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.