29 August to 2 September 2019
Ballycastle to Rosslare, Ireland Through the Middle and Over the Knockmealdowns
A total of 556.6 miles with 30,501 feet of climbing, equivalent to one ascent of Mount Everest from sea level, ferry crossings excluded.
Ballycastle to Rosslare, Ireland Through the Middle and Over the Knockmealdowns
A total of 556.6 miles with 30,501 feet of climbing, equivalent to one ascent of Mount Everest from sea level, ferry crossings excluded.
Knockmealdown Mountains, overlooking the Suir River Watershed to the north, south over the pass is County Waterford.
Colored lines record my route through Ireland, from Ballycastle to Lismore to Rosslare, a total of 556.6 miles with 30,501 feet of climbing (equivalent to 1x up Mount Everest from sea level).
Wind was blowing about 10 mph from the west-northwest when I boarded the Kintyre Express at the harbor at Port Ellen, Islay, enough of an atmospheric disturbance that I was concerned that the crossing could be rough. Otherwise, the sun was often shining through a partly cloudy sky, temperature was comfortable, about 60 F. Amidst this enviable weather, I was looking forward to arriving to Ireland, for the first time in my life, and what a privilege it was going to be to arrive strapped into a small boat, airplane style, following a high speed journey, across the straits to Ballycastle. The crossing turned-out to be bumpy, seas about a meter or a bit more at times, currents colliding from many directions, but the position of the passengers, upright and looking straight over the bow, made it easy to focus on the horizon and avoid even mild seasickness. Along the way, I enjoyed up-close views of many old friends, from my days working as a field biologist that specialized in marine birds. Among the friends that soared past or paddled away with their feet in the water, were the manx and sooty shearwater, fulmar, murre, northern gannet, and black-legged kittiwakes among them.
As we approached the harbor at Ballycastle, the scenic splendor of the northeast coast of Ireland was already apparent. Green fields separated by long stone walls predominated, with villages, patches of forest, and farm infrastructure filling the spaces between. I regrouped for a few minutes once on shore and then proceeded on a cycling route that headed east then south along the coast. I was in no hurry as I pedaled from town. Eventually I turned east, following the bike route, into farmland, off the main tourist route, and climbed the first of many hills up to a vantage that made me laugh out loud because I felt so fortunate to have found my way here, by so much chance and very little advanced planning. From the top of each hill I plunged, grinning, into deep valleys before the road slowed me to a crawl, on steep grades, up the opposite side. I repeated this pattern all the way to the village of Cushendun, to Mary McBride's Bar where I leaned my bike by the front door, feeling no need to lock it up here and so far on the tour, and went inside to inquire about WiFi.
Using the WiFi, I located an affordable BnB up the road, but after a quick look decided to sleep in my bivy instead, on a public beach across from Mary's. I returned to the bar for a celebratory Guinness and Guinness Pie. I found the company very social and genuinely friendly, including a German chap that I spoke with for about 20 minutes. He mentioned the Vuelta and we talked primarily about bike racers and racing. Back at the beach, I acquired two new friends, Brian the Irish Prophet and Angela. Brian dictated poems from memory and Angela prayed to God and Jesus for my safe passage to Istanbul. They were a lovely couple, full of curiosity and energy, despite raising 14 children, all of them now grown-up and moved away.
I slept very little in my bivy, and unfortunately when I climbed in for the night my throat was already sore and it remained so for the next two days, never severe. Fortunately, whatever bug had taken up residence in my throat was no match for my immune system, poor sleep withstanding. The next morning I was up with the sun. As I peeked out of my bivy, the sun was literally peeking over the horizon, over England and the Isle of Man to the east. Angela and Brian were sound asleep, in their van, as I slipped away heading south. I kept to the scenic coastal route most of way towards Larne. At Carlough, I turned southwest and maintained that trajectory all the way to Troome on the north shore of Lough Neagh, a massive freshwater lake west of Belfast. From Troome, I skirted the lakes west shore, following marginal, rutted or worse, tractor track at times. I stopped in Magnery, briefly, for a photo by a church with the lake in the background, and a snack. From here I said goodbye to Lough Neagh then rode south and a little east where I descended into the heart of Ireland along the River Blackwater. The wind was in my face throughout, and had been since I departed Cushendun. Rain was intermittent, rarely heavy; temperature was on the chilly side.
By about 6:30 pm, I arrived to my next shelter for the evening, the cheapest Airbnb option that I could find in the area, about 41$ including fees and taxes. I found a WiFi connection at a local cafe and settled-in to wait for my host to return to town. Inside I met Gary Thornton and his staff and I was overwhelmed by their genuine kindness and curiosity. Gary generously bough me dinner and made a 10 pound donation to my tour! Each member of the staff visited me and asked questions, I felt like I was in my home village despite being so far from Fort Collins, Colorado. By this point in my tour, it was already becoming clear that the Irish were special people, open like no other culture that I've encountered to date other than, perhaps, Newfoundlanders, and Canadian's, it turns out, which are in general a friendly, open, warm, assemblage of all sorts of people.
The next day, rested from a good sleep and plenty to eat, I embarked on my second of what would be three back-to-back days of 100 miles, 160 km, each day, Cushendun to Lismore. About 50 miles into my day, I came upon three barking dogs, none of them very threatening, at a farm house on a rural track. Among this small pack, I found the owner and we quickly fell into conversation and a moment later he asked me if I wanted a coffee and this led to coffee and food in his kitchen, by then his wife had come home as well. This is the story of the Irish, their hospitality is exceptional, their desire to know and celebrate anyone that visits is the same. During my coffee(s) and cake(s), the rain came down in deluge format. If I'd been cycling during that time I would have been wet to the bone, as we say, and no doubt chilled, a bad conclusion for my sore throat. Instead, I warmed my backside by a warm stove, sipping my favorite brew and telling stories of my adventures to date through Scotland and a bit of Ireland. Before I departed, I used the WiFi to book into an Airbnb in Tullamore.
The next fifty miles involved about half the climbing of the previous fifty. I was thrilled and made decent time despite rough tracks here-and-there including a section that turned-out to be a river of mainly cow excrement which splattered all over, bottles, body, gloves, etc. It was a big mess, and one I had no way to deal with until I chanced a home owner in his yard and he let me use his spigot to somewhat rinse my bike. A few days later, jumping ahead, I came upon a youngster washing a bike with a warm-water power washer. Brian was happy to let me use it and soon excrement was a distant memory. Covering your bike in shit is no way to treat a friend.
As I approached Tullamore, I was totally spent; feeling about as finished as I ever have; really wasted. The last five miles were a struggle I won't soon forget. Perhaps the sore throat and associated infection was at a maximum during this time. Regardless, I was thrilled to arrive to a supermarket and then Mary's Airbnb. She spotted me from her door step, called out, and we've been friends ever since. Her care-giving talents for a wayward traveler are exceptional, and I suspect she treats her neighbors the same way. Without asking, she washed my cycling socks, soggy and not smelling so good after 200 miles of adventure including the aforementioned turds. She fed me enough food to satisfy two men. Coffee, a glass of milk, etc. Whatever I needed and always with a smile. Traveling in Ireland by bike is a journey to be envied, outside it is wonderland all around, and inside are strangers that open their hearts.
I could have stayed with Mary for a week but on this tour I was limited to an evening. The next day I rolled-out behind schedule, nearly 10 am, partly because Mary is such good company. During my neutral roll-out through the busy urban streets of Tullamore, I rolled over something that was, apparently, quite offended, and this concluded with a flat and a mangled rear tire. Nearby was a McDonald's Restaurant and a suite of picnic tables. I allocated one to my wheel and went to work installing a tube as well as a small piece of bike tire that I use for extra protection, between tire and tube when the former has been sliced open versus punctured.
By now I was literally in the middle of Ireland, where many had said I would encounter essentially nothing worth seeing but they were totally wrong. The land continued to roll, from valley to hill and back again, all around a beautiful matrix of farm tracks and forest, villages and country roads where cows and tractors outnumbered all other modes of travel by a wide margin. There were few sheep, notable on any tour in Scotland or Ireland. I was quite happy to roll through this space, totally alone most of the time, and by this point under favorable skies, often sunny, with a strong wind out of the west, over my right shoulder and sometimes slightly behind. I made good time, without concern about stops for photos and food, all the way to the River Suir Watershed below the Knockmealdown Mountains.
This scene is really spectacular. I approached a bridge over the Suir, then a village. By now I was surrounded by foothills that were covered in farm tracks colored by natural pigments, all shades of green, some browns and reds. A few turns from the bridge I turned left and began an ascent, of roughly seven miles, to a pass over the Knockmealdowns. As I ascended, my anticipation of the vantage offered to the patient bicyclist grew until I was looking over my shoulder and waiting, and waiting, until there it was, a panorama of exceptional beauty, the River Suir meandering through fairy-tale villages amidst green pastures separated by walls covered in grass, moss, and sometimes hedge. No doubt the valley has appeared this way for centuries. I certainly felt like I was looking into the past, when the value of clean air, water, soil, and a healthy biodiversity were foremost on people's minds. A time when the place where people lived was cherished for what it was, the giver of life, the almighty nurturer that we all rely on. Close to the summit, I stopped for many photos. An empty plastic bag that formerly held sheep feed was stuck to a fence nearby. Not a tragic end by any means but certainly a reminder of how far we've drifted from what's important.
Heading south off the pass, I quickly descended into the famous, historic, and stunning County Waterford, towards my destination for the evening, Lismore and Ballyduff. In Lismore, I was hoping to meet an author, Dervla Murphy, a woman that rode her bike from Ireland to India in 1963 with a revolver in her right pocket that she fired three times before she reached Iran. The whole exciting tale is recalled by her in Full Tilt, published in about 1964. It's a fascinating story where surprises and providence abound, such as a black cow that arrived by chance and dragged her and her bike, Roz, across a raging, glacial outwash creek.
This evening I focused on a fish-n-chip from the ThaiIrish Pub and Restaurant, then groceries for the morning, before riding about 6 miles west to the wee village of Ballyduff. As I approached the latter, a bright orange sun was just above the horizon, directly ahead, illuminating the valley of the Blackwater River on both sides of the road. My mind and body, despite covering 300 miles in 3 days, celebrated.
The next day I returned to Lismore on about the schedule of the average Irish or Scottish man or woman, which is about 11 am. It was a Sunday, but that doesn't seem to matter, 9 am seems to be 'early' for the folks that live along the track that I followed from Duncansby Head. I spent some time at Dervla's doorstep, asked a few passersby, and each time came to the same conclusion, it wasn't looking like I would get a chance to meet the famous travel writer, now in her 80s. I retreated to a nearby coffee shop recommended by two locals, the cappuccino was fabulous, each sip was a blissful retreat from memories of far too much instant coffee the days before. By about noon, and at the bottom of my cup, I had a plan and was on my way. I'd ride to Arthurstown, east of the large town of Waterford, about 65 miles. The next morning, I'd depart Kathleen's Airbnb, an American now living, five years, in Ireland, at 4:30 am to catch the 8 am ferry to Fishguard, Wales, UK.
In general, when trying to describe Kathleen's hospitality, words seem inadequate for a full rendering. To give you a clue, she woke at 3 am to prepare coffee on my waking schedule, 330 am. She then cooked me breakfast and packed me a snack all before I departed at 4:30 am. We departed with a hug and clear signs of a mutually appreciated friendship. The day before, shortly after boarding a wee ferry boat from Passage East to Arthurstown, I by chance met Fiona when she spoke to me through the passenger window of her little blue car. My indecision about how to proceed to the ferry, all at once, over a couple of days, etc, came to a smiling conclusion at this point. Chance was very good to me. I finished the day about 100 yards from Kathleen's Airbnb after most of an hour spent chatting in a pub with Fiona.
On schedule, this morning, 2 September 2019, I rolled-out on my second 33 mile adventure to catch a ferry boat, the first in outrageous wind and rain from Unapool to Ullapool, Scotland; this time in the dark, in enviable weather, following Orion over my right shoulder all the way to the ferry terminal. I'm going to miss the Irish! They touched my heart with their smiles and their words. I hope to visit again soon, to the land of green fields, fat sheep, and ancient stone walls. In the meantime, as I sit tap tap tapping away at my keyboard I'm en route, part-way through a 3-4 hour sailing by massive ferry ship, to Fishguard, Wales, UK. The ride from Kathleen's this am went very well, about 33 miles in 2 hrs 16 minutes. I have no idea what awaits me in Wales, I've been there just once in my life, years ago, when I was the enviable companion of a former girlfriend that I nicknamed "mustard." She deserved far better than that, all of the women that I knew in my 20s deserved better, even then the wanderlust inside me was a primary mover.
I anticipate covering the distance from Fishguard, Wales to Poole, England in about 4-5 days, I may take a half-day of rest with friends close to Cardiff, I met them on a ferry boat in Scotland. Please check back in a few days for a map from this portion of my journey, images, and text.
As we approached the harbor at Ballycastle, the scenic splendor of the northeast coast of Ireland was already apparent. Green fields separated by long stone walls predominated, with villages, patches of forest, and farm infrastructure filling the spaces between. I regrouped for a few minutes once on shore and then proceeded on a cycling route that headed east then south along the coast. I was in no hurry as I pedaled from town. Eventually I turned east, following the bike route, into farmland, off the main tourist route, and climbed the first of many hills up to a vantage that made me laugh out loud because I felt so fortunate to have found my way here, by so much chance and very little advanced planning. From the top of each hill I plunged, grinning, into deep valleys before the road slowed me to a crawl, on steep grades, up the opposite side. I repeated this pattern all the way to the village of Cushendun, to Mary McBride's Bar where I leaned my bike by the front door, feeling no need to lock it up here and so far on the tour, and went inside to inquire about WiFi.
Using the WiFi, I located an affordable BnB up the road, but after a quick look decided to sleep in my bivy instead, on a public beach across from Mary's. I returned to the bar for a celebratory Guinness and Guinness Pie. I found the company very social and genuinely friendly, including a German chap that I spoke with for about 20 minutes. He mentioned the Vuelta and we talked primarily about bike racers and racing. Back at the beach, I acquired two new friends, Brian the Irish Prophet and Angela. Brian dictated poems from memory and Angela prayed to God and Jesus for my safe passage to Istanbul. They were a lovely couple, full of curiosity and energy, despite raising 14 children, all of them now grown-up and moved away.
I slept very little in my bivy, and unfortunately when I climbed in for the night my throat was already sore and it remained so for the next two days, never severe. Fortunately, whatever bug had taken up residence in my throat was no match for my immune system, poor sleep withstanding. The next morning I was up with the sun. As I peeked out of my bivy, the sun was literally peeking over the horizon, over England and the Isle of Man to the east. Angela and Brian were sound asleep, in their van, as I slipped away heading south. I kept to the scenic coastal route most of way towards Larne. At Carlough, I turned southwest and maintained that trajectory all the way to Troome on the north shore of Lough Neagh, a massive freshwater lake west of Belfast. From Troome, I skirted the lakes west shore, following marginal, rutted or worse, tractor track at times. I stopped in Magnery, briefly, for a photo by a church with the lake in the background, and a snack. From here I said goodbye to Lough Neagh then rode south and a little east where I descended into the heart of Ireland along the River Blackwater. The wind was in my face throughout, and had been since I departed Cushendun. Rain was intermittent, rarely heavy; temperature was on the chilly side.
By about 6:30 pm, I arrived to my next shelter for the evening, the cheapest Airbnb option that I could find in the area, about 41$ including fees and taxes. I found a WiFi connection at a local cafe and settled-in to wait for my host to return to town. Inside I met Gary Thornton and his staff and I was overwhelmed by their genuine kindness and curiosity. Gary generously bough me dinner and made a 10 pound donation to my tour! Each member of the staff visited me and asked questions, I felt like I was in my home village despite being so far from Fort Collins, Colorado. By this point in my tour, it was already becoming clear that the Irish were special people, open like no other culture that I've encountered to date other than, perhaps, Newfoundlanders, and Canadian's, it turns out, which are in general a friendly, open, warm, assemblage of all sorts of people.
The next day, rested from a good sleep and plenty to eat, I embarked on my second of what would be three back-to-back days of 100 miles, 160 km, each day, Cushendun to Lismore. About 50 miles into my day, I came upon three barking dogs, none of them very threatening, at a farm house on a rural track. Among this small pack, I found the owner and we quickly fell into conversation and a moment later he asked me if I wanted a coffee and this led to coffee and food in his kitchen, by then his wife had come home as well. This is the story of the Irish, their hospitality is exceptional, their desire to know and celebrate anyone that visits is the same. During my coffee(s) and cake(s), the rain came down in deluge format. If I'd been cycling during that time I would have been wet to the bone, as we say, and no doubt chilled, a bad conclusion for my sore throat. Instead, I warmed my backside by a warm stove, sipping my favorite brew and telling stories of my adventures to date through Scotland and a bit of Ireland. Before I departed, I used the WiFi to book into an Airbnb in Tullamore.
The next fifty miles involved about half the climbing of the previous fifty. I was thrilled and made decent time despite rough tracks here-and-there including a section that turned-out to be a river of mainly cow excrement which splattered all over, bottles, body, gloves, etc. It was a big mess, and one I had no way to deal with until I chanced a home owner in his yard and he let me use his spigot to somewhat rinse my bike. A few days later, jumping ahead, I came upon a youngster washing a bike with a warm-water power washer. Brian was happy to let me use it and soon excrement was a distant memory. Covering your bike in shit is no way to treat a friend.
As I approached Tullamore, I was totally spent; feeling about as finished as I ever have; really wasted. The last five miles were a struggle I won't soon forget. Perhaps the sore throat and associated infection was at a maximum during this time. Regardless, I was thrilled to arrive to a supermarket and then Mary's Airbnb. She spotted me from her door step, called out, and we've been friends ever since. Her care-giving talents for a wayward traveler are exceptional, and I suspect she treats her neighbors the same way. Without asking, she washed my cycling socks, soggy and not smelling so good after 200 miles of adventure including the aforementioned turds. She fed me enough food to satisfy two men. Coffee, a glass of milk, etc. Whatever I needed and always with a smile. Traveling in Ireland by bike is a journey to be envied, outside it is wonderland all around, and inside are strangers that open their hearts.
I could have stayed with Mary for a week but on this tour I was limited to an evening. The next day I rolled-out behind schedule, nearly 10 am, partly because Mary is such good company. During my neutral roll-out through the busy urban streets of Tullamore, I rolled over something that was, apparently, quite offended, and this concluded with a flat and a mangled rear tire. Nearby was a McDonald's Restaurant and a suite of picnic tables. I allocated one to my wheel and went to work installing a tube as well as a small piece of bike tire that I use for extra protection, between tire and tube when the former has been sliced open versus punctured.
By now I was literally in the middle of Ireland, where many had said I would encounter essentially nothing worth seeing but they were totally wrong. The land continued to roll, from valley to hill and back again, all around a beautiful matrix of farm tracks and forest, villages and country roads where cows and tractors outnumbered all other modes of travel by a wide margin. There were few sheep, notable on any tour in Scotland or Ireland. I was quite happy to roll through this space, totally alone most of the time, and by this point under favorable skies, often sunny, with a strong wind out of the west, over my right shoulder and sometimes slightly behind. I made good time, without concern about stops for photos and food, all the way to the River Suir Watershed below the Knockmealdown Mountains.
This scene is really spectacular. I approached a bridge over the Suir, then a village. By now I was surrounded by foothills that were covered in farm tracks colored by natural pigments, all shades of green, some browns and reds. A few turns from the bridge I turned left and began an ascent, of roughly seven miles, to a pass over the Knockmealdowns. As I ascended, my anticipation of the vantage offered to the patient bicyclist grew until I was looking over my shoulder and waiting, and waiting, until there it was, a panorama of exceptional beauty, the River Suir meandering through fairy-tale villages amidst green pastures separated by walls covered in grass, moss, and sometimes hedge. No doubt the valley has appeared this way for centuries. I certainly felt like I was looking into the past, when the value of clean air, water, soil, and a healthy biodiversity were foremost on people's minds. A time when the place where people lived was cherished for what it was, the giver of life, the almighty nurturer that we all rely on. Close to the summit, I stopped for many photos. An empty plastic bag that formerly held sheep feed was stuck to a fence nearby. Not a tragic end by any means but certainly a reminder of how far we've drifted from what's important.
Heading south off the pass, I quickly descended into the famous, historic, and stunning County Waterford, towards my destination for the evening, Lismore and Ballyduff. In Lismore, I was hoping to meet an author, Dervla Murphy, a woman that rode her bike from Ireland to India in 1963 with a revolver in her right pocket that she fired three times before she reached Iran. The whole exciting tale is recalled by her in Full Tilt, published in about 1964. It's a fascinating story where surprises and providence abound, such as a black cow that arrived by chance and dragged her and her bike, Roz, across a raging, glacial outwash creek.
This evening I focused on a fish-n-chip from the ThaiIrish Pub and Restaurant, then groceries for the morning, before riding about 6 miles west to the wee village of Ballyduff. As I approached the latter, a bright orange sun was just above the horizon, directly ahead, illuminating the valley of the Blackwater River on both sides of the road. My mind and body, despite covering 300 miles in 3 days, celebrated.
The next day I returned to Lismore on about the schedule of the average Irish or Scottish man or woman, which is about 11 am. It was a Sunday, but that doesn't seem to matter, 9 am seems to be 'early' for the folks that live along the track that I followed from Duncansby Head. I spent some time at Dervla's doorstep, asked a few passersby, and each time came to the same conclusion, it wasn't looking like I would get a chance to meet the famous travel writer, now in her 80s. I retreated to a nearby coffee shop recommended by two locals, the cappuccino was fabulous, each sip was a blissful retreat from memories of far too much instant coffee the days before. By about noon, and at the bottom of my cup, I had a plan and was on my way. I'd ride to Arthurstown, east of the large town of Waterford, about 65 miles. The next morning, I'd depart Kathleen's Airbnb, an American now living, five years, in Ireland, at 4:30 am to catch the 8 am ferry to Fishguard, Wales, UK.
In general, when trying to describe Kathleen's hospitality, words seem inadequate for a full rendering. To give you a clue, she woke at 3 am to prepare coffee on my waking schedule, 330 am. She then cooked me breakfast and packed me a snack all before I departed at 4:30 am. We departed with a hug and clear signs of a mutually appreciated friendship. The day before, shortly after boarding a wee ferry boat from Passage East to Arthurstown, I by chance met Fiona when she spoke to me through the passenger window of her little blue car. My indecision about how to proceed to the ferry, all at once, over a couple of days, etc, came to a smiling conclusion at this point. Chance was very good to me. I finished the day about 100 yards from Kathleen's Airbnb after most of an hour spent chatting in a pub with Fiona.
On schedule, this morning, 2 September 2019, I rolled-out on my second 33 mile adventure to catch a ferry boat, the first in outrageous wind and rain from Unapool to Ullapool, Scotland; this time in the dark, in enviable weather, following Orion over my right shoulder all the way to the ferry terminal. I'm going to miss the Irish! They touched my heart with their smiles and their words. I hope to visit again soon, to the land of green fields, fat sheep, and ancient stone walls. In the meantime, as I sit tap tap tapping away at my keyboard I'm en route, part-way through a 3-4 hour sailing by massive ferry ship, to Fishguard, Wales, UK. The ride from Kathleen's this am went very well, about 33 miles in 2 hrs 16 minutes. I have no idea what awaits me in Wales, I've been there just once in my life, years ago, when I was the enviable companion of a former girlfriend that I nicknamed "mustard." She deserved far better than that, all of the women that I knew in my 20s deserved better, even then the wanderlust inside me was a primary mover.
I anticipate covering the distance from Fishguard, Wales to Poole, England in about 4-5 days, I may take a half-day of rest with friends close to Cardiff, I met them on a ferry boat in Scotland. Please check back in a few days for a map from this portion of my journey, images, and text.
28 August 2019. A very unusual way to arrive to Ballycastle, Northern Ireland, by boat from Islay, Inner Hebrides, Scotland on the Kintyre Express.
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