We Heart Dublin

Our smiles are large and our eyes a gawk. The Dublin train station is brimming with activity as we steer our bikes around and through the hordes of people. Once outside the station we walk our faithful steeds in a random direction with hopes of eventually finding our accommodation. As we approach the city center the sidewalks fill with pedestrians which mimic a river full of spawning salmon--twisting, rubbing and brushing up against one another. We are swallowed up bike and all. As we cross the river Livy we get our first glance of the expansive nature of the city; smiles widen.We begin to get the feeling that we might be completely off course to where our nights stay will be, so we enter a hotel and ask for directions. We now obtain a city map with directions to our B&B, located a block from the train station we arrived at earlier. Ah, no worries, it's been grand taking in the city and our bearings for the metropolis have grown. We find the B&B and a steady flow of people are in and out of it's front door. It's a weekend in the capital city with a popular football game to boot. Every accommodation is booked and we were smart to have reserved ahead of time. We unload and wait for our turn while the proprietor sends away hopeful lodgers in droves. Later, at night we roam the city streets, take in a pint at the famous Temple Bar and indulge in a boxty dinner.Saturday morning we take to the streets early after a filling Irish breakfast in our bellies. We have a long list of items to attend to. First off is to secure buss passage to Limerick making sure bicycles will prove to be of no hassle. We next head north along the River Levy in hopes to find Susan's parents old home located in the outlying district of Ringsend. Again, with no map of the hopeful area or directions we wind our way out of proper Dublin via small back roads, vacant fields and town parks. Large cranes litter the skyline preparing office-condominiums for the next batch of young urban professionals living large on the Celtic Tiger. Far off in the distance two lone smoke stacks become our beacon. Remembering them when we surveyed this area back home through Google Earth, we keep heading towards that vicinity. Before long our surroundings quickly become hostile. The road is strewn with heaping amounts of foul rubbish: smashed-in televisions, burning tyres, gutted toys, rotten diapers atop cannibalized bicycles. Truly apocalyptic. Dilapidated caravans line the streets and mutant dogs begin to circle around us with snarling teeth and glowing eyes. We're reminded of films such as Snatch, Road Warrior and Dawn of the dead. Kicking and yelling at the mutant snapping K9s we hightail it down the street, dodging deep stagnant puddles to safety. We dead end at a large factory of some sort and shudder the thought of having to go back through the chasm of death. Just then a truck pulls up, stops and begins to turn around. Susan waves her arms and summons the driver to roll down his window. We are taken aboard and the two young chaps not only know the area we are looking for but take us there in safety. We disembark on Pigeon House Road, find Cambridge Avenue and the quaint house that Susan's parents raised their first two children in.We are delighted in discovering these stomping grounds of the Cummings clan. Needing a change of pace we walk across town back into the heart of Dublin and enter the gates of Trinity College, Owen Cummings' alma mater. Trinity college is also where, on the stairs of the chapel where Susan's parents first met. We walk the campus and daydream of young students falling in love while in the pursuits of academic excellence. Several photo ops take place and we navigate around the tourists in line to catch a glimpse of the famed Book of Kells. A splendid campus with well manicured lawns.Lunch and shopping is the topic for the rest of the afternoon. We finally decide on the wool garments of choice. We have kept an eye out for woolly sweaters since our arrival, coming close to purchasing in county Donegal. We make our splurge purchase and take cover from the daily downpour. With shopping bags in hand we run through the streets of Dublin, jumping puddles and streams. Making our way to the IFI, the Irish Film Institute. This is a fantastic arena for film and cinema-buffs; Susan had once thought of being an intern here once. We find an upstairs table at the pub inside and enjoy a couple of Guinnesses and dessert while we wait for our film to begin. We decided on the 1976 film by Charles Burnett, The Killer of Sheep.

"The Library of Congress has declared it a national treasure as one of the first fifty on the National Film Registry and the National Society of Film Critics selected it as one of the "100 Essential Films" of all time. However, due to the expense of the music rights, the film was never shown theatrically or made available on video. It has only been seen on poor quality 16mm prints at few and far between museum and festival showings."

It was a great film and we highly recommend seeing it if possible. Stepping back out into the streets of the temple bar district we wander for dinner and drinks, aimlessly taking lefts and rights until stopping at a local brewery. Being that microbreweries are rare in Ireland we step in. The establishment is packed with four stories of beer drinking fanatics. Susan and I wander the floors with no luck of seating. Back at the ground level a booth opens up and we slide in. We order starters and beers. We send back half of our order and are mostly disgusted with the the other half (foul tasting oysters in the half shell). A young couple sits down across from us, the only free chairs in the joint. It takes a while to interact but by the end of the night we are ordering rounds of beers together and talking about our lives, politics, and art appreciation. Their names are Milla and Petri and are from Finland. They were so much fun to visit with, Milla being an artist herself and Petri being a huge fan of the Ramones and other important punk rock predecessors. We bar hopped into the night and decided upon paganism being a good thing. It was a grand night for our departure from Dublin. We hope to get to Finland some day for a visit; great people hale from that land.

Ridding rails not roads

Larne Thursday morning we awoke to fog and rain. Our bellies become full on another Irish breakfast, packed and ritualistically put on our rain gear. Within minutes into the ride, soaked to the bone, it became blindingly obvious that todays weather would make ridding impossible, or at least extremly dangerous. With reluctance? Alex made his way to the train depot to purchase tickets into Belfast. Before we knew it we were on board watching the lush landscape pass swiftly by. An hour later we arrived to the capital city and dislodged.Having previously gained possession of a city map we quickly located a nearby hostel. Being that it was still early in the morning we were allowed to store our bicycles and bags while took in a days worth of sight seeing. Clad in matching neon yellow jackets we strolled the war torn streets of Belfast painful visibility. We became more awkwardly aware of this while standing on a corner in the Sandy row district. A gentleman called to us from across the street cautioning us of the dangers of the area. Upon greeting us he began to elaborate on the historical context of the area ands it's religious and political standings throughout time. We received this information in the foreground of a provocative mural.Our day in the city was spent dodging puddles (Susan) or stepping in them (Alex), Walking the shopping district which seemed the entirety of the city center, Visiting the oldest pub in town, and deciding it really was just too wet to do anything other than sit in a pub and drink. So this was our Belfast. Early evening the rains had subsided and we trekked back to the hostel to secure our bunk beds. Swapping out our bright uniforms for civilian types, we dined at an Indian restaurant that overlooked the University area. Our meal was composed of the most extremely hot vindaloo on the planet and we suffered in delight.

Friday Morning, we used the internet cafe at the hostel to rack up a six pound tab. Alex attempted to load the bicycles but found a lovely group fellow cyclist to converse with instead. Our train was due to leave within a half hour but the pleasant conversation kept us from the planned departure. Nothing like chewing the fat about steel lugs, wool, leather and the pursuits of adventure. In two hours we would make the next train bound for Dublin. After disposing of our bicycles in the front car, we hurried to get on board. Sitting down in ultra comfortable chairs we sighed with relief as the train engaged. Moments later a menu was offered and the cocktails began. In our regal comforts the ticket checker passed by. Upon closer inspection we were given two options: (a) pay the sixteen pounds to upgrade to first class and stay seated or (b) remove ourselves and find seating in second class. With embarrassment of our mistake we took refuge among fellow travelers of more similar wealth to us.

Woohoo Dublin!
Back in the republic again Where Gunisses is king and miles are kilometers.

Antrim Coast on four wheels

The morning we left Portstewart, Susan discovered she had a flat tyre (the first, and thankfully the only of the whole trip). Patched and loaded we heded along the Norhtern coast line towards the Giants Causeway. Along the way we made a stop in the village of Bushmills, famous for their tequila we think? We wandered the premises of the distillery and departed after a relaxed sipping of product. Another hour of riding found us at the Causeway.



Literally as we parked the bicycles against the wall, the skies above opened up, again. We quickly swaithed ourselves in impermeable layers and hiked down to the fourth greatest natural wonder of the United Kingdom. As we set foot on the trail the rain halted and we received many snickers from passers by. Yet it was us who laughed last for the rains began again with even more force and less mercy. The formations were fascinating and we explored in depth for hours. Once top side we nestled in for a hot pot of tea and smuggled in supplies for guerrilla sandwich-making. We hoped to bypass the rain but it only grew stronger as the day became evening.



What Alex deems the worst ride of the trip, and Susan the most beautiful we pushed on to Ballycastle. We passed on the Carrick-a-Rede rope bridge, closed due to inclement weather and rode between a thick, white fog and a slippery black-top. On clear days this route must have taken one through magnificent coastal vistas. Today was not such a day. On the outskirts of Ballycastle was myriad of cookie cutter homes; in the skirts of Ballycastle, a wealth of misinformation and no vacancy signs. With puddles in our shoes and chilled to the bone, we rang several unresponsive B & B's and used up the rest of our sterling in a phone booth pleading for accommodation's. Our prayers were answered when a black SUV stopped in the round-about, rolled down the window and motioned us over. "I'm with the Hostel. You called for a room? Follow me". We followed her to the hostel with a no vacancy sign in the window and were provided shelter for the night in a private dormitory.



With the forecast continuing it's onslaught, we packed up and continued on down the Antrim coast. The morning brought on a hill climb that found us once again in the clouds. We traveled through dense forest regions and past several lakes. A long descent found us riding along just above the ocean. The shoreline was composed of millions of chalk white and onyx colored stones made round by millennia of Northern tides. It was along this coast where Alex stopped and removed the plastic protective cover of his bikes head badge, christening his trusty steed the Liam.


Nearing evening we arrived in the port/ferry town of Larne. We dismounted and followed misdirecting signs to an elusive tourist information center. During this search, it became apparent how devoid the city was of any central lodgings. After walking the town in circles, we stumbled upon the information center after posted hours.It was lodges discreetly between the freeway entrance and a mega super store. Cold, wet and tired we stood dumbfounded, waiting for a sign from the heavens. Just then the door opened and a late working employee invited us in. She made phone calls to numerous B & B's all booked for the evening. Alas a vacant room was found. A bridal suite that was offered at regular price... we took it. Sure enough the B & B was found on the peripheries of town along the bay where the super ferry to Scotland made it's comings and goings. An aristocratic Irish woman let us inside after providing lodging for our bikes and we climed the ornate saircase lined with needlepoint relics and tapestries up to our suite. Greeting us was a queen size four post canopy bed, leather couch, off set tea room, plasma television, and a bathroom divided by mirrored doors...our finest room yet. Needles to say it was where we spent our luxurious and lazy evening. After several pots of tea and many dunken digestives we wondered out in the fog to find some first class chips and a pint. Alexander with a heaping pile of curry chips and Susan with a chip buddy in hand we sat royally upon the couch watching into the mirror the reflection of a T.V. program depicting Ewan McGreggor ridding on motor bike through Mongolia into Russia following Lenin's infamous trail of bones. Truly a welcomed mindless indulgence.

From Coast to Coast

We are staying at a divey hostel just south of the famous Sandy Row region, lined with barbed wire and militant murals. We arrived here yesterday on our first train ride as the sleety and constant rain was completely unforgiving.From Gelncolmcille we rode through incredible mountainous landscapes, finally ascending down a deep verdant valley into the village of Ardara. We made a few stops there looking at wool sweaters and caps, the stuff of which this small region is famous for. After the challenging rides up and down hills, we decided to stay in the next village of Glenties. There we were able to find a guesthouse where we had a lazy picnic of microwave tika masala and other such convenient fodders in our room. Outside we were able to hang up our wet articles in the lacuna between rain. Our earliest morning departure the next day found us alone on the roads enjoying the fantastic Donegal landscape in peace. We rode through many lovely villages and came to the strange place named Letterkenny by noon. It was a Sunday and most places were closed with the exceptions of a hotel restaurant teaming with twenty-somethings drunk to the hilt, and a quiet panini bistro. The latter we found ourselves in for quite a while, trying to dodge the incremental rain. After our luxurious tea-sipping lunch, we mounted our stealthy steads again and headed the miles up into Derry. It was hard getting used to mileage after basing our days so much in kilometers up until then, and that day seemed to stretch on like no other. Londondery, otherwise known as the Walled City, or else, just Derry or (free) Derry depending on your standing was alive and bustling when we arrived. We tried several hotels and hostels, but found them all booked. The British pound has brought the numbers lower, but the exchange still haunts us. We did however find reason for some indulgences in the city, including a four-star hotel, a phone call home, and a pitcher of Pimm's cup.

The luxuries of our stay, and our meanderings around the city murals the next morning found us leaving Derry quite late. Our bikes seemed drugged in the slow miles to the north coast. It was nearing seven when we decided to stay in Portstewart. A lively host from Ontario gave us a cozy little accommodation and promised Susan lots of potato scones for breakfast. That evening's entertainment was a loony spectacle put on by some lads donned in wetsuits jumping off the cliffs into the bay's waters. We had a lovely stroll along the coast eating honeycomb ice cream.

Our next post will cover the rainy Giants Causeway and the Antrim Coast seen through foggy rain, interminable deluges and Belfast in the rain.

Northern Lands

Alexander herding sheep on the road to Glencolmcille.

Galway is about a week behind us now, and we struggle to fit in as many good times as we can before we are back to the states. Our journey has taken us from Galway County to currently Londonderry (Free Derry) of Northern Ireland in which we find ourselves typing by the pound in a county library.

Our first night out of Galway, after missing the last ferry to the Aaran Islands, found us pitching a tent in a tiny Gaelic-speaking village outside of Rossaveal at the mercy of a hardworking elder Irish lady. She was toiling with lawn-mower and rake when we confronted her about the possibilities of sleeping in the field adjacent to her home. This, she found quite absurd, and had us instead parked on her freshly manicured lawn just on the other side of the road. By night's fall, the whole of the village had come to take in this spectacle conversing back and forth in amused tongues. We were able to successfully make a nice meal of cous-cous and produce from the Saturday market, despite the onslaught of pestering mites (hence the photo from within the tent).

Up through the bog fields of the lush Conemara region, we rode to the quaint and monastic old establishment of Letterfrack. It was here where we used some of your monetary donations, and indulged in a three-course gourmet meal that left us in thorough honeymoon bliss. Alexander had a mushroom and (Irish) beef stroganoff, and Susan, the Monkfish with pad Thai noodles. We shared a bottle of good wine and finished with lovely desert mousse and espresso. (incidentally spelled "expresso" on the menu). We thank you. We took our lodging in the Old Monastery Hostel where we slumbered in the "African Room" as the French labor force partied outside amongst the flesh-eating midges.
The next day was a tough 70 kilometer ride up to Westport. The ride was stunning, and we gathered wool donations from the roadside, hung on fences and nettles. Susan was battling a sore throat and stomach ache the whole way through, which made for a slow ride with frequent stops for tea. Finally we descended into town and found the Abbey House-- a first-rate hostel. While Susan fell into a fevered delirium, Alex set out to get medications at the local pharmacy, and a preventative measure of Guiness for himself. The next morning found no relief, and the downpour outside helped the decision to hang around Westport for one more day, staying put in our bunk bed suite, sipping tea and beginning a P.D. James novel. As the rain subsided, we got some fresh air on a walk to the well-acclaimed historical Westport House where we had high hopes of a relaxing stroll and a private picnic. What we found , once through the shady grove was in fact the equivalent to a kiddy-park. Walking past lazer-tag, pitch and put, and archery games we felt a bit let down, especially as there was a 12 euro cost of admission just to walk the grounds of the House, (which featured a bouncy castle, log-flume and Swan peddaloes). The latter of these attractions, did make for a good laugh from the other side of the lake. Before heading back to our home, we made an essential stop at the SUPERLOO.
One Hundred Km took us the next day into Sligo--the home of Yeats. The duration of the ride was highway, and it seemed to last a life time. We had plenty of time to figure out the world's problems as well as take videos of each other along the way. In Sligo we stumbled into a cute little hostel run by a German gentleman who'd been living in Ireland fifteen years. He accommodated us in an affordable little suite for two with towel to boot. Sligo was a bit of a depressing place, and it was here that we were greeted with a rain that would accompany us for the next five days.
We swam to Donegal from Sligo, Alex's bushy beard acting as an impressive, but unhelpful sponge on his face. We arrived exhausted and waterlogged into town, after enduring a mighty six hours of downpours. We got a B&B for the night in Donegal, and strung out wet clothes from all sorts of nails and hooks and twines in our room. We treated ourselves to a warm prawny Italian meal, and took in some traditional Irish dancing at a nearby pub. It was raining when we left in the morning when we began our ride out west to Glencolmcille. Another soaking ride, we stopped along the way in Killybegs for fish and chips, then in Kilcar for a tweed hat from the famous Donegal Studio. Through the breathtaking coastal landscape where we herded sheep by bicycle and gathered a small chunk of peat for our upcoming Oregon winter. We descended into the gorgeous and secretive valley of Glencolmcille, famous for it's sky-scapes. We trekked up a steep hill from the village to a hidden hostel built into the land and overlooking the strand below. As the hostel's rooms were all booked, we pitched our tent on the grounds nearby and buckled down for a wet night.
Due to time restraints we have to cut this short, though it is really anything but short. Thanks for reading along, and posting your comments, which we love reading. Be sure to try out the links for our videos as we had trouble posting them directly. Will write from you next possibly from Dublin. XOXO