Ireland by Bicycle: Bruises, Giants, and Generosity
3 IRELAND793
Kilometres – 14 Days8
June – 11 July 2007
MAP
PHOTOS
The
First Fall and the Bad‑Tempered
Stallion – Glasgow, Scotland – Belfast, Ireland
Getting
to Ireland started innocently enough with a short cycle from Esther’s house to
Glasgow Central Station to catch the Stranraer train. The day looked
promising—until I glanced back to see Esther on the ground, bicycle on top of
her, legs flailing like an upended beetle. This, of course, happened in
peak-hour traffic. Unfazed by the gawking commuters, she hopped up, dusted
herself off, looked everyone in the eye and laughed: “Take three.”
From
Stranraer, the ferry carried us across the North Channel to Belfast, where we
arrived around 16h30—another peak-time performance slot. Right on cue, Esther
toppled over again. The cause of all this drama soon became clear: her bike was
too big and her legs too short to swing cleanly over the middle bar. By the
time her foot reached solid ground, the bike had already tipped past the point
of no return. It wasn’t so much falling off as simply falling over.
We
laughed so hard that tears streamed down our faces, and somehow still managed
to pedal the 6 kilometres north to set up camp. By evening, Esther had
christened her bike “Silver”. He bucked and kicked like a bad-tempered
stallion—clearly not keen on seeing Ireland.
Coast
Roads and Castles
The
next morning dawned bright and still—no wind, blue sky, perfect cycling
weather. With Ol’ Silver loaded and groaning, we followed the coast, a
gloriously scenic ride past small seaside communities and steep white limestone
cliffs. Ancient ruins dotted the shoreline, from Red Bay Castle to the
crumbling remains of Ardclinis Church.
Esther’s
slapstick streak, however, continued. She toppled over at least five more times
before we finally rolled into the pretty village of Cushendall. Her grand
finale came at the campsite: instead of stopping gracefully, she simply keeled
over sideways, to the wide-eyed horror of our fellow campers. Thank goodness
for her helmet. Despite the comedy routine, we still clocked about 43 miles (70
kilometres), powered by stubbornness and uncontrollable laughter.
Torr
Head: Beauty & Blisters
Packing
up was a marathon, and it was nearly lunchtime before we wobbled out of camp.
Not far down the road, a sign for the Torr Head scenic route tempted us with
promises of dramatic views. The warning underneath—“Not suitable for caravans
and coaches”—should have sounded a louder alarm.
What
followed was jaw-dropping scenery and equally jaw-dropping climbs. Determined
not to add to her crash tally, Esther sensibly walked Ol’ Silver up the worst
of the hills, trading bruises for blisters but keeping most of her dignity
intact.
The
descent into Ballycastle, a small town perched on Ireland’s north-eastern
coastal tip, was sheer joy. When she took longer than usual to appear at the
bottom, I cycled back up and found her trudging down with a flat tyre. The
surprises kept coming: we discovered her wheels had no quick release and needed
a spanner—something we didn’t have. There was nothing for it but to walk the
bikes into town and on to the campsite.
As
it turned out, every man in the campsite owned a spanner. Within minutes, the
wheel was off, and Esther had a lift into town to buy a new tyre and inner
tube. Crisis averted.
Giants
and Legends
By
now, our morning routine had taken on a life of its own. As Esther tightened
the last bungee cord, it snapped free and smacked her square on the lip. She
was now sporting a collection of bruises, mosquito bites and, for good measure,
a fat lip.
We
limped to the local bike shop, where even the staff winced at the battered
state of both rider and bicycle. Armed with a new spanner and a fresh tyre, we
set off again, spirits somehow still high.
The
northern coastline was magnificent. We stopped at the Giant’s Causeway to
explore its fascinating landscape of around 40,000 black basalt columns, the
result of ancient volcanic eruptions. Weathered by 60 million years of wind and
rain, the rocks form almost perfectly shaped hexagonal stepping-stones.
The
legends, though, were even better. According to myth, the giant Finn McCool,
fed up with his Scottish rival Benandonner, tore chunks from the Antrim coast
and threw them into the sea to build a path across the water. On reaching
Scotland, Finn realised Benandonner was far bigger than expected and fled home,
the giant in hot pursuit. Finn’s clever wife disguised him as an enormous baby.
When Benandonner saw the “infant”, he decided that any father of such a
creature was best avoided and hurried back to Scotland.
After
one particularly punishing hill, Esther gasped that the trip was killing her, and it would have been quicker and easier to overdose at home. Yet she still
pushed on for a further 40 miles. When we finally spotted a campsite at
Castlerock, we called it a day. The woman running the place took one look at
Esther and kindly let us camp for free.
Lost
Tracks and the Pub at Quigley’s Point
Feeling
somewhat revived the next morning, we made our first stop at Mussenden Temple,
a tiny circular building perched dramatically on a cliff edge. Built in 1785 as
a library, it was modelled on Rome’s Temple of Vesta.
From
there, a short ride took us to Magilligan Point, where ferries depart for
Greencastle. Our map optimistically showed a track along the shore that, in
reality, simply didn’t exist. After some confused backtracking, we finally
reached Quigley’s Point and pitched our tents at the first opportunity to give
Esther’s battered backside a rest. With camp set up, there wasn’t much else to
do but wander to the pub for a well-earned pint.
Rain,
Hills, and the Long Way to Portsalon
It
rained the entire night. Packing up in a downpour, we reached Buncrana soaked
to the skin, only to discover that the ferry to Rathmullan would only start
operating in three days. So much for Irish midsummer.
I
loved the musical names of the towns as we made our way from Quigley’s Point to
Portsalon via Letterkenny, covering a respectable 91 kilometres. Esther was
getting stronger and, importantly, falling over far less. Ol’ Silver, however,
still creaked and squealed resentfully, especially on the climbs. Esther showed
him no mercy.
From
Rathmullan to Portsalon is only about 19 kilometres. Still, we chose the scenic
route and paid for it with a series of nasty hills before a serious,
hand-numbing descent into Portsalon. By the time we reached the bottom,
Esther’s hand was completely numb and temporarily useless.
Portsalon
- A Day of Storms and Songs
The
weather deteriorated further overnight. By morning, it was cold, wet and
blowing an icy wind straight in from the north. The decision to stay put was
easy. We crawled back into our sleeping bags, zipped the tents up tight and
read for the rest of the day.
By
five o’clock, we’d had enough of lying down and made a beeline for the pub. It
doubled as the village shop, and a handful of locals were already at the bar.
Before long, the singing started, and the evening turned into a wonderfully
jovial affair. It was three in the morning by the time we staggered back to our
tents. I’ll simply say: we had a very good time.
Hangovers,
Headwinds, and the Hostel on the Hill
For
obvious reasons, there was no rush to pack up. It was midday before we finally
rolled out of Portsalon into truly atrocious weather—drizzle, a biting wind and
bitter cold.
We
pushed on to tiny Carrickart, where we heard about a nearby hostel. In
near-arctic conditions, we followed the given directions. I was frozen stiff;
even Esther had resorted to long sleeves. The hostel turned out to be much
farther than suggested, up a steep hill and in a very remote spot. Still, once
inside, it was warm as toast, and we thawed out gratefully.
The
Great Belfast Bed Hunt - 16 June – Melmore Head – Letterkenny – Belfast and
Larne
Esther
needed to get back to work, so we headed to Letterkenny to catch the bus. From
there, buses ran to Derry, and from Derry straight on to Belfast.
Belfast,
however, held a shock. The city was heaving—every bed in every nook and cranny
was booked solid for a major international boxing event. We tried everywhere,
from budget B&Bs right up to the Hilton (yes, we even considered that). By
ten o’clock, it was freezing, and we were exhausted.
I
suggested we cycle the familiar 6 kilometres north to our first campsite, but
Esther was not to be convinced. The staff at the train station were wonderfully
helpful and found us a B&B in Larne, where the ferries depart for Glasgow.
They phoned ahead, booked both the room and the ferry, and even helped us load
the bikes onto the train. Truly marvellous people.
Farewell
to Esther, Hello to Lough Neagh
We
woke to a scrumptious breakfast—pure luxury after days of camp meals. The
guesthouse was perfectly placed across from the harbour, making it an easy roll
down to the ferry.
Esther
boarded the 10h30 boat, and after waving her off, I turned my two-wheeled home
back toward Belfast and then south.
It
was a fine Sunday morning, and the good weather had lured many cyclists out.
They all stopped to chat; directions and stories were swapped freely. I took a
recommended path south along the River Lagan to Lisburn. From there, a quiet
road wound via Moira to Oxford Island and on to the shores of Lough Neagh. In
one small village, I even stumbled upon an Orange Order march, complete with
band and banners. I couldn’t quite believe they still existed in real life,
assuming their supremacist ideas would be illegal in our era. They were
probably practising for their big annual march around 12 July.
Circling
the Giant’s Lake
Fortunately,
most Irish people are as friendly as rumour suggests—so friendly, in fact, that
I was even offered dope at one point. What lovely people.
Lough
Neagh, one of the largest freshwater lakes in Western Europe, seemed worth
circling, so I decided to follow its shore to Ballyronan on the northwestern
side. My route wound along tiny country lanes, past scattering villages and
small farms.
The
lake has its own giant-sized legend. It is said that Lough Neagh formed when
Finn McCool scooped up a huge clod of earth to hurl at a Scottish rival fleeing
Ulster via the Giant’s Causeway. His shot fell into the Irish Sea and became
the Isle of Man, while the resulting hole filled with water and became Lough
Neagh.
Into
the Sperrins and the Kindness of Strangers
As
usual, I packed up in the rain. Fortunately, the showers cleared quickly, and
the day turned into glorious cycling weather. The road headed west, skirting
the foothills of the Sperrin Mountains via Omagh to Kesh.
Tiny
Kesh demanded one last serious climb up to the so-called campsite, which turned
out to be a mobile home park with no camping facilities. Bummer. The owner,
however, was very accommodating and allowed me to pitch my tent on a small
patch of grass. He even unlocked one of the mobile homes so I could use the
shower and toilet. Luxury, Kesh-style.
Forest
Trails, Carb Crimes, and Lake Wandering
Kesh
might have a population of under a thousand, but its location on Lough Erne
gives it a surprisingly lively tourist trade. I decided to stay in the area to
explore.
I
rode back down the hill to another campsite, where trails wound through the forest and around the lake. In a small shop, I discovered a bag of dried fruit,
which I promptly demolished in one sitting. When it comes to food, I consider
myself the Queen of Carbs, but even I was outclassed in Ireland. One memorable
meal involved macaroni cheese served with a generous portion of French fries. I
kid you not. Another was a baked potato smothered in baked beans—an affront to both the humble carb and a delicious Irish potato.
Tailwinds
to Donegal and the Road Not Cycled
The
road to Ballyshannon hugged Lough Erne, and with a tailwind at my back, it felt
as though I was riding slightly downhill the entire way. From Ballyshannon, I
turned north along the coast to Donegal, tailwind still firmly in my favour. I
arrived early enough to set up my tent at a hostel and enjoy the afternoon.
Shortly
afterwards, Ed joined me by car. He wanted to see Ireland but hadn’t brought a
bike, so we strapped mine to the roof and carried on exploring the country on
four wheels. Later, I regretted that decision; the chances of ever returning to
that corner of the world by bicycle are slim.
Back
in London, I tried everything to get a European visa, but with no success. I
discovered that the Schengen visa (for me, at least) was one of the most
elusive in the world. Not only did you have to apply from your home country,
but you also needed a complete, prepaid itinerary and all your accommodation
booked in advance.
Nothing
was going to plan, and my dream of cycling across Europe evaporated. It was
clearly time for Plan B. After much deliberation, the next best option was to
fly to Hungary (which didn’t require a Schengen visa) and cycle through Eastern
Europe instead, letting the road decide the route. Eddie took time off work, we
packed our bicycles, and boarded a flight to Budapest.
London to Budapest, Hungary
From
the moment I arrived, Budapest had me under its spell. The city is a feast of
ornate buildings, cobbled streets and sweeping views of the Danube. I instantly
understood why it’s called the “Capital of Architecture”, and to this day, Budapest remains one of my favourite cities.
If
I were there now, I’d linger far longer. Back then, I had bees in my bonnet and
an itch to keep moving—my default setting at the time. It took me years to
learn to slow down and enjoy the touring part of cycle touring, which, in my
mind, is what the whole endeavour is truly about.
