Cyclists Touring Club
Newark On Trent
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NEWARK NOTES from the Secretary

Eire 2005

Five go drinking Guinness, er, cycling in Ireland

By the time we'd cleared the tailback from the Britannia Bridge, it was clear that there was no way we were going to catch the ferry. Our elation, then, to see the boat still in the harbour on our arrival in Holyhead was short lived, as we were told that our places had been taken by passengers transferred from an earlier, cancelled sailing.

Made It to Holyhead

This is where it started not to look such a good idea. It was supposed to be a week- long extension of the hostelling weekend idea, and originally intended to be to Belgium. But the best laid plans and all that meant that Plan B came into operation; well, I think chocolates are over-rated anyway. "Why don't we just go to Ireland, not book anything, and go where our wheels take us?" was the suggestion from John. Some of us, fearing nights in bus shelters, got off at that point, but five of us; John, Ray, Brian, Steve and myself, were sufficiently brain-damaged to take the idea further.

Two weeks before we were due to go, John was knocked off his bike by a car, fracturing his knee. We wondered if this going to be an omen…

Of course, some bookings, starting with the ferry, did have to be made in advance, and from there, the first and last nights in Dublin Youth Hostel fell into place, so it was five slightly smug adventurers who sallied forth in the good ship Sherpa, complete with our bikes, the remains of John's last plastering job and two picnic chairs bungied in the back for those unlucky enough not to get a front seat. Despite an earlier-than-originally-planned start, we didn't made particularly good time on the first leg of our trip, but we expected the journey time to improve once we hit the dual carriageway after Chester. Instead, it seemed that every car and lorry in North Wales wanted to be on the A55 at the same time as us. And despite sterling (some would say Himalayan) efforts by the Sherpa, our arrival in Holyhead was thirty minutes after the scheduled sailing time….

Missing the ferry turned out to be the least of our worries, as Irish Ferries' efficient staff transferred our booking to a later, faster, sailing, which meant we'd still be in Dublin before bedtime. But every silver lining has a cloud bursting to get out, and ours was an afternoon in the buzzing metropolis that is Holyhead, while we waited for the boat. Having checked out the attractions of the town, we got on our bikes and rode out to Treaddur Bay, where we found a pleasant pub that served good food. This we considered not only preferable to the rather tacky eateries in Holyhead, but also a better prospect than the 'captive audience' meals we expected to find on the ferry.

After a comfortable, if slightly choppy crossing, we finally disembarked at Dublin and, despite some decidedly dodgy navigation from yours truly, found the Hostel, where we crashed out for the night.

The following morning started with a bit of route planning. Earlier, grander ideas had pointed us west towards the Ring of Kerry, but Ray had discovered a place called Huntington Castle in a guide book, billed as the most haunted house in Ireland (who ya gonna call?… Newark CTC?) become interested in it, and decided that that would be our quest, for the next day or two at least. We set off southabouts, expecting to reach Carlow, about 60 miles away, by evening. After slogging over our first real pass in the Wicklow Mountains, some of us realised we weren't quite as fit as we thought, so we settled for an early bath at the excellent Glendalough YH. Meeting another group of touring cyclists there, we compared saddlebags before heading off to the local pub for supper and some of that black stuff.

A clear blue sky greeted us the next day, but we soon realised that the bright start was to lull us into a false sense of security. We'd only gone a few miles down the road when the sky clouded over and the heavens opened. Fortunately, we were passing through a town at the time, and, resisting the temptation of an early pint, we sheltered under a verandah-ish structure in front of the local tourism office. (A former pub complete with 'Winged wheel' on the wall)

Talking to the inmates, we were told that Avoca, just down the road, had been the location for Ballykissangel, so, once the rain had stopped, we made the necessary diversion. Having been there, done that, and taken the obligatory photographs of each other in front of Fitzgerald's bar, we headed further south, dodging more showers and getting the only p,p,pneumatic contingency of the trip, before stopping for the night at the intriguingly named town of Shillelagh.

As a contrast in lifestyle to the Merc-driving Irish yuppies of the Dublin area, the local B&B was run by a couple who also kept the village shop, drove the local bus, did at least one other job (we never found out what) and had a sideline in making shillelaghs (what else?!). That night was the village pub's cook's day off, so we were directed to the chippie over the road, then returned to eat our fish and chips in the pub, off plates provided, and later washed up, by the landlord. Can you imagine that happening here? Only food bought on the premises may be eaten in the garden….

To everyone else's relief the next day we did reach Huntington Castle, though we found it almost by accident, and found it closed at that. The man we spoke to was polite, but uninterested in our curiosity. He wasn't going to let a bunch of sweaty cyclists into his castle; it was his home, after all. After a short bonding session, off down the road we went, with a new objective: Waterford. Because it was there.

Well, because this was about half-way, so we booked two nights in a hotel, used by night by construction workers and by day by the overnight-coach drivers, (you can guess the price bracket..) and took the next day out minus panniers for a hopefully easier run along the south coast. Morning tea stop was made at Tramore, a sort of Southern Irish Skegness, which on the damp day was similarly appealing. Then, heading west, we really were glad of our reduced weight as the contours of the coastline began to assert themselves. Spectacular views certainly, but by God, we had to work for them. Not as hard though, I suspect, as the American touring cyclists we met at Bunmahon. Like most Yanks abroad, great people to talk to, but every inch the stereotype of their kind; an overweight couple riding similarly overloaded bikes. And only 27" bottom gears, it was no surprise to learn they'd done quite a lot of pushing up the hills.

Returning via the village of Kill, (Irish language experts out there will doubtless tell me the meaning of the word..) we were disappointed to find no sign to take the amusing photographs of. But at least the inland terrain was slightly easier on the legs, and for once we had the assistance of the wind.

Another evening in Waterford, and more of you-know-what prepared us for the return journey. We plotted a route well to the east of our outbound one then went a totally different way due to a major booboo by our navigator (guess who). There was nothing for it but to pretend nothing was wrong and keep going in generally the right direction until I worked out where we were again. The tailwind made sure we made good enough time so that once back on track, we were able to make a diversion via Kells Priory.

Kells Priory

This place is awesome. One of the most historic sites in the country, if it were over here it would be signposted for miles around, moated by English Heritage fencing and equipped with the obligatory visitor centre, weather-beaten interpretive signs, and tea-shoppe. On the day, we only found it because we went looking for it, had free access over it all, and found virtually no on-site information. What looked like a guide board turned out to be a map showing the locations of the village store, bar and car-repair shop. Life goes on as they say.

The B&B that night at Kilkenny was 'close but no cigar' but the town was definitely worth more than a brief look, with its castle, churches and historic buildings. However, we had to move on. The morning's ride gave us some challenging climbing and spectacular views (well, I had intended to take a flatter route but I thought the view from the hills would be more interesting), followed by a short run alongside a river to our lunch stop at Carlow. The afternoon was somewhat leveller, much welcomed after the morning's exertions, if a little less scenic. But the hills earlier had taken their toll, knees were creaking, and we were quite glad to cut the day short at Newbridge, famous for the Curragh, (racecourse) but with a surprising dearth of accommodation. I guess it's close enough to Dublin for motorised punters to overnight in the Big City.

For once, we thought we might be close to that bus shelter, but eventually found a B&B. In a parallel with Shillelagh, this establishment doubled as the local funeral parlour, and we did wonder if the beds would have wooden sides and lids. Fortunately, they were fairly conventional, if you discount the padded purple sheets….. Feeling the need to eat (cycling does that to you, had you noticed?) we headed into the town where we went into every restaurant looking for one that satisfied everybody, without much success. On the last drag, John, who'd been doing very well considering he still had a cracked knee, put his foot down an unguarded drain and twisted his ankle on his good leg. We helped him hobble to the nearest eaterie, a pseudo-American pizza parlour complete with half a GRP replica '56 Corvette on the wall, feeling very old among the rest of the diners whose average age was probably less than 18, and dined on pizza and chips, before John felt fit enough to hobble to the pub next door.

With relief, we all awoke still alive in our beds the next morning for our final day. The Grand Canal runs from Newbridge all the way to Dublin and we'd hoped to avoid the busier roads by riding along the towpath. Unfortunately, while bits of it have been upgraded, Sustrans-style, most of it remains mountain-bike territory at best. And, apart from Steve, none of us was riding a mountain bike. More than once, we started on a well-surfaced section to find the surface deteriorate well before the next exit. But coming into Dublin it certainly was a boon, enabling us to avoid the worst of the city traffic.

Having checked into the Hostel early in the afternoon, we set out to do the tourist thing and took an open-top bus trip. Not such a good idea, it turned out, as the bus didn't have any speakers in the back and we were sat right over the engine, so the much-vaunted live commentary was lost on us. But we did see the main attractions of the city. For some reason, the bus made a complete circuit of a well-known brewery, though we didn't get out. That evening we shared the lounge of the pub across from the hostel with a crowd watching Ireland v Israel. For the first half hour or so, the craic was great, with Ireland going 2-0 up. Then Israel seemed to wake up and eventually equalised the score, suffice to say the atmosphere became somewhat more subdued.

The morning dawned and it was time to say goodbye to Ireland. A quick run down O'Connell Street led us to the road back to the harbour where we found the ferry. Not that we could have missed it; in contrast to the seacat that had taken us over, the Ulysses was like a small town floating in the harbour. It felt like that inside, too, with every conceivable attraction and probably some that we couldn't conceive, to help us get rid of our remaining Euros.

An uneventful return journey got us home in time for tea, and there it ended. Would we do it again? Well, I'm not sure if it'd have worked for a much bigger group; we had difficulties finding digs a couple of nights, but five seemed a big enough party for us not to get cabin fever. Who's up for next year?

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Copyright Mike Graham - Photographs Copyright Mike Graham and Ray Clarke

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