Two Irelands in one day

If you're only reading this blog because you are interested in amusing cycling stories, now might be the time to take a week-long hiatus from us. For the next week, Henry and the Argo are broken to pieces (well, two main pieces) and flat as pancakes in the back of a 7-seater Vauxhall, while we travel around with James' family in said car and its twin.

Today saw us take a long car-trip (I think we travelled as far today as James and I have travelled in the past fortnight) over to the west coast of the island of Ireland, which involved crossing into the SOUTH (as their road signs have it), which happened as we went West, and is a completely different country: Eire, or the Republic of Ireland (IRL... heh heh). There was a distressing lack of drama, or even signage, as we went into this country that fought so determinedly to be separate from Great Britain. We did change to kilometres from miles, to euros from pounds sterling, and to bilingual signs from ones that just had unpronounceable names.

Firstly, we went to (London)Derry, where we Walked the Walls:



Sadly, nothing was open; it was only 11am on a Sunday, after all.

We went to a national park at Glenveigh, and took a little walk around their grounds; we neglected their castle as being too modern (19th century? pfeh!).



We went over hills, and through valleys, searching for Authentic Wild West Coast Ireland; sadly large sections of the west coast have been taken over by, we think, the elite of London and Dublin. And possibly Americans. How dare they ruin our search for Authentic Wilderness?! We arrived, eventually, in a bay where we looked out over the North Atlantic, with nary a skerrick of land between us and Newfoundland. Now there's a profound thought. It was a glorious little cove, the tide a long way out and rock pools to poke in - and it was almost warm enough that I almost wished for bathers.

On the way home we found Wilder West Coast Ireland to look at, which mollified us somewhat. And mitigated the feeling of being in a rally car that those in the back two seats in particular experienced as we went up and down hills and around bends.

Did I mention that all six of us were travelling in what is theoretically a 7-seater? I spent about half the trip in the back, with my knees around my ears, which was its own special brand of entertaining. James and his Dad are the only drivers allowed near the steering wheel of this car; this too was own special brand of entertaining. In its own way. Imagine the merry band of travellers, if you can: a mad Irishman delirious with joy at bringing his family, as adults, to his childhood home; James; an exuberant music teacher; and Robyn, Mike and I trying to keep the peace, keep it peaceful, and not die in a variety of entertaining ways.

Death toll: zero.