Breaking 700 k. in county Galway

Hello All. We are typing under a fierce librarian's gaze, and quickly trying to catch up on the last few days in a short twenty minute quotient. We left Dingle after a relaxing day in the village with a pancake breakfast send off shared among newly acquired friends. The hostel we were camping at had become for us a bit of a temporary home, enjoying truly wonderful conversations and meals with a few kindred spirits. We have high hopes to visit Switzerland now, and we will never view sparkling water the same. Riding out of the village of Dingle, we glacially ascended the infamous Connor's Pass. A climb that literally took us into the cloud-engulfed mountains overlooking (at certain clear moments) the whole peninsula. It was truly a treat. With brakes clutched tightly, and clad in bright neons, we descended on a narrow road scattered with sheep and edged by waterfalls.

Once back on earth, we came upon Stradbally beach, a gorgeous marriage of lush pastures and sandy coast. We followed a sign for artisan cheeses, pate, and seaweed and soon found ourselves in the redolent chambers of a cheese aging cottage with shelves upon shelves stacked with gourmet cheeses. The German cheese-maker, cut us samples upon sames of the stuff--seaweed cheeses, one year old varieties, fenugreek infused, and emmenthalers. We took the cheese and trout pate to the enticing strand for a picnic. There we bumped into a fellow American traveling by bicycle. We exchanged stories and itineraries, lending each other a hand in photo documenting.

http://s217.photobucket.com/albums/cc81/post-hawk/?action=view&current=MVI_40581.flv

Onwards we traveled to the village of Camp where we visited the church where Susan's parents were married, and Ashes pub in which they had their reception. Ashes was a cozy little place with a kindling peat fire and a few local gentlemen tucked into the bar. The bartender recalled 35 years earlier, the joyous occasion that took place there, recalling "Rock John Parkins" the eccentric geologist and best man who had lived across the street. Rounding out our day's ride, we settled in an extremely budgeted guesthouse in the unnotable town of Tralee--Kiltenny House--where we had our laundry done on on the premises for a mere 2 euro. Our clothes now harboring the particular odor of that dwelling. . . Hurrying out of Tralee the next morning, we began our trek into Clare County, ferrying over the Shannon River and making our way into Kilrush for the evening. Here we found a sweet little B&B. In our room we strung out our damp tent, had showers with hot water, and took an evening stroll through town after a lazy picnic on our bed. It was lovely to have a clean wardrobe packed in our panniers despite the sharp laundered aroma.
The next morning, after a heaping Irish breakfast we set out for Doolin, a very traditional music village. On our way we rode through the surfing beach town of Milltown Malbay, and later spent a luxurious couple of hours on the Cliffs of Moher. We were beside ourselves with the throes of tourists, piling out of coaches and jamming along the edge for their photographic moments. One of these moments we witnessed the obnoxious spectacle of an American family, whose two young sons posed along the cliff's ledge both donning red Santa hats for their upcoming Christmas cards. The mother stood behind the photographing father, making frantic gestures and critiquing their smiles. We walked on seeking refuge from nationalistic embarrassment. We found a lush little patch of grass in a picturesque place along the cliffs where we shared what might be the most poetic picnic of our lives.

From our German-speaking hostel in Doolin, we escaped into a 100 kilometer trek up to the city of Galway. This ride took us through the incredible landscape of the Burren, an area where ferns and orchids coexist with miles of slate-gray hills and meandering country roads. The vast dramatic magnitude of our surroundings echoed the lands of Southern Utah for us, substituting greens and grays for reds and oranges. We rode into Galway in the early evening. The huge metropolis, which is in fact Europe's currently fastest growing city, shocked our road-weary selves and quickly manipulated our serene county road swerves into a fast-paced and technical city-riding precision. We found a nonchalant B&B close by the famous Eiyre Square where we showered and slumbered until evening.

We took off the next day, allowing ourselves to take in the tail end of the Art Festival that was taking place all around the city. We thoroughly enjoyed this liberal, Venetian, bohemian, congested, proud place and found it difficult to leave when the next day arrived. The Saturday Market sent us away with fresh produce and dolmas, seafood and souvenirs. Before we hesitatingly left, we toasted farewell with a Baverian lager and fresh baked pretzel on the banks of the river that circuits through this gem of west Ireland.

Steamed Mussels vs. Sore Joints

Bantry to Glengarriff was a nice 11 kilometer jaunt and the village welcomed us with beer battered cod and chips and the our first glimpse into the Irish tourism trade-- a plenty with wool and sundry Guiness nic-nacs. It was here in Glengarriff where we literally flipped a coin at the fork in the road, and found ourselves on the route into the great Beara Penninsula. This would end in a 60 k day ride and into the generous arms of a truly brilliant mad man by the name of Chris Doyle. This is the infamous director of photography behind such films as Rabbit proof Fence, Chungking Express, and Gus Van Sant's remake of Psycho. We found him, or rather, he found us, in the village of Castletownbere where he was making a film with Neil Jordan, starring Collin Ferrel who we saw the following day, but that's another story. . . Anyway, Chris offered us a place to stay for the night and provided a lot of craic! Needless to say many pints were enjoyed while we met the hardworking crew that had taken over this once quiet fishing village.



We left the overly friendly Castletownbere with a little reluctance, but once on the road again the beauty of this unspoiled land rekindled our adventurous spirits. We rode that day around Dursey Head, and started on our way back, staying in the tiny sweet village of Allihies for the evening in a comfy hostel. The next day we rode the most strenuous part of our trip so far, realizing the night before just how much land we want to cover, and the days we've spent already. We followed the coastal route up narrow roads through thick verdant hills--sheep wandering into our path. We were cursing under our breaths with every turn of the crank, (Alexander's crank in fact has given up to the forces, and must be tightened daily now). Finally, with the help of Our Lady, we coasted gently into Kenmare--a town bustling with the frenzy of tour busses and Irish-themed gift shops galore. We opted for a B&B which offered quite amazingly, a bathtub, and it was pure salvation for our sore muscles and tired bones.


Kenmare to Kilarney we took a longer route around the Peakeen mountain range, but avoiding any strenuous climbs. This was notably the most uninteresting ride so far. Kilarney was like Kenmare on steroids, and we quickly locked up our bicycles and took to the sidewalks--dodging shopping bags and accidentally walking into many a group photo. We looked around for lodging, though it seemed like the whole town was booked. On our third hostel inquiry, we settled for a 8-bed dormitory which did nothing for our desire of a restful sleep. The hostel layout resembled that of a submarine with very tight quarters, and a narrow but cavernous feel. Alexander tried his first mushy peas that evening with our usual meal of fish and chips, washed with a pint of the plain. This time, the sweet Irish ballads of the pub clashed with a throbbing bass of the discotec next door, oh what a craic!


We were most happy to leave Kilarney, stopping on our way out for a new crank bolt, and a bag of sweets. Bullseyes, Cloves, and Lime Lemon Acids to keep our mouths entertained in the ride ahead to Dingle. So here we are in Dingle, Sunday afternoon, 13:49, our tent pitched yesterday evening at a hostel up the street. Last night we enjoyed quite bluntly, an orgasmic platter of Dingle Bay steamed mussels, dinner followed by a pint at the most unique pub thus far--a hardware-bicycle shop-pub. Tools hanging from the ceiling and shelves stuffed to the brim with nuts and bolts, valves and clamps--truly surreal. We chatted with some local boys and now have in our Gaelic vocabulary a few more words which we are excited but a bit ambivalent to use.

Tomorrow we leave Dingle, heading back inland from the peninsula via Connor's pass--a steep and daunting yet reportedly stunning vista. On the other side in Camp, we'll visit the pub where Susan's parents had their wedding reception, and the church in which they were married. But for now, we have a lunch in the pannier and hope to picnic on Slea Head after we pay for this bloody internet bill. The weather is tempermental but we persevere, and when the sun rays do pass through, the glorious greens are truly revealed. Much Love, Susan & Alexander

from Kinsale to Bantry --- moving along the coast

Our last posting was in the port town of Kinsale in an internet cafe. This morning we are in a County Cork library in the town of Bantry, and have now in our possesion a county cork library card! From Kinsale we rode south along the coast to Conakilty, passing the birth place of Michael Collins. We pitched our tent in a farmhouse camping site, overlooking the Conakilty bay. White swans glided serenely across the water's surface while the moon shed light on the incredible amount of dew gathering on everything before our eyes. Our bicycles, tent, panniers, and much else became saturated in water without any rain. Over the night, a nearby camper's dog snatched our bag which contained our kitchen clean-up set-- soap, sponge, antiseptic. We later found the soap in the field but were at a loss for the rest. Morning also took us into town for a couple of Irish coffees and a visit to the post office.

From Conakilty we rode through lush farmscapes into Skiberdeen, rolling in just a wee bit late for a street-bowling tournament sponsored by Murphy's Irish Stout. We purused the village looking for a place to eat and sleep, finally hitting a Centra market and riding out of town a mile or so to an unexpected but quite impressive hostel. The Mill Hostel let us pitch our yellow tent in the back yard, adjacent to a tyre swing, a creek, and an archery course. We later found out that evening that the hostel was owned by Michael Murphy--the first Irishman to accend Mt. Everest. Our stay at the mill was greatly enhanced by our befriending of June, a woman hailing from Cornwald, England. We talked into the night, sipping lemon liquer and opinionating on all matters. She snapped this photo for us:

From Skibereen we rode a short distance to Baltimore and took a ferry to the Isle of Cape Clear-- a cloudy and wet, but absolutely gorgeous island in the Celtic Sea-- one of the few places where the population speaks primarily Gaelic. It was raining when we arrived and when we set off the next morning, but armed with our rainjackets and thick wool socks, we were able to explore the land. . .finding all sorts of exotic specimen. A village dog escorted us around the lake and to the cliffs along the crashing ocean. It was an enchanting misty fog-ridden evening and we dreamt well to the sounds of the water. Another ferry took us to Schull in the morning. As the only two passengers, we were given a personalised tour of the islands and their histories from the swaying boat. In Schull we shared a well deserved meal of fish and chips, and set off up the hill towards Bantry.

This last ride was spectacular. We rode through rolling hills, watching the land transform from flat farmland into rocky hills surrounded by grasses and moss. This transformation we also saw in the sheep--from dainty little lambs into robust wooly beasts. At a roadside market in the village of Durras, we met our first cycling tourists--two women from Germany riding a tandem. Susan has been loving the Brittish sweets here, and insisted on carrying in one of the panniers, a big glass jar of Branston pickle. Lastnight we stayed in a B&B--the comforts of which were just short of heavenly. We ate a breakfast of Potato Cakes poached eggs and ham, and now we overstay our welcome on the library computer. Heading north to Glengariff today, soon to enter the famous ring of Kerry. Much Love.