, convent, orphanage, and more recently a brewery. Our room had a
great view of the shore line. As we settled in, the howling wind outside
reassured us that we had made the right choice choosing the hostel over free
camping available just a few miles down the road. We cooked ourselves a nice
meal of corn chowder and red pepper pasta (that really hit the spot) and
prepared to walk into town to tour, phone home, and have a beer at the local pub
of choice, Philip Nealy's. It was a wonderful, rustic Irish pub, with all the
local ales and stouts. I ordered a Guinness for myself and a Carlsburg for Wendy
who usually prefers lighter beers. But Wendy sipped both and declared the
Guinness as her own. After our pints, we headed back to the hostel for a good
night's sleep.
Sunday August 25, 1996
Wicklow to Carlow
We woke around 8am, and motivated to the hostel's spacious kitchen to
prepare our breakfast of toast, Gatorade, and tea. We ate, cleaned up, and after
some discussion and sky gazing, chose to wear our rain gear. By the time we
gathered our stuff and loaded our bikes it was 10am. Our planned route would
take us over a mountain that several people had described as too steep to ride
up. Still feeling the effects of the jet lag, and not yet accustomed to the
weight of our bikes, we chose an alternate route -- but it would be a longer day
to get to a town for the night and keep us on schedule. We had 60 miles to ride,
although we had selected some bailout options if absolutely necessary. We left
Wicklow on the coast road, passing many people traveling by foot. We're not sure
if it was because it was Sunday, or if people just walk more here. Today's
portion of the coast road skirted closer to the shoreline than yesterday. The
scenery was again spectacular with sandy beaches and rocky cliffs to our left
and rolling and climbing hills to the right -- it seemed each hill was greener
than the last. Amongst this scenery were meadows full of sheep, cows, and more
sheep. Even the tops of the hills were covered with green meadows and sheep.
Some of the hills seemed to disappear into the low clouds. The coast also
supported numerous sport and golf clubs. After 20 miles, we arrived in the
village of Arklow and browsed "Let's Go" for a lunch recommendation.
We chose the Roma Grill on main street. It was a little greasy, and mayonnaise
laden, but it was food in our bellies just the same. Around 1pm we hopped back
on our bikes and turned westward away from the coast that had guided us thus
far. It had not yet rained, so we stopped to remove our rain gear. Were we
wrong? We headed out of town on a winding road, following the Aughrim river into
Woodenbridge (where we rode over a wooden bridge). There, we crossed the river
and continued along its' banks to the north. As we began to climb out of the
valley, rain began to fall. So, we returned the rain gear to our damp bodies
just in time for the rain to taper off. The rain continued to tease us this way
for awhile until we were bombarded with a very wet deluge of rain and stopped
for shelter under a petrol station awning near Killaveny. We waited it out and
returned to the road again. We climbed, descended, and found ourselves into
Tinahely, another cute village where if you blink you just might miss it. The
views along our inland route were spectacular rolling pastures on hillsides, age
old structures alongside newer homes and farms and of course more sheep, cows
and now horses grazing in the grassy meadows. The surrounding landscape and
countryside are divided like a huge patchwork quilt by tree lines, hedgerows,
and long, ageless stone walls. Road surfaces are not particularly smooth, but
we've considered that it might be intentional. The rough surface makes the road
less slick beneath Ireland's frequent rains. The vegetation surprised us too.
It's an eclectic assortment of evergreens, flowering plants, and more tropical
species like palm trees and cacti. We also saw our share of smiling locals as we
went by on our overloaded bicycles. As we passed through the tiny village of
Shillelagh, it began to rain hard again -- pelting us with great force. We
sought shelter under an overhanging tree for a few minutes and then headed on.
We stopped before Tullow for a snack of dried fruit and crackers. Tullow was a
very hilly town, but fortunately downhill for us. We pressed on to our evening
destination of Carlow. Carlow is a college town, as quaint as any we've seen.
Streets are packed with pubs, shops, restaurants, and more pubs. We found the
overrated Verona hostel on a back street (Pembrooke) in an older neighborhood.
It is a huge (by American standards), old row home that has been converted to a
rest stop for the weary and tight-budgeted. We easily fit both requirements so
we checked in, took very low pressure showers, and headed to town for some grub.
We strolled through town on the main street, side streets and alleys seeking out
just the right spot. Everyplace we looked at seemed either overpriced, over
heated, over smoked, over crowded, closed (it was Sunday) or just gross. It's
hard to believe that as hungry as we were we'd be so fussy. Finally, we settled
on The Owl bar and restaurant along Dublin Street. We sat in a neatly trimmed
wooden bar room and enjoyed our pub grub. The meal wasn't the best, but it
filled us up. On our way back to the hostel, we got some juice for breakfast and
I was craving ice cream. I got a Mammoth, Europe's equivalent for a dove bar,
only cheaper. We returned to the Verona for our night's rest.
Monday, August 26, 1996
Carlow to Kilkenny
Again, we find ourselves waking a little after 8am, wandering
downstairs for a light breakfast and packing for our journey. Wendy has been
complaining that her knee hurts often and intensely, but insists on riding
anyway. We decided to make today's journey shorter because of that, and also
because Kilkenny is rumored to be a really neat city. We dressed in full rain
gear, but just before rolling off we had a fit of optimism and removed it. We
began our trek south towards Kilkenny along N9 and then N10. The road was not as
tranquil as some of the roads we had taken previously, but it was direct and it
offered us a nice wide shoulder to ride on. We spun our wheels past more farms
and small communities, as well as some deserted ruins of once grand structures.
I amused myself by playing with the neighboring animals, baahing at the sheep
and mooing at the cows. One heard of cattle was especially excited by this,
causing about 100 of them to run towards the road. I was already stopped to
witness this near stampede as Wendy downshifted and pulled in behind me to stop.
Unfortunately, right about then, her right shift lever fell off right in her
hand, rendering itself useless. We stopped, and after much frustration, used
super glue and electrical tape to hold the lever in place long enough to get to
town. Sadly, this left her with only one useable gear, and no means to shift.
Combined with her already hurt knee, it was to be a tough trek for her into
Kilkenny. Once in town, we attempted to find a bike shop for a better fix. It
was a little before 1pm and as we stumbled across one bike shop after another,
it became evident that everybody in this town took a long lunch. With a little
time before the shops opened again at 2pm, we went to find our evening
accommodations. Following the advice of "Let's Go," we searched for
the Bregagh House B&B with "camping in their giant backyard." The
book was right again! What a valuable resource it has become. We wandered into
the courtyard and were greeted by the owner's daughter. We paid her 4 pounds
each, and were asked to set up our tent in the rear of their spacious yard. We
chose a spot, and unloaded our gear. We were concerned about Wendy's bike, and
walked it back into town in search of a solution: temporary or permanent.
J&J's Bikes couldn't do anything for her, so we were told to try another
shop on St. Michael's Street. There, the owner said the equipment (downtube
shifters) was a bit more high tech than he could repair without the proper
parts. Our last resort was the hardware store. I disassembled the levers and
determined what might help. With that, I went inside and purchased a strap clamp
and a long bolt. After quite a bit of anxious tinkering, we realized that
neither was going to work effectively and we returned to the bike shop on St.
Michael's Street. We begged until the owner gave it another look. He said he
might be able to temporarily fix it by mounting shift levers on the stem, but he
couldn't guarantee the performance or that all the gears would be accessible.
Somewhat reassured, we left the bike in his capable hands and were instructed to
return after 4pm. We decided to put some food in our bellies and after our usual
fussy search found ourselves in a cute luncheonette off a side street. As usual,
it was greasy but good enough to satisfy. We then returned to the bike shop just
as the mechanic was taking the bike for a test ride. It seemed that the stem
mounted shifters wouldn't fit her bike, so he disabled the front derailleur and
made the left shifter work for the rear derailleur. This was by no means an
ideal solution since it left her with only 7 of the 21 gears, eliminated index
shifting, and meant getting used to shifting on the other side of her bike. But
it was much better than it was when we left it, and possibly even good enough to
finish the trip on. We paid our friend the extremely reasonable price of 4
pounds for his service and went off to enjoy Kilkenny castle. As we walked to
the park entrance, we were delighted with the tranquillity of the River Nore on
our left and numerous castle ruins and greenery throughout. As the park trail
wound around to our right, we were suddenly overlooking a vast, grassy field
laid out in front of the huge ancient structure. To the right of the castle
itself was situated a large play area for children. It has been our observation
that the Irish diligently try to entertain their youth. Even the smallest of
communities seem to have large arcades for the young and young at heart. We
wandered through the castle grounds and across the street where some of the
lesser castle structures have been converted into showcases for local crafts
people. The structures were beautiful and massive in size. After our castle
walk, we headed into town to cruise the shops along Parliament and Kieran
streets. Most of the shops are small with lacquer painted fronts and cute hand
painted signs. The streets were canopied with strings of Smithwyke flags and
mobbed with locals and tourists. After we had our fill (if that's possible) of
browsing, we stopped at the large SuperQuinn market to gather some grub for
dinner and breakfast. We picked up some potato leek soup, small baguettes,
pineapple juice, and porter cheese (local cheddar with stripes of Guinness
beer.) We returned to the B&B to write up some postcards and prepare our
dinner. The soup and bread hit the spot and our newly purchased Gaz stove worked
well -- although not as hot as our peak 1 Coleman stove (Coleman fuel is not
available in Ireland, and not transportable on the plane, so we left that stove
home). We cleaned up and went back into town for a few pints and some
traditional music at Cleere's Pub. The pub was small, the Guinness was flowing,
the people were charming, and the music was spirited and fun. After finishing
our Guinness, it was time for a good night's sleep in our backyard Shangri-La.
Tuesday, August 27, 1996
Kilkenny to Cashel
Woke up, prepared a light breakfast of bread and juice, broke camp and
loaded up for our journey towards Tipperary. We said our good-byes and thank
you's to our hosts and were off. It seems to be fairly consistent that the
hardest part of orienting ourselves is getting into and out of cities. We
generally do not have good city maps, and the cues we copied from "Ireland
By Bike," are just to and from the edge of town. It seems we could ask 5
different people how to get somewhere and each will give us different but
complex directions. Well - we were reassured as we finally found N76 towards
Cashel. N76 is a wider, busier road as we left Kilkenny, but it provided plenty
of shoulder for most of the distance. Traffic was moderate leaving town, but
much heavier in the other direction into Kilkenny. About 5 miles out of town we
came upon a young Irishman who had run our of petrol. He claimed he had no cash
and asked me if I could help. After some discussion, I believed he was genuine
and gave him one pound -- enough for about 1.5 liters of fuel. He thanked us and
we rolled on. Soon after we reached our turn onto R691, the road became a very
typical winding country pass. The road surface was a condition I've taken to
calling "Accidental Paving." It seems sparse amounts of paving
materials were thoughtlessly spilled on the roadway and left to chance in hope
it would spread to cover the road. We passed plenty of farmlands, small
cottages, run-down buildings and even some new construction. Within a few miles,
we pedaled past a thatch-roofed house - the first we'd seen. At this point,
Wendy was sufficiently frustrated with her bike and removed her front derailleur
completely. There was no cable leading to it and it was impossible to fine tune.
In low gears, the chain was rubbing against it. We successfully removed it. As
she put even more pieces of her bike into her pannier – she wondered aloud if
removing all these parts would make her bike any lighter. Wendy was continuing
to struggle with her sore knee and ailing bike and our pace continued to slow. A
few more miles along we passed a small caravan of what seemed to be gypsy
wagons. Brightly colored and possibly a permanent roadside fixture. We has
passed other trailers blocked up along the road in previous days, but weren't
sure just why or how long they had been there, We guessed they might be migrant
workers, but for all we knew they were just carefree vagabonds with no place to
call their own. We took a photo of these gypsy-like carts and moved along. The
scenery continued to be awe inspiring and without end, including wonderful
rolling terrain spotted with cottages and more long, endless stone walls. Again
we passed many groups of cows and horses. We also passed several groups of young
children along the road, each curious about our country of origin. Their faces
lit with wonderment when we said, "We're from the United States." One
of the more exciting experiences with local children occurred as we entered the
tiny village of Ballingarry. As I neared, a young red-headed lad, about 8 years
old began running towards the road yelling "Mister, Photo, Photo,
Mister!" I stopped and three more of his small friends ran up beside him,
apparently quite accustomed to this scenario. I gathered them on their front
fence and snapped that precious picture for our album. We talked with them for a
short time and told them we were American. Their Hazel eyes lit up. We had
probably made their day. We know they made ours more special. When we reached
the center of town, we stopped for a snack of soda and cookies. Wendy was
struggling with every mile, and with some deliberation decided that Cashel would
be today's journeys end instead of Tipperary. After a brief rest we resumed our
ride towards Cashel, passing many people walking roadside, each offering a
friendly smile and "hello." As we approached town, we passed more kids
also asking where we were from. One young boy in particular followed us along
the road for about half a mile, beaming with joy. The route all day was up and
down with a few significant hills in both directions. The nicest downhill was
into Cashel. In general, towns tend to be small built up areas in the middle of
great expanses of not very much. There are often few warnings that a town is
approaching until it suddenly appears. Cashel was no exception and we made the
rapid transition from farmland to small metropolis. We found a hostel in
"Let's Go," and inquired at the tourist office about possibly taking a
bus to Limerick the next day. Taking the bus was not an easy decision, but Wendy
needed a rest and we were falling far behind our schedule. The next 150 or so
miles had far fewer attractions than the west coast where we were heading, so we
decided it would be best to jump ahead. We proceeded to the Cashel Holiday
Hostel just off Main Street on John Street. The hostel is located in a 200 year
old Georgian town house. We found our cozy room, unloaded our bikes and took
turns showering away the road grime and sweat. We then proceeded into town for a
wonderful late lunch at The Bake Shop. This was by far the best food we had
eaten in Ireland thus far. After our meal we were off to the castle on St.
Patrick's rock (also known as "The Rock of Cashel", or just "The
Rock"). For a minimal fee, we took the guided tour and learned of the Rocks
long, intriguing history. For centuries it was occupied by kings until the 12th
century when religion gained a stronghold in Ireland and the church was given
the grounds by the current king hoping for favors and a continued tenure at the
castle. The church destroyed all the structures and rebuilt them from the ground
up. The present structure is massive and stands in partial ruin. Parts of it are
being restored by a heritage society. We enjoyed the tour very much and snapped
more than a few pictures. After the tour, we headed back into town, bought some
ingredients for dinner and breakfast and headed on back to the hostel. Wendy did
laundry while I prepared a pasta dinner for two, complete with fresh bread from
The Bake Shop. The hostel's dining area was large and somewhat rustic with heavy
wooden tables and benches, tile floors and an illuminating skylight in the
middle of the ceiling. Dinner was pleasant and filling, although not all that
exotic. After dinner we returned to our room, the "James Joyce Pubs"
room and finished off some postcards before passing out. Today was the second
day in a row we were not rained upon while riding, and for that we were
thankful.
Wednesday, August 28, 1996
Cashel to Kilkee
We felt rather ambitious today, planning to conquer nearly 150 miles en
route to Kilkee on the west coast of Ireland. On the bus. We patiently waited at
roadside for the noon shuttle to Cahir (pronounced "care"), anxious as
to whether the bus would allow our bicycles. "Let's Go" says that it
is driver's discretion whether to allow bicycles, and that often there is only
room for one. We waited at the bus stop with one other person: an old Irishman
who we had seen on main street the day before with his pants around his ankles
squatting, and doing what nature requires. Especially since most of Ireland has
readily available public toilets, this was completely uncalled for. The empty
bus arrives, and we rolled our bikes right onto it with no problem and arrived
in Cahir shortly after at 12:15. With about an hour to kill before our
connecting bus to Limerick, Wendy found a phone and called home. She was a bit
vague on the details of her mechanical problems and knee pain because she didn't
want to alarm anyone. That done, we stormed the Cahir castle. "Let's
Go" describes the castle as gray and damp and everything tourists expect of
a castle. Owing to a shortness of time, we skipped the guided tour and opted for
a self guided one. We enjoyed the castle and headed back to the bus stop to find
a large crowd also waiting for the same bus. Would our bikes fit? The bus
finally arrived and I flipped open the underside compartment and neatly pulled
both bikes in. We boarded the bus and arrived in Limerick around 3pm. Since
Limerick is the second largest city in Ireland, we thought we might find a good
meal here. Unfortunately, we found the bus stop was not in the better business
district and after a short walk decided to do without the hot meal for now. We
snacked on some stuff from our panniers, and eventually boarded the bus to
Kilkee. This time, we stored our bikes in the rear compartment. The bus was
packed and we chose to sit at the back of the bus to keep an eye on our bikes.
The unfortunate part of this was that the rear of the bus is sometimes a
favorite spot for younger kids. There were 9 young teenagers, with one pesky lad
in particular. Johnny was his name and he was full of energy and a squeaky,
shrill voice. The entire trip we were entertained (and occasionally annoyed)
with their antics. The bus wove through the countryside, taking back roads and
apparent cow paths. I kid you not. At one point a herd of cattle had stopped
traffic as two Irish women proceeded to walk a small group of cows along the
road with little regard for congestion. What a sight! We continued to pick up
more riders around every turn. People were standing in the Aisle and sitting on
the steps. Finally, we arrived in Kilkee, unloaded our bikes, and headed for the
Kilkee Hostel on O'Curry street. Kilkee was our first stop along Ireland's
western coast. It is a small seaside community with tiny streets and brightly
colored buildings. We checked in, unpacked, and hunted down some dinner. We
opted for a diner like restaurant with the usual grease. Then we picked up some
breakfast fixings and headed back to the hostel for some much needed slumber.
Thursday, August 29, 1996
Kilkee to Doolin
We treated ourselves to a big breakfast of pepper and onion omelets,
toast, hot cocoa and orange juice, cleaned up, and went for an early morning
stroll along the beach. We wandered along a path, passing one of many of the
coastal golf courses and enjoying the continually changing point of view until
eventually we were looking back at the pastel colored village of Kilkee across
an inlet. We wondered aloud why so many seaside resorts seem to consistently
choose these same colors for their buildings. We returned to the hostel to pack
-- or in Wendy's case, unpack. Her knee pain was still frustrating her, and in a
desperate attempt to lighten her load, she went through her pack and left
several things behind at the hostel for other travelers. Today's journey would
take us north, through many coastal towns, stopping to gasp at the Cliffs of
Moher before finally rolling into Doolin. We headed up the road, enjoying the
sometimes microscopic towns. To our left was the Atlantic ocean – all that
separated us from our far away home continent. As we traveled, it became more
obvious that the rocky west coast was not as wealthy as the east. We began to
see more thatched roofs, more expansive farmland (but less modern), and in
general, less commercialization. The people, on the other hand, were just as
kind and friendly - maybe more. We saw a few sheep, and lots of cows and horses.
There were many old structures left in ruin. Just sitting there - nowhere. Our
trek continued, winding ever so slightly away from the coast, only to quickly
return to the crashing waves and misty view out over the Atlantic, We were
sprayed with a heavy mist for most of our journey but never enough to require
rain gear. As the afternoon approached, so did our appetite. We arrived in
Lahinch shortly after 1pm craving some seafood chowder. We found the Cornerstone
Pub and Restaurant with rustic, slate floors. The superb chowder was served with
a grand whole grain bread and we practically inhaled the wonderful meal before
continuing on our way. The road out of town offered more of the same. Gradual
climbs, nice downhill and breathtaking scenery. We were both anticipating the
much heralded Cliffs of Moher. The wait was well worth it. This sight was
overrun with tourists, but the view is beyond compare. Sheer cliffs drop off 700
feet into the ocean below as seagulls soared BENEATH us. The water was a deep
blue-green, viciously striking against the base of the cliffs, slowly reshaping
the rock below. After many photos and lots of walking we were ready to continue
our ride into Doolin. Before leaving, I inquired at a heritage research desk at
the tourist center. I found a little about my roots, and traced the family name
to County Clare (where we were) and the area around Tipperary. The woman showed
me an example of our family crest: a very regal two headed eagle. I felt some
satisfaction and looked foreword to further research of my roots. We climbed
away from the cliffs and within a mile there was no sight of this tremendous
tourist sight. Soon, we arrived in Doolin and found the Aille River Hostel. We
checked in as campers and found a spot to pitch our tent in the crowded yard.
This hostel is a farmhouse type structure with rustic atmosphere, youths from
all nations wandering the grounds, and tents pitched side by side, peacefully
coexisting. Pretty much what a hostel should be. We showered and prepared our
dinner of freeze dried enchilada stuff (a tried and true meal we both like) and
some Spanish rice. Then, we walked into the upper village for a couple of pints
at McGanns pub. I wrote our journal entry and Wendy read the guide books. We
returned to the hostel for some mocha pudding and fine conversation with people
from France, Germany, and South Africa. We had great fun discussing politics,
attitude and culture. Soon, we grew weary and retired to our tent for the night.
Friday, August 30, 1996
Doolin to Galway
The sky was ominous as we set off towards Lisdoonvarna. We opted for an
unknown route instead of backtracking uphill onto the main road we were on last
night, and were successful in finding our way back on track. But from
Lisdoonvarna, we weren't sure which road to take and asked several people before
getting a good (we hoped) answer from a young woman in the corner convenience
store. As before, the road switched back and forth taking a few climbs and
descents. The landscape was continually changing but always beautiful. As we
approached Kilfenora we were suddenly confronted with Ballykeel Forest. A dark
stand of pine that seemed to rise to either side of the road, tall and straight
like soldiers on guard. Just as quickly as our eyes and noses were delighted
with the pine forest, it disappeared, only to be replaced with more green
rolling terrain. The sky was finally opening to reveal a wonderful blue
background for big white fluffy clouds. After some stimulating climbs, we
reached the small community of Kilfenora and stopped at the Burren Center to get
an idea of what awaited us along the next few miles. We pedaled out of town and
were soon confronted by what we assumed was Leamanah castle. Our reference books
suggested it was opened to the public, but when we arrived all the gates and
fences were locked and laden with private property signs. There was a small
group of cattle behind the fence, and a bicyclist from Boston who was also
confused by the closure. After some discussion and a few more photos we all rode
along on Ballyvaughn road towards many more sights and Ballyvaughn. The road
through the Burren climbed quite a bit and with the climbing came a change of
terrain. The Burren is a large area covered with rocks, stone walls, and more
rocks interspersed with some greenery and very little livestock. We soon found
ourselves in front of Carran Church, a deserted 15th century structure nestled
amongst the rock fields a short distance from the road. We wandered through the
graveyard as I searched hopefully for my family name on one of the headstones.
No luck! We proceeded down the road to Poulnabrone Dolmen, a 4000 year old grave
built of two huge stones standing on end, and a third forming a roof. The sight
was overrun with bussed in tourists. We traversed the vast rock field for a
closer look, took our requisite photos, and moved along towards Ballyvaughn. We
passed Glenisheer Wedge Tomb, but opted not to stop at all. At this point, our
riding companion from Boston must have turned back towards Lisdoonvarna - we saw
no more of him. We enjoyed a long, winding descent into Ballyvaughn. As we lost
altitude, the landscape began to get green and lush again and we enjoyed the
views of the valley and distant coast as it neared. In Ballyvaughn, we found
lunch at a cute coffee shop / cafe' along the main road. Food at "The Tea
Junction" was superb, and the Garlic Mussels were especially worthy of
note. We continued north from town with the rocky Burren hills on our right, the
Atlantic coast on our left, and a striking blue sky hanging overhead. We saw
Dunguaire castle and decided to stop and roam the grounds. It didn't seem that
there was much to see, so we skipped the guided tour and rolled onward toward
Galway. We passed some tourists at an intersection, seeming somewhat lost. We
turned around, offering our limited knowledge of the area and reference
materials. They weren't lost but we chatted briefly with them and learned they
were from Australia. We both thought they said they had been touring Europe for
a year and a half, but because of their accent, we weren't entirely sure that
was actually what they said. We wished them well. Following our planned route,
we passed through Kinvarra, Kilcolgan, and finally Clarinbridge, a self
proclaimed "Oyster Country." The final leg of our day's journey left
us on the busy N18 and N6, essentially 4 lane highways with wide shoulders for
bicyclists. We saw signs for a "Road Survey" and assumed we would soon
see surveyors roadside taking measurements and making calculations. We were
surprised to find that there were actually survey takers in each lane stopping
traffic and asking questions of each motorist. We were simply amazed that
despite it being rush hour on Friday, and this being the major Galway-Dublin
artery, there was no congestion. As we rode by, they seemed uninterested in
questioning us, so we didn't stop. Soon, we found ourselves on the main road
with bumper to bumper traffic and not enough roadside room for our wide loaded
bikes. To Wendy's dismay, I led us on the sidewalk and we wove in and out until
we eventually reached Eyre Square in the center of town. I found a phone and
called the Salmon Weir hostel to see if they had a room. They did, and I got
directions to the hostel. We were immediately greeted by one of our friendly
hosts, Nicole. It was obvious that she wasn't Irish and she told us she was from
Calgary, Canada. She was on her way to Israel earlier this year, but stopped in
Galway for St. Patrick's day and never made it any further. She showed us our
bunks and the hostel facilities. We unloaded our bikes, showered, and headed
into town. We found excellent and filling Italian food at Giribaldi's restaurant
on Quay Street. Wendy discovered Irish Coffee. Content and stuffed, we headed
out for some local music and some pints. We wandered through the streets,
passing the pubs on Quay and Bridge Streets. All seemed too packed, or without
music. Finally, we crossed the Wolftone bridge and headed for a pub suggested in
"Let's go". The Roison Dubh was filled with locals, tourists, and the
sound of great Irish music. The Jason Hurley Band offered a mix of traditional
and rock music. We were enjoying our Guinness pints when at midnight the band
announced their last song of the evening. It seems that for the most part, pubs
in Galway stop serving around midnight. Disappointed but tired, we returned to
the hostel for some sleep.
Saturday, August 31, 1996
Galway to Inishmore
We awoke near the usual time, prepared a pleasant breakfast of french
toast and orange juice, and departed to spend some more time enjoying Galway. We
walked up and down the streets and happened upon an open-air double-decker
touring bus. We decided it would be a nice way to learn a little about the city,
and boarded the bus. The Old Galway Tour wove up and down inner city streets,
along the coast and out beyond the city limits to a wonderful view. After about
an hour, we returned to the starting point feeling a bit more knowledgeable and
enlightened thanks in part to the informative and witty narrative of the tour
host. After the tour, we hunted for a phone to check in with my sister, and then
headed to Fat Freddies on Quay Street for a lunch of seafood chowder and a
wonderful roasted red pepper and garlic pizza. Stuffed, we hit the streets with
shopping on our minds. Galway is a wonderful city, and we decided to purchase
gifts for various people from here, and have them sent home. We did some
comparison shopping, made our purchases, and returned to the hostel to prepare
for our departure. Before I forget, let me pitch this hostel one more time. It
is centrally located along St. Vincent Avenue, just behind the new city center
near the river Corrib. The hostel is in an old townhouse with quaint rooms. The
two kitchens are spacious and well supplied. The showers hot and clean, but most
importantly, the staff is extremely friendly and outgoing. It was from here we
picked up our new trip motto - "No Worries." We were able to keep our
bikes in the protected courtyard while we enjoyed the city in the morning, and
we now returned to them and geared up to ride. Shortly after 3pm, we were on the
road enjoying the lovely weather and heading up the coast along R336. The
scenery was ever-changing, with beaches and grassy sand dunes to our left and
small developments interspersed with even smaller walled-in grassy fields, each
containing some form of livestock. Traffic was busy at times, but as usual
patient with us. We soon entered Furbogh, and the Gaelic region. The signs no
longer included English translations - or included English only as a secondary
language. We rode through Spiddle and moved away from the coast, noticing more
barren, brown landscape complete with marsh and bogs, and very few homes to be
seen. Of the few we did see, most were in need of repair. Nonetheless, it was
beautiful and tranquil. We moved through Inverin and soon were confronted with a
Gaelic road sign for Rossa Mhil. We hoped this was Gaelic for Rossaveel, and
followed the sign. Happly, we reached Rossaveel and purchased tickets for
ourselves and our bikes for the ferry to the island of Inishmore. We had awhile
before our departure and went back up the road to buy groceries for dinner. We
returned to the ferry, boarded, and we were pleased when the well loaded ferry
left exactly on time. The cruise to Inishmore was cold and wet in the late
afternoon, but we were prepared and bundled up. Inishmore is the largest of the
Aran Islands and the most visited by tourists. We thought things were a bit
backwards on the mainland, but our perspective changed after arriving on this
small plot of land. The island is approximately 10 miles long by maybe 2 miles
wide at the widest point. With very few roads, there are almost no cars. We
unloaded our bikes from the ferry and headed uphill through town to the
Mainistir House hostel, just west of town. The hostel sat atop a small plateau
overlooking the port below. The home was expansive with many hallways, steps,
and doors. The kitchen is big and there is even a dining room that serves
"mostly vegetarian" buffets most nights (we arrived too late for
this). We cooked up another pasta dinner and went for a walk through town. We
walked, and walked, and walked. We walked down through town in search of some
traditional music. At the end of town, we walked more. To Wendy's dismay we
walked into the dark night with no destination in mind. We were accompanied on
our journey by the hostel's dog who seemed to be responsible for our well being
this evening. He continued beside or ahead of us for the whole long walk. Just
as I was ready to concede to the crabby Wendy that there was no music to be
heard, we saw a building in the distance. We approached and found our music at
Tigh Fitz on the crest of the hill. I ordered two pints of Guinness and as I
returned to the table the lights began to flicker and eventually go dark. It
seems the entire island relies on an outdated and overloaded generator for
power. Without batting an eye, the barkeeps placed candles throughout the pub.
The band soon started playing again -- this time without the aid of their
amplifiers. We were having a good time (actually, I think Wendy was sleeping)
when the lights came back on and the musicians returned to the stage with their
electric hookups for some good song and dance. Everybody was loving the spirited
traditional music, but there was another source of entertainment as well. I'll
say no more except to mention that that the top of her stockings were below her
hem line, the moon was shining, and it soon became obvious that she was not a
natural blond. We stayed until the band was through and retreated for our long
walk back. As we left the pub, our dog escort immediately returned to our side,
guiding us back across the dark island. As we walked we passed other people in
search of music. Finally, pooped, we returned to the hostel. Our faithful dog
companion strolled onto the front porch, sat down, and seemed satisfied with his
evenings chore. We went inside to pass out.
Sunday, September 1, 1996
Inisimore to Clifden
Our day began with a continental breakfast of freshly baked scones, hot
tea and pineapple juice (which we brought). We enjoyed the meal, and returned to
our room to pack, get dressed, and see some of Inishmore before catching the
noon ferry back to the Mainland. It was very misty at times, almost thick enough
to be considered actual rain, but we pedaled west along the island's only paved
road in search of Dun Aengus. Along the way, we passed other tourists and
residents on foot, bicycle, and horse drawn carts. Some were presumably en route
to Sunday's church while others had other destinations in mind. We found
ourselves weaving along the roadway trying to avoid the presents left for us by
horses and other livestock that share the road. We climbed through the hills and
found ourselves at a beautiful cove with a white sand beach being caressed by a
deep blue-green ocean. Magnificent only begins to describe the sight. We soon
found ourselves at the entrance to Dun Aengus, an ancient fort dating back to
the first century BC The stone walls of this semi circular structure are more
than 18 feet thick at their base. This monument sits atop the cliff of the
southern island coast, offering a remarkable view of the coast, the ocean, and
on a clear day the mainland of Ireland including the Cliffs of Moher. I climbed
along the huge walls as Wendy sat on the cliff's edge watching the crashing
waves some 200 feet below. After some time and numerous photos, we headed back
towards our bikes at the edge of the monument's trail. We pedaled slowly to
absorb and embrace as much of this island as possible (and to humor Wendy and
her still pained knee) before catching the noon ferry back to Rossaveel. As we
rolled along the road, we were reminded of the island's simplicity. Small
cottages dotted our path, with many interwoven stone walls partitioning homes
and pastures full of livestock. It was refreshing being back in a moment in time
where bicycles outnumbered automobiles, and livestock possibly outnumbered
people. At the roads end, the docks of our ferry port destination were lined
with horse drawn carts and mini tour buses offering alternative ways to view the
islands treasures. We soon boarded our boat, and enjoyed the ride back to the
mainland. The journey was a bit warmer than the previous evening, but the water
was somewhat choppier. I finished my postcard writing just before docking, and
we departed the ferry, reloaded our bicycles, and by 1pm, we were on the road to
Clifden. We continued where we left off yesterday by picking up R336. The road
wound through many bogs, boulders, small lakes and grassy dunes adorned with
heather and wildflowers. The weather was damp, intermittently offering clearing
only to be followed by more drizzle. When we headed due west, the wind was quite
intense. Nonetheless, we enjoyed ourselves on the gently rolling terrain with
360 degree views of misty mountaintops. R336 soon met N59 in Maam Cross, where
we took a short break for a nature call. We wasted no more time here and hopped
back on our bikes, now on N59, towards Clifden. The road was at times
uncomfortable for bicyclists, offering no shoulder and fast-paced vehicles. The
ever changing scenery remained quite lovely, however, and as we rolled beside
the evergreen scented foothills and wonderfully clear lakes of the Connemara
mountains, we were smiling. Around every turn, we were confronted with
road-hungry sheep aimlessly wandering from one side of the road to the other,
oblivious to the hole laden fence that was intended to contain them. Soon, we
came upon a spot called Recess, and did the necessary thing: we took a break. We
enjoyed a light lunch at the local pub amid a small crowd of avid hurling fans.
The championship was on (Limerick vs. Wexford), and these people took it as
seriously as Americans take the Super Bowl. We returned to our bikes and climbed
some more in the mist, drizzle, and occasional sunshine. Just outside of
Clifden, we were reminded of how narrow the road was. Wendy was all but driven
off the road by a small car trying to pass where there really was no room. Just
a few minutes later, as I pedaled ahead of her, I noticed a small red car behind
me. As the car drew closer, it seemed it would not stop. With less than 15 feet
between myself and the front bumper of the car, the driver loudly braked,
swerved, and narrowly missed me. The anxiety probably took 10 years off my life,
and an equal amount off of Wendy's who was watching helplessly from a distance.
N59 is not a particularly bicycle friendly road, although the alternatives are
extremely indirect. Soon, Clifden's city limits opened up in front of us and we
were looking forward to an evening in town. After some searching, we arrived at
Leo's Hostel on the far end of the city and chose to camp. The hostel offers
cottages which are really nothing more than 5x10 foot sheds covered with
weathered quarter inch plywood, and the usual hostel type dorms, but both seemed
a tad less than tidy, so we opted for camping in the spacious back yard. The
price for camping was reasonable, and we had full run of the hostel facilities
including the large kitchen, wash rooms (including a "loo with a
view," which amused Wendy to no end), Showers, and laundry (which was out
of order). We chose a campsite overlooking the Streamstown bay, pitched our
tent, showered, and went into town to scrounge up an evening meal. When we
realized that no grocers were open (typical Sunday in Ireland), we went to the
DerryClare restaurant. The restaurant pampered our eyes with clay tile and
hardwood floors, brick and stone walls, a fireplace, exposed barn beams, and two
floors of pleasant, spacious dining rooms. The menu was extensive and the food
was well prepared and presented. I had Cajun chicken while Wendy enjoyed the
seafood pasta. We then made the meal complete with a shared piece of hot apple
pie (ala mode, of course) and two Irish coffees. Everything was great and we
highly recommend this restaurant. After a short stroll, we returned to Leo's to
read, write, and prepare for bed. Upon retiring to our tent, we were serenaded
by the sounds of a blues band echoing around the bay from town where the
"Budweiser Blues Fest" was taking place. The blues continued until
about midnight, followed by a traditional band with enough energy to continue
until past 4am. We enjoyed the music as we nodded off into sleep.
Monday, September 2, 1996
Clifden to Westport
With only one full day of cycling left in the Republic, we arose at the
usual time, prepared breakfast, and looked to the rain filled sky. We decided to
do some laundry while we waited to see if the weather would clear. The washing
machine at the hostel was broken, so we strolled through town in search of a
Laundromat. We found two places that would do our laundry - neither was
self-service. We went to the Shamrock Laundry, which promised to wash and dry
our clothes in about 1 hour and left them with our bag of stinky clothes. We
returned to the hostel for some research and journal writing. On our walk back
into town, we were innocently lured into a wonderful bakery / coffee shop for
some treats. We enjoyed a brownie, fruit tart, and dark coffee before returning
to the Laundromat to retrieve our clothing. A fine drizzle continued to fall as
we returned to our campsite, packed our clean clothes, broke camp, and were once
again on our bicycles. The drizzle, ever so light, continued to spray us as we
gradually climbed for 5 miles out of town. Upon reaching the summit, we enjoyed
a gradual and relaxing descent which lasted 2 miles (somehow, it never seems to
quite even out). The road continued to twist and turn making the ride slow, but
fun. The road was wet, but not slick -- possibly because of the rough paving. We
soon found ourselves rolling through the postage stamp sized village of
Letterfrack, just a short distance from the Connemara National Park. The park
entrance was the beginning of another change in landscape. The limestone covered
fields were replaced by moss, fern, evergreens, and tall hills on either side of
us that seemed to rise out of nowhere. The hills ascended into the sky, and
disappeared into the low mist. I stopped often for photos. The scenery was
splendid and serenaded our ears and eyes. We could hear waters rushing off to
either side while we wound through the valley, finally coming upon some lovely
waterfalls. We took every opportunity to take pictures of this wonderful stuff
only seen by those traveling slow enough to be lured by the musical call of
rushing water. Twelve miles into the day's journey, we saw the massive Kylemore
Abbey to our left. The abbey is home to local Benedictine nuns and a private
girls school. Set against the Porruagh Mountains, the abbey emits raw
tranquillity. Standing tall with her reflection visible on the still waters of
Pollacappay Lough, the Abbey posed for photographs. We paid the minimal
admission price and were amazed at the natural beauty of the grounds and the
man-made splendor of the interiors. The elegant buildings amazed us with
exquisite woodwork, high decorate ceilings, and wonderful marble and limestone
carvings. After getting our fill of this magnificent structure, we rolled back
to the road and continued towards Westport. We pedaled through the winding
Kylemore pass, amazed at the beauty of the surrounding mountains and lakes. The
hills still were engulfed from above by slowly thinning mist. The roads began to
dry and it seemed that the air was warming and not nearly as damp. As we pedaled
beyond Kylemore Pass, we soon met the Killarry Harbour Coast. To the left was a
long stretch of coastal waterway, and to the right rose the Maumturk mountains.
The mountains appeared from nowhere, sometime rising at better than a sixty
percent grade, covered in green and spotted as usual with many content sheep.
Actually, not all the sheep were content to graze on the hillside, and quite a
few just wandered into the road for amusement. The road was torn by crews
digging up sections and laying temporary loose chip. We pedaled slow through the
construction zone, and then left the coast. The sheep population seemed more
abundant than the human population, probably because the terrain offered little
in the way of flat lots for homes. We paralleled the Erriff River for awhile,
following N59 through some rather barren and desolate areas, ever- changing and
always beautiful. There were times we would stop just so we could enjoy the
breathtaking 360 degree views. Just before rounding the bend to reach Lough
Moher, we passed a farmhouse with two dogs in the front yard. They remained
behind a non-confining fence, barking as I rolled by. Wendy was not so lucky,
and found an ambitiously energetic dog at her heels. She tried yelling, and
outrunning the dog, but with no success. I heard the commotion behind me, turned
and gave one loud, commanding shout. Thankfully, the canine halted in its tracks
and bothered us no more. We rode past Lough Moher and expected to see the
conical peak of Croagh Patrick. Unfortunately for us, the mist foiled our plan
by hiding the peak from us. Somewhat disappointed, we continued the short
distance into Westport. We coasted down a steep hill into the center of town to
get some information on tomorrow's journey to the North and Giant's Causeway.
With a handful of info from the Tourist Office, we pedaled back up the hill and
down the other side to the Westport Harbour and Mrs. Reidy's B&B. We were
greeted by our pleasant hosts and shown to our room. As we settled in, we were
invited into the sitting room for tea, coffee, and chocolate cookies (of which
Wendy ate 4 of 5). We finished our snack, showered, and went for a long walk
back over the mountain into town for a meal at the Clock Tower Pub. The food was
more than adequate and the atmosphere was rustically charming. After dinner we
walked back out of town, stopping at the pay phone at the top of the hill to
call home. Just short of the B&B, we stopped at the Tower Pub for a couple
of pints and some live traditional music. We enjoyed ourselves, and then
returned to our room to enjoy the luxury of the B&B (after camping and youth
hostels, it's easy to feel pampered).
Tuesday, September 3, 1996
Westport to Dublin
We started our day by waking up in our comfortable room about 30
minutes before breakfast was to be served. Wendy opted for the luxury of an
early shower, while I returned to the sitting room to finish reading a passage
of "An Illustrated History of Ireland," that I had begun the night
before. The passage was from a chapter describing County Clare. The reason for
my interest was that through inquiries made during our visit, I had found that
my family name originated there around the twelfth century AD Soon, it was time
for breakfast and we entered the charming and tastefully decorated dining room.
We chose the table for two overlooking the harbour. Breakfast was toast, fresh
baked brown bread, fried eggs, sausage, orange juice, cereal, coffee, tea,
grilled tomatoes and mushrooms and what we think was blood sausage. It was a
much nicer way to start the day than in the hustle and bustle of a hostel
kitchen. After enjoying our fill, and being waited on by our pleasant hosts, we
returned to our room to pack our gear and prepare for our day's adventure.
Before we left, we spent some time talking with the Reidy's, who by the way are
most likely distant relatives of my family, the Riedy's. Gerry Reidy is a civil
engineer by trade, which is rather curious since many members of my family have
pursued similar interests and careers. In a somewhat brief dialogue, he
reinforced facts I had been told by others regarding our family history. He also
added some more information to fuel my discovery of my heritage. Eventually, we
were ready to leave and spend some time exploring the city of Westport. Once
reaching town, we stopped again at the Tourist Office to confirm the bus
schedule, and everything seemed in order. With quite a bit of time to waste, we
locked out bikes and walked around while we waited for our 3:15 bus to Knock
(for the connection to Derry, in Northern Ireland). We browsed in the stores,
shopped a bit, and grabbed a light snack at a local diner before retrieving our
bikes and returning to the bus stop. Then the excitement really began. The chain
of events started with a strong odor of propane. I was somewhat alarmed, but did
not feel threatened. Shortly after I noticed the smell, a pedestrian happened
along, curious, and discovered that a "traveler" or gypsy had parked a
caravan in the Octagon we where waiting, and the gas tank was rapidly leaking.
He and I quickly alerted others standing near, and they moved and put out their
cigarettes. The gentleman made several attempts to find a police officer. It
took some time, but they finally arrived with fire-police and tended to the
problem. At about the same time, a bus pulled in and began taking passengers. I
asked several people if this was the 3:15 to Knock continuing to Dublin.
Everybody insisted it was not. At long last, I was able to talk with this
driver, who informed us that this was in fact our connection. Despite the
appearance of plenty of room in the luggage compartments, the driver said he
would not take our bikes because it is a busy route. I was pretty upset and
frustrated. With very few options, we returned to the Tourist Office and learned
of a train that would take us to Dublin's Heuston Station. The train left
Westport at 6:30pm. We would be able to take connecting trains to Giant's
Causeway from Dublin north in the morning. We walked the few blocks to the
station, confirmed the information, and waited at the depot for nearly 2 hours
for our train. We entertained ourselves by reading, writing, and calling the
Avalon House in Dublin to reserve beds for our late arrival. The train was right
on time and we learned the procedure for loading our bikes, took our seats, and
enjoyed the evening ride back to the east coast. The scenery moved past us,
sometimes little more than a blur. We saw far more rural communities than
cities. As darkness set in, the skies created wonderful patterns and illusions,
mesmerizing us into a dreamy trance. After stopping at many floral adorned
depots, we finally arrived at Heuston Station at 10:15pm. We retrieved our
bikes, studied our maps, and walked our bikes along the dark streets by the
River Liffey towards the Avalon House. We found it easily, checked in, and soon
were climbing the steep, airless stairs to our dorm room. The room seemed
immense with rows of bunk beds filled with slumbering travelers. It was housed
in the upper roof structure of the huge building. Reminiscent of the story of
the three bears, somebody was sleeping in Wendy's bed, and she exclaimed just
that. After a careful scan of the room, we noticed that an upper bunk was
unoccupied and with the approval of the desk clerk, Wendy claimed this as her
night's resting spot. We made our beds and walked back up George Street for a
light snack. When we returned, I set my alarm for the first time all vacation.
We had to catch an early train to Belfast in the morning. Soon, we were counting
sheep. As is unfortunately often the case at hostels, our sleep was disturbed by
some late night partiers, with no clue how to whisper or respect for those
already sleeping.
Wednesday, September 4, 1996
Dublin to Belfast to Portrush
At this point in the journal, I can and must make a confession. This
was a day I had anticipated for the last 5 months, and especially the last 2
weeks. I had chosen today as the day I would propose marriage to my beloved
Wendy. Over the last few days, I had made numerous attempts to contact Wendy's
dad, to ask for his blessing. My attempts proved fruitless, with busy phones,
broken phones, lack of time, and the fact that it seemed impossible to shake
Wendy for long enough to make this very private call. Today was the day though,
and it began at 3:30am by walking down to the hostel lobby to use the phone. I
found two phones, but both were broken. I inquired at the desk, but was told the
only phones were blocks away. With only a pair of pants on -- barefooted and
bare chested, I chose not to wander the Dublin streets for fear I might be
mistaken for a vagrant. I returned to the dorm for some more sleep. We both
rolled out of our bunks at 6:30, quietly packed up and pedaled off to Connely
Station. After purchasing the required tickets, we boarded the train en route to
Northern Island. Our train took us through rural areas, as green as many we had
seen on previous days. After many stops, we found ourselves beyond the border of
Northern Island and inside Belfast Central Train Station. We studied the
schedules, and made plans for our connecting train to Portrush, just below
Giant's Causeway. We were restless on the second train into Portrush, having to
change once in Colraine before reaching what was quite literally the end of the
line. Once off the train and ready to roll, we pressed on towards the visitors
centre for information on campgrounds in the area. We were instructed that
Margath's Caravan Park on the road to the Causeway welcomed tenters. Running out
of valuable time, I made excuses to once again attempt to call Wendy's father.
Not realizing that the international phone code had changed when we entered the
North, my call did not go through. Frustrated, anxious, and nervous, I returned
to Wendy and our bikes. We pedaled up A2, the coastal road, to the campground.
It wasn't long before we reached it and we wasted no time in checking in and
setting up camp. Using the excuse of an upset stomach, I excused myself while
Wendy set up the tent. My stomach was fine, except for maybe a few butterflies,
but again I had to attempt to reach Wendy's dad for his blessing and approval. I
finally learned the new calling code, and tried my call, but my misfortune
continued as the operator's recording informed me that his cellular phone was
either out of service or out of range. Frustration building, I tried the only
other possible number I knew, his wife's private line with answering machine.
The machine immediately picked up and I opted not to leave a message. Almost out
of time and luck, I returned to camp trying not to draw anymore suspicion than
necessary. We unloaded our panniers into the tent and headed out towards the
Causeway. On the way, we decided to stop in Bushmill for groceries for the
evening's meal and a snack at Giant's Causeway. While shopping, I also suggested
a bottle of wine for a more enjoyable snack and "end of ride"
celebration. Innocently, Wendy agreed. Soon we were on the road again near my
much anticipated destination. The road wound along the coast, gently climbing
towards the much visited sight ahead. After a few miles, we reached the entrance
to the Causeway and my excitement was building. You see, for the last 5 months
or so, I had been anticipating this journey in particular. The trip to Ireland
was considered a dream vacation. My ancestors lived here from the twelfth
century until the 1730's when they emigrated to the promising shores of what
would become the United States. I looked forward to adventure and discovery,
including unveiling the truths of my heritage and this wonderful Island. Once
our plans were made, there was but one more duty I wanted to perform. The
proposal of marriage - it would mean a great deal to me to make this proposal in
the land of my ancestors. After studying the many guides, reading of truths and
folklore, I had chosen the Giant's Causeway for this task. The sheer beauty drew
me to this conclusion, and also the folklore behind its formation. The tale of
Finn McCool explains the Causeway's formation as stepping stones the giant had
laid leading across the sea to his beloved in Scotland. Never mind what
geologists say about evenly cooling lava formations. To me this story was
charming and befitting the sight of proposal. Throughout our months of planning
leading to this trip, we had dismissed visiting the Causeway because it didn't
fit well within our route or time frame. As recently as yesterday, after our
disappointment with the bus, it seemed the Causeway visit would not be possible.
But we made it... We locked our bikes and proceeded along the Causeway walk. At
the Visitor's Centre, I made one final, desperate attempt to reach Wendy's dad.
The call seemed to take an eternity to complete, but finally the connection was
made. My heart sank, however, when I again heard that same "out of service
or out of range" recording. There was nothing else to do but call his wife
and hope she would answer. No luck. Again, I heard her recorded voice, waited
for the beep, and explained my dilemma and intentions to a tape recorder. I
would have to propose without Wendy's father's permission. I returned to Wendy
as quickly as possible (I had left her on the trail, still lying about a stomach
ache), and we continued along the trail to the Causeway. A little more than half
of one mile down the rocky shoreline, the phenomenon made itself visible. We
quickly walked out onto the columnous 6 sided stone pathway, approaching the
crashing waves and the moment I had been anticipating. We climbed around a bit
until Wendy proclaimed her ravenous hunger and we stopped for our snack. I
kneeled along side her as she ambitiously attempted to prepare some cheese and
crackers. She had eating on her mind while I single mindedly thought only of
proposal and our growing love. Soon, she began to realize I was on one knee in
front of her, attempting to run interference from the food long enough to make
my proposal. I began by proclaiming my love for her, the joy we have shared the
last 4+ years, and in particular the wonders we had experienced so far in this
magnificent land that my family once called home. After stating that this was
the best vacation of my life, I said only one thing could make it more
memorable: her agreeing to marry me. With that, she hugged me tight and we began
to cry tears of joy. At the same time, I pulled from my pocket the ring I had
carried with me everywhere along our journey. I slipped it on her finger and it
was a perfect fit. It shone almost as bright as her tear filled eyes. We shared
the excitement. I struggled to removed the cork from the wine. We were both
mistaken when we thought our pocket knives had corkscrews. Finally, I pushed the
cork down into the bottle and we drank while gazing at each other. The moment
had arrived and it was nearly overwhelming. We asked a tourist to snap a photo
of the moment, and shared a most memorable snack together. Eventually, we began
our journey back to the bikes. After seeing peoples names scratched into
numerous stones, I was inspired to follow suit. The etching reads, "she
said yes.... Jeff Riedy / Wendy Strutin.. 9-4- 96." If you ever get to the
Causeway, look for our stone. It is along the stone wall just beyond somewhat of
a doorway formed by the walking path cutting through the stones on either side.
About 10 feet from the Causeway is a wooden, black stake behind the stone wall.
Our stone is about 15 inches off the ground, just below the stake, We are now
immortalized in stone, not unlike the many historical markings and monuments we
have passed throughout the trip. With much happiness and excitement, we finished
our climb out of the Causeway, discussing wedding plans, family, and wondering
what type of stir the message on the answering machine might cause. It was
getting late, and we were soon pedaling back towards camp. We stopped along the
way at Dun Luce Castle for a quick, self-guided tour of still one more Irish
castle in ruins. The sun was quickly setting as returned to our bikes for the
short journey back to camp. We had a wonderful meal of chicken parmesan with
fresh bread and pasta. While I began dinner preparation, Wendy went to shower.
After our very filling candlelight dinner, I showered and we called home to
announce our engagement. We then returned to our tent for some sleep before
catching the 6:35am train in the morning.
Thursday, September 5, 1996
Portrush to Dublin
We awoke prior to the sun with the sound of my watch's alarm. I felt
like I have never felt in my life. I recalled my night's rest, complete with my
loved one beside me. I slept so soundly and peacefully with the knowledge I was
soon to return home with my beautiful Fiancee in hand, our heads filled with
grand memories of two fantastic weeks together and wishes for our future. We
enthusiastically (for the middle of the night) rose to our feet and began
preparations for our early departure. Our gear was covered with the heavy dew we
have come to expect as a consequence of this wonderful lush and green island.
With our campsite collapsed and packed on our bikes, we rolled off into the
first rays of the morning sun. The roads were empty, making our journey easy and
quick. As we reached the Portrush train depot, the sun rose above us filling the
deep blue sky, and illuminating the soft white clouds overhead. Our train ride
would once again take us past the splendor we had seen flash by our window on
yesterday's voyage. Our connections in Colraine and Belfast left us with little
time, although we managed to share another friendly conversation with some
people at the Belfast station. I shared some of the joys of our Irish visit and
listened carefully as they spoke of their life in Ireland. Wendy and I were soon
on the train to Dublin. We spoke of the many wonders we had seen in the last two
weeks. I often found myself gazing up from the pages of our journal, to be met
mid-gaze by Wendy's loving, joy filled smile. Our train came to a halt in
Dublin's Connelly Station just after noon, and we wasted no time unloading our
bikes and heading back towards the Avalon House. Our stay at the hostel would be
more pleasant this time – we had reserved a private room. Not wasting a moment
of time, we checked in, showered, and returned on foot to the busy streets of
Dublin. We felt more at home in Dublin than we had two weeks ago. We now knew
our way around, and understood the rhythm of the city. Wendy and I adventured
across Dame Street toward the area around Trinity College. We'd spent very
little time in this neighborhood on our prior visit, but we found it be a lovely
section of town filled with many unique shops and dining possibilities. The
sidewalks were filled with the hustle of a busy city. Still on my quest for
knowledge of my family's past, I was also looking for the National Genealogical
Office near the college, which we found. Unfortunately, they could not provide
much immediate information, but they offered an interview with one of their
researchers if we returned in about an hour. We decided to kill the time by
finding some lunch, and soon found a charming café in a beautiful terraced
courtyard amid lush plants, and decorative railing trimmed balconies, staggered
at different heights. Our newly found gem was "La Piazza" which sat on
the upper balcony overlooking a shopping plaza. As we sat down to eat, a
musician soon sat in front of the piano located on a wooden stage far below.
With the sun shining through the glass canopy above, the courtyard was filled
with the deep resonance of the piano. It was a great lunch and both the service
and the food were excellent. After lunch, we saw a street vendor offering
printouts from a name search database. He had the Reidy name online, and for a
small price he generated the long historical report of my family name. Content,
I informed Wendy that I didn't want to waste any more of our remaining time
sitting and waiting for our appointment at the Genealogical office. The rest of
our day was filled with long walks along Dublin's downtown maze of shop lined
streets. The time passed quickly and we began to tire. We returned to the Avalon
house, dragged ourselves to our third floor room, and rested while we made some
tentative evening plans. We found Poco Loco's in "Let's Go," and were
both anxious to see what kind of Mexican food Ireland could offer. We had passed
it the other night along Parliament street as we returned to the city from
Westport, and it was crowded. We enjoyed the short walk to the restaurant, and
enjoyed the meal even more. This was real Mexican food, not "American
Mexican." The homemade chips and salsa set the mood for a meal that was
thoroughly great. We had one task left for the evening, and we sought a watering
hole in which to enjoy the charm and excitement of Dublin one last time. After
passing many packed pubs, we turned off the busy George Street to investigate a
few glowing beer signs and were finally lured by traditional music into Molly
Malone's Pub. The pub was spacious but with a nice crowd. We found two stools at
the bar and ordered a Guinness and a Bulmer's Cider, a drink Wendy had been
anxious to try. She found it refreshing and fruity, like a sweet wine. We sipped
our drinks and listened to the lively sounds of the musicians. When we finished
our drinks, we returned to the Avalon house for a night of rest.
Friday September 6, 1996
Dublin to Bethlehem, Pennsylvania
We woke, packed, and wandered downstairs for the institutional
continental breakfast. After breakfast, we checked out, loaded up our bikes and
headed out towards the airport. We were still without a Dublin map, but followed
a few signs pointing towards the Airport. We soon realized we were on a major
(by Ireland standards) highway. Posted speed limit was 70 (MPH? ) The pedaling
was a bit hairy at times, but we endured. The crisp morning air gave us
strength. "No Worries" We easily found our destination. Once in the
airport we discovered that there were no boxes available for our bikes. We were
given heavy plastic bags to prophylactically cover the bikes. We stripped our
panniers, turned our handlebars, let the air out of our tires and with some
struggling eventually got the bikes in the bags. We checked in and spent the
rest of our Irish Pounds on a snack at the airport restaurant. After a few
delays. We boarded the plane. Sitting in our seats, we watched sadly as the
plane rose above and beyond Dublin. Our adventure had cme to an end. We were
filled with wonderful memories of the green oasis that embraced us for two
weeks, and wondering when (not if) we would return to this special land.
Wendy's Epilogue:
I wasn't sure if Ireland would be a dream vacation or not. The rumor
was that it was rainy, cold, windy, hilly and desollate. The exchange rate was
unfavorable, and the roads were somewhat less than smoothly paved. This all
turned out to be true. It also turned out to be a dream vacation. Ireland is
blessed with the kind of beauty that renders mere words and photographs
inadequate. It is wonder in the round -- 360 degrees of constantly changing
splendor. The mountains are awe inspiring as they descend into valleys with tiny
mountain lakes. The arrangement of flat water against reflected rugged hills is
both spectacular and mesmerizing. Ireland's coastline is littered with small
towns and scenic vistas, but it is not overpopulated and tired. The terrain in
other places seems so rocky, or boggy, or just outright desolate, it seems that
anybody who sets up a farm there must be an incurable optimist. And yet, there
must be thousands of such farms out there. Sheep and cows share this landscape
with the nicest people I've ever met. Their "no worries" philosophy is
infectious, and their common courtesies are reminders of the respect for
humanity (and the planet) that seems to be ever decreasing in the United States.
Pubs are everywhere, and in many of them, there is music. Mostly, it does not
seem to be a formal ensemble as much as a bunch of people with instruments
playing songs they all know and love. Just for the sake of doing it, and maybe
to tell the story of their land. In the larger cities, there are street
performers on every corner. Talents range from fire juggling, to string quartets
playing classical music, to individuals playing Irish folk tunes or rock music.
Except for some small change tossed by generous spectators, I do not believe
they are paid to be there. I believe they are there to have their Irish voice
heard. It is a very artistic voice indeed. In many areas, tourism is the
principal industry. Although obvious at times, even the tourist traps are
tasteful. The attractions are not excessively built up or protected. We walked
right up the edge of the Cliffs of Moher, touched castles, and of course
wandered out far on the Giant's Causeway. There are no handrails, no
limitations, and often no admission prices. It is a hands-on country.
Spectacular natural and manmade monuments are enjoyed, not enshrined. And yet,
they remain wonderful, not destroyed. But it was not all coasting downhill into
quaint towns, built around castles and cathedrals thousands of years old. I
struggled on this trip as well. I was not as physically fit as I had hoped to
be. Perhaps it was my lack of preparation that led to my painful knee injury
just a few days out. That, combined with a mechanical failure that left my
lowest gears unavailable, made me outright pokey on my bicycle. I was frustrated
and crabby at times, but Jeffrey was careful not to leave me too far behind in
his dust. He was supportive of me, and did not gripe when I declared that we
would have to shorten our days, stop more frequently, or take the dreaded bus to
get back on course. He did not call me weak when I left some of our stuff at a
hostel in Kilkee -- although I was in fact too weak to carry it anymore. He did
not force me to ride when I was in pain (but of course, I always did). For all
that, I love him dearly. That he proposed to me on one knee, in the most
romantic way imaginable will keep me beside him forever. More than any other
place I've seen, Ireland is loaded with bicycle tourists. It is not the weather,
or the tourist attractions, or the youth hostels that bring them there. It is
something magical.
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