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Ireland (last day)

8/26/2015

I have one scant (non-biking) day in Dublin before returning home, and spend it doing what probably all of us do (the handful who didn't come down with the VBT cold), but by myself now as we are all scattered.

My first stop, the National Art Museum, where the first thing I discover is that in Ireland, art is free. What a concept! All museums should adopt this policy. I spend much of my time there hypnotized by Caravaggio's Taking of Christ, a masterful study in chiaroscuro.

Before making my way to the Natural History Museum. This Victorian institution was stocked with most of its inventory - birds, mammals, reptiles - during the late nineteenth century and little has been added since. Known as "A museum of a museum," it's a Victorian artifact in itself.

I know I should be enchanted by this, but things have greatly changed since Victorian times, and with so many of these species already extinct, I am less and less charmed now by man's inhumanity to animal in the name of science (or anything else).

Somewhere en route, I come across all small park with a memorial to native son, Oscar Wilde. I like that the sculpture is very explicit.

I reflect on all the great works of his I have loved, but am left with a lingering sadness at how this gay man of letters was treated. Incomprehensible. I spend some time at this park meditating on his life and work before I'm ready to move on.

I decide to take the hop-on-hop-off bus, as much from curiosity to see Dublin, as from the lack of navigability of the place: except for signs pointing to specific attractions, you'd never know where you are - there are no street signs. My map is soaked from constant consulting, but it's useless; I inevitably end up getting more help from strangers.

As for the bus, I hop on but never hop off, unsure when the next bus will arrive (I hear rumors they're not all prompt). Instead, I find myself dozing - on a public bus! Eeek! This is something I would NEVER do in New York. But I'm not alone. The bus is host to many a jet-lagging and tired tourist. It's as safe a place as any to put your feet up, I guess.

I return to the hotel, which gives me a recommendation for dinner - and a final confirmation that America is the only place still serving traditional (bad) pub food. They don't do that in Ireland anymore. My pub dinner once again is superb.

I'm up at 4:30am for a 6am flight, and leave Ireland without ever having a chance to say farewell to my tour mates which is rather a shame. If I'd known that the bus to Dublin was the last time we would see each other, I would have at least said a proper good-bye. They were a lovely group and up for anything (well, within reason).

A couple of notes about Ireland I didn't get to mention:

1. The Romans never came to Ireland, but the Vikings did. And they left the influence of their language behind. Which is why 7 years of Latin did me no good when trying to learn (or remember) any Irish. The Irish language has more in common with Icelandic than any of the Romance languages - ádh mór! (that's good luck in Irish).

2. If you're interested in how the politics of Ireland, Northern Ireland and Britain came about (you'll find parallels to other countries if you read it - humanity is the same all over the world), you might look at this link. It's dated from before the Scottish referendum, but is otherwise fairly comprehensive, and not too long.

http://www.economist.com/blogs/economist-explains/2013/11/economist-explains-4

So how does this trip stack up with my Back Roads experience?

It's apples and oranges really. If what you want is to bike many interesting miles in a foreign country (say 40-60 per day) and do some sight seeing, then Back Roads would be a good choice. The group is likely to be young and athletic as a whole; the Back Roads guides are truly amazing (and hard working) global citizens who will take great care of you - though you're still better off as a couple; I had a hard time of it navigating alone even with three guides.

The accommodations are equally luxurious.

If you're willing to bike less in order to spend more time exploring the country you are biking in, then VBT is a better fit. The group is likely to be older (but don't count them out as athletes); the local guides and their connections with the local populace - musicians, dancers, pubs etc. - cannot be underestimated; and frankly, I felt better cared for, even though there were only two of them. I also liked our bikes much better than those from BR.

I return to NYC a little unnerved by the direction of traffic (now it seems OK to ride on either side of the street), but glad to see Lucille and Lola again. I plan to get out on the road soon, but I know myself: I will record no rides until this blog is done.

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Ireland Day Eight (The Dancing Irish)

8/25/2015

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Feeling suitably superior I set off for the optional the 5-7 mile trek to the beach outlined on our route map (well, aren't I special?). But within about a quarter mile, I find myself here:

This looks like a beach to me. Maybe it's because I'm by myself. Or perhaps it's the subliminal sense that further miles are more for the hyper-active to burn off some energy (and quit bothering the guides), rather than as a rewarding destination on their own. But as I peer through these columns...

I kind of lose my appetite. I mean, there's gravel up ahead. And there might be headwinds. And what about tree roots? Oh right, no trees. But I could get lost... So much for heroic ambition. I'm satisfied with this little jaunt, take final note of this classic Irish ruin.

And turn around.

Soon, I'm on the main road, and back to highway traffic - fast moving and scary. You can hear the buses and trucks coming a half a mile away, and it's a natural impulse to pray they don't sideswipe you into the adjacent ditch or worse, into that barbed wire.

But in good time I make a sharp left, and am back on a protected country road. This leg of the trip is always the most beautiful, with the lake calm and the mountains shrouded in mist.

At some point, I give up ever seeing the tops of them, but suddenly the clouds shift, and there they are.

We have some time when we get back to unwind and some of us meet for cocktails downstairs. It is only then, shortly before dinner, that I learn our guides are still cleaning and racking all our bikes. Oh no. I go out to check and sure enough, there they are beavering away, covered with sweat and surrounded by clouds of those nasty "no see-ems." Not for the faint of heart, this guiding business.

This sends me skittering to my room to make sure I have enough cash to tip them properly. Because the good-bye celebration is coming up tonight, and heaven knows they've earned it. As one of our number astutely points out, the rides were all seamless and easy. There's only one way to achieve that.

Not surprisingly, our guides find time to show up for this - but more impressively they've managed to change and look more refreshed than the rest of us. One of us has had the foresight to come up with some amusing lyrics describing our trip, set to the tune of "On Top Of Old Smokey," which we blunder through unrehearsed. It's like watching a herd of sheep wander out of the pen; we have no idea where we are going. But the spirit is cheerful, and our guides are amused (they've never heard On Top Of Old Smokey. They probably think this is how it should sound).

Catherine is also a talented singer and sings and plays guitar for us. I have requested Raglan Road, a favorite of mine, which she performs touchingly; then she plays an original, a ballad written for one of her children. A truly lovely song.

But the night isn't over. Because our guides are local, they know about a wonderful musical duo, and have called them to come play - and dance for us. They are from the area - laborers, not professionals - but they've won numerous contests and as they perform it's easy to see why. The music is well rehearsed; the dance all improvised. They are brothers - the younger one only 15 - and their synchronized performance reflects the unique bond of family members. For getting into the spirit of Ireland, you couldn't do better than this.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kf-vQZXZSAk

It is a fitting send-off for our last day of biking in Ireland and I hate for it to end. Tomorrow we caravan to Dublin and from there, go our separate ways. Here we are:

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Ireland Day Eight (Kylemore Abbey)

8/25/2015

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This morning I am awakened by the baa-ing of sweet little curly horned sheep in the front garden.

The best alarm clock I can think of. Today we cycle to Kylemore Abbey.

We start off just after a morning rain, and are urged to get on our bikes and pedal ASAP as "the no-see-ems" are swarming (we see 'em - and we feel 'em - until we're underway). Soon, it begins to mist and then to rain again.

But we are not discouraged: our guides - experts on Irish weather - assure us it will clear up by 10. And sure enough, we arrive at Kylemore Abbey under clear skies. It is an unmistakeable structure; a private home, built by Mitchell Henry* for his wife in 1871.

Henry inherited pots of money, but decided not to go into the family business and instead, abandoning his medical practice, went into politics and commerce - and building, to judge by this. He was an enlightened landlord, and he and his wife Margaret had 9 children before the place was finished. Meanwhile, they entertained lavishly from their townhouse in London.

But even the wealthiest and healthiest of us is not immune from the Four Sufferings** and four years after its construction, Margaret died of dysentery while they were on a trip to Egypt. She was 45 years old.

Henry was inconsolable and threw himself into building a Gothic cathedral for her down the lane. It's the smallest cathedral I've ever seen - and the sweetest:

With columns bearing stones from the four corners of Ireland:

And the usual terror-inducing gargoyles replaced by angels bearing tidings of peace.

One can only wish more cathedrals were built with the love this one was, rather than with the intention to inspire awe and fear. Why do we need to feel small and powerless? Why not inspire us to truly love each other and do great things? Well, this is the Buddhist in me talking...

Subsequently one of Henry's daughters died in a horseback riding accident and we're told that broke his spirit. Still, he was 84 by the time he died. Here is the mausoleum which holds the remains of both of him and his wife.

The entire estate has a truly hallowed feeling to it, in part because after Henry died it fell into various hands before becoming a Benedictine nunnery which ran a girls' school for both local girls and boarders - and it's still around. The last girl graduated in 2010, and now Notre Dame has leased a part of it - hopefully for educational purposes (rather than sports).

There are charming gardens.

But what impresses me most is the reforestation of Kylemore, begun by Henry and continuing to this day (you can sponsor a tree if you like***). I like trees and rather regret that Ireland cut all of its trees down. John Muir used to say that trees were easy to kill, because they couldn't run away.

From here we cycle to the Renvyle House Hotel for lunch.

Where we are greeted by ducks and geese (I decide not to order the duck).

"Another dump," I announce to no one in particular upon entry (yes, VBT treats us royally).

While awaiting our tables, we sit by a peat fire and this is the first time I get to experience the strong scent of peat, very different from wood.

Most of us have an Irish beer, but once acquainted with Irish Whisky - well you know where this is going. I know I won't finish it. I also know I probably won't have many more of these.

After lunch, we head for home, making a wide loop around the lake on which our hotel sits.

There's an option for extra miles, a trek to the beach, and I decide to take it...

*http://www.kylemoreabbeytourism.ie/mitchell-henry-history-of-kylemore
** The Four Sufferings: Birth, Old Age, Sickness and Death
(http://www.sgilibrary.org/search_dict.php?id=812)
***Sponsor a tree at Kylemore: http://www.kylemoreabbey.com/forest_friends.htm

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Ireland Day Seven (our luck runs out)

8/24/2015

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Today, I'm up early enough for a quick ride to the Harbor, this time opting for the High Road. I like this road because you see both the shore and the landscape:

It's good I like it, because I get to ride it twice. Once half-way - until I realize I don't have my route map carrier, and turn around to get it. The second time with a spare route map carrier supplied by our guides (mine never does turn up).

Here's the thing. We packed for the trip. Then we had to pack for Inishmore separately, leaving our suitcases behind and taking a pack for two days. From that, we pack for our daily rides. At this point, I've packed and repacked so often I have no idea where anything is. It's a miracle if I get through this trip without losing my passport (and my mind).

But the ride is so glorious, I kind of don't mind. So different from The Burren. So green. And surrounded by the natural beauty of antiquity:

And those eternally beautiful Irish walls (never any use of mortar)

I even see a scarecrow.

We reconvene at the port, leave our rental bikes and board the Ferry.

(Yes, I am wearing my sweater)

Back on the docks of Rossaveel, we rejoin our bags and reshuffle our gear once again (don't need those hiking shoes). And we're off for a 10 mile ride to a family restaurant.

Where we have placed our orders the night before (to lower the stress on our hostess). The cuisine is happily up to Irish standards.

As we begin our ride to Connemara, we enter a highway with sparse but fast-moving traffic. And a steady stream of ascents.

I am just about to pull over to rest, when the road levels out.

And everything looks good. Until we turn off the main road - and that's when things start to go south. We find ourselves on an open stretch, buffeted by a relentless headwind (hey, where did that come from?).

I don't mean to complain. They say in Ireland that it only rains twice a week: once for three days, and then again for four. And I'm prepared for that. Having experienced the Urine Sauna that passes for New York weather in August, it seemed to me that a cooler and rainy environment could only be an improvement (and I still think I was right). But as I struggle to move forward with every pedal stroke, the voices of our guides echo through my head: if you don't notice the wind, it's at your back. And I'm realizing we've been as lucky with the wind as we have with the rain. And now our luck has run out: we have both.

The rest of our 20 mile route feels like 40. The miles seem endless - a grinding trade-off between riding on narrow highways.

With trucks.

Or quieter roads with rugged pavement.

Intermittent rain, and a capricious headwind are constant factors. But there are many compensations. Like these roadside companions:

The color coding turns out to be an efficient way for farmers to keep track of which ewes should be checked for lambing later, or which sheep have been vaccinated or dipped.

And oh look, the grass really is greener!

We're in peat country. This is what it looks like harvested:

My version (wet)

Google's version (dry)

We've been warned that these bogs are very easy to sink into, and the reason we've been warned is because of the Green Door. At first I thought this had something to do with Ireland, this being the Emerald Isle and all. But no, it's a euphemism for outdoor rest stops (a euphemism in itself), which sometimes become necessary on long rides. I've used the Green Door once but the thing is, if you choose to use it in a peat bog, you could become a statistic.

We slog along, the miles seeming interminable. But then suddenly, a final right turn, and it all seems worthwhile.

A glorious four mile ride around this lake where both wind and rain abate. What more can they do to us at this point anyway?

We are drowned rats by now, and the sight of our hotel, the Lough Inagh Lodge*, is a welcome one indeed.

Two of our group have come down with a highly contagious cold. One of them rode in the van (a sensible decision; most everyone else was there too); one of them toughed it out and rode this entire course. I don't know how she did it. But for now our lodge welcomes us with generous rooms.

And best of all, we will be staying two days; a break from all that packing, and time for our clothes to dry out.

First stop: the bar where I order a shot of Red Breast (12-year-old whiskey). That's just what's needed to warm these cockles. This is not a habit I will continue in New York, alas. Alcohol and breast cancer don't mix. But I'm in Ireland now.

We head off to a sumptuous dinner after which we get a demonstration on the art of making an authentic Irish Coffee. More whiskey! I demur - not because of the whiskey, but because of the caffeine. Now that I finally have a decent sleep schedule, I'd like to hold onto it. Tomorrow's ride is 31 miles with a longer option. Normally that would be nothing for me. But now I'm a little wiser. Headwinds and rain will determine extra miles.

*http://www.loughinaghlodgehotel.ie/en/

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Ireland Day Six

8/23/2015

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The rest of this day unfolds like one of those Russian nested eggs, each experience leading to one more fascinating. The afternoon starts with a walk to an ancient fort, Dun Aengus.* This is not a place you could ever come by bike, except to ride to the base. We part-walk and part-clamber for a lecture on the place - but by now I've let go of biking miles.

Dun Aengus dates back to 1100 BC. Surprisingly, no one took an interest in it until 1991 when some archeologists showed up unannounced.

They found bronze (a combination of tin and copper), so there were some rudimentary tools; amber, signifying trade since it's not native - and fish bones (diet), and probably wood since Ireland was forested back then. But basically, these people had rocks.

If you had nothing but rocks and needed to fortify yourself, you couldn't have done better than this. On the outside are three stone walls which are built to strengthen each other.

And then a field of rocks which would confound any intruder. Can you see a marauding army trying to navigate this?

And nobody's coming around the back.

Seven dwellings were also found within the fort walls.

For the rest of the day, we have two choices:

1. Swimming. You're kidding, right? By the looks of the water, you'd think you're in the Caribbean.

But don't be fooled. The temperature of the water on this beach is 55° tops. I opt for...

2. A trip to the Worm Hole (mostly because it's the only option that doesn't involve swimming). It turns out to be a lot more clambering. But this time I have the shoes for it.

And it's worth it - a total freak of nature:

Although it appears to be "cut" in a rectangle of right angles, human beings apparently had nothing to do with it. But we've come here on a calm day. The Worm Hole can also look like this (yipes, that's right where we were standing).

Astonishingly, there is actually a diving festival here. I have no idea how they predict the weather in time to hold it, let alone how anybody could do it (see link below)**

The Worm Hole itself is hypnotic. The water comes from underneath, and just watching it slosh around is mesmerizing. But eventually we clamber back, rejoin our bikes and on the return ride encounter our guides - actually swimming. So they weren't kidding.

I get a chill just watching and unconsciously steer my way towards the woolen sweater makers the Aran Islands are famous for. We've passed stores at the port, but they have a supermarket vibe, and frankly the quality looks a little Chinese to me. Instead, I find a smaller local vendor near our B&B - a little shed, where the owner quietly sits knitting up minor masterpieces.*** I am instantly attracted to an undyed wool cardigan.

I love cardigans, especially in New York winters, when you often want to open them in overheated buildings. Did you make this one I ask (in English of course)? Well, I know my own work, don't I? She replies with a twinkle (and in English), flattered at my wrapt admiration. I know enough about knitting to spot her skill. And how long did it take you? Ten days, she answers.

It would have taken me that long to do the button holes. I plunk down the asking price and consider it a bargain. But it's more than a bargain.

For one thing, she will be closed tomorrow. And the shops that are open offer nothing like this: hand-made with personal attention. You can see it. You can feel it. You can smell it.

This will be my go-to Winter sweater for years to come. And I will always remember her and the Island of Inishmore when I wear it. I wonder if she knows how meaningful our brief exchange - and her hand-knit sweater - will be to someone like me? It will be my best consolation during non-biking months.

But there's more to this day. This evening after dinner, we are treated to a command performance by an Irish singer/guitarist whose passion and energy fill the room with Irish songs - some funny, some sad - and some with us singing along. I don't know how they found him, but I'm thinking our local guides must have had something to do with it. I wouldn't have missed his performance for anything. None of us would.

The die hards (that's how I think of them) stay up to watch a video of the history of the Aran Islands, but I'm hoping to turn my jetlag around once and for all, and turn in instead. I'm sorry I won't see it, but I don't feel like I've missed anything today.

And I have the sweater to prove it.

*https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/D%C3%BAn_Aonghasa
** https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K9iHJZY0LME
*** Sarah Flaherty, Dun Aengusa Knitwear 099 61233

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Ireland/Day Five (The Hill)

8/22/2015

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What is the goal of a bike trip really? I ask myself this as I pour a generous amount of whiskey on my morning porridge. Yes, a menu option that has caught my eye and that I've decided to try on our last day at Sheedy's (we depart for Galway today). The whiskey comes in a tiny pitcher - you're not expected to use all of it - but of course I'm going for the full experience. And it puts me in a meditative mood.

I mean, I can log endless miles in New York - I don't have to come to Ireland to do that. So even though we only have 21 miles on today's agenda - a morning's ride if I were with Back Roads - I'm beginning to wonder how important that is; to let go of the miles and appreciate the local color. Like whiskey on my porridge. And come to think of it, our guides.

For example, I never saw any guides do this before.

It's a brilliant strategy. To clarify our route, our guides switch off, one of them sweeping by in the van, the other riding ahead of us marking the road - using a water bottle filled with flour.

If the road is unmarked, just keep going (and the flour holds even in rain). Ingenius! Even a hopeless navigator like me is never lost - and that's a first.

Meanwhile at the route talk, our guides actually use the word "Miserable" to describe the weather that's headed our way. When an Irish guide uses that word, you can take it to the bank. We lose no time getting underway, hoping for some decent miles before the skies open up. But as we ride over a series of rolling hills…

The weather actually holds. At 7 miles, we are at St. Fachtnan's Cathedral in Kilfenora.* (built in around 1189).

Once again the choice has wisely been made to conserve and not restore.

There are many Celtic crosses. These are tall...

And round at the top, with a cross added almost as an after thought (or that's how it seems to me). Legend has it that St. Patrick was attempting to convert Ireland from Pagan sun worship to Christianity. That must have been some heavy lifting, given that the sun is such a prized item in Ireland. I'm not sure I would have gone with that program…

Then suddenly, our eyes are back on the road - because we have a hill coming up. And not just any hill. The Hill. Every trip has one of these: the make or break hill that defines the riding on the tour, that shows who has (and hasn't got) the Right Stuff, returning in recurring dreams long after the tour is over. This one additionally has a killer descent that precedes it.

We are told not to try gunning this - no amount of momentum will get you up the succeeding ascent anyway. Many of us just elect to take the van. As for the hill itself, it's a half mile ascent which Catherine cheerfully calls "An opportunity to train the mind." Having learned from experience how important mental attitude is, and with a year's worth of training under my belt, I approach this challenge with a measure of confidence.

I make it past the downhill with no problem and begin my ascent. My camera records my progress.

At 15 seconds I've already shifted to my lowest granny gear. At 40 seconds in, my heaving pedaling efforts are causing my front wheel to wobble.

At 60 seconds I try tacking in desperation (this has never worked).

At precisely 80 seconds in, I pull over panting. So much for training the mind. I walk my bike uphill with labored breath, taking a moment to look at how far I've come.

And how far I have to go.

Three quarters of the way up, I get back on the bike and make it to the top to the cheers of Catherine shouting "You can do it!" She of course did do it - the whole thing (I learn afterwards that this is a 17° ascent).

The few of us who attempted this hill - one of us made it all the way without stopping - gather to discuss it. I eat every word I ever said to Catherine about the Palisades. I've never encountered a hill like this - even the van got stuck. Catherine laughs knowingly. She says the trick for this hill is, "You get into a little pace and you don't look up."

Oh, well then.

But at least it makes succeeding hills seem easy.

And we are rewarded with glorious skies and idyllic moments like this.

Before we know it, we're at Corcomroe Abbey** (built around 1210).

As beautiful as the Abbey is, it's the stone itself that intrigues me. Something about it is so visceral.

Especially the walls. I have been photographing them hungrily from the moment I saw them in the Burren, as if each one were a work of art I would never see again. And it's true.

There are hundreds of these in Ireland - but they are all unique. Shane said they are easy to make - any schoolboy could do it (Shane doesn't mention school girls); that if any part of them falls, they are easy to reconstruct. But I think they're perfect the way they are.

While we tour the Abbey, Catherine and Brian load our bikes for transport to Galway (no rest for guides).

We board our bus headed for the Connemara Coast and the Aran Islands. I know they will be beautiful, but I will miss the Burren.

*https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kilfenora
**https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Corcomroe_Abbey

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Ireland/Day 5 and 3/4

8/22/2015

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Like the Hogwarts Express, this day is full of twists and turns. Having had a full day in the country, we're now headed for the city of Galway, where most of us are happy to leave the Muggle-headed ignominy of our Hill performance - or lack thereof - behind. Oh look, there's Eyre Square (who could that have been walking her bike up the Hill?)!

And there's Lynch's Castle (wasn't me)!

Lynch's Castle is said to be where the term (if not the practice, which surely predates it) of "lynching" came from. We are told that James Lynch, the Mayor of Galway, hung his own son for murdering someone who was of vital economic interest to the town. There is an alternate version from a Lynch descendent*, but no one disputes the lynching itself.

We wander around the main shopping drag.

And encounter this multi-instrumentalist.

Sure he's there to make a buck off tourists like us - but how many people do you know who can play one of these?

Didgeridoos. Two of 'em. And they're mic'd. After all the work it takes to play them, it would be a shame for them not to be heard. I'm also happy to see Galway also has their own version of Citibikes.

We are advised helpfully about restaurants and pubs to crawl to - and those of us who do, report back the next morning on serendipitous music and dance performances I am so sorry to have missed. But jetlag is still a factor in my sleep; I am forced to do an early crawl home.
- - -
The following morning, we bus to Rossaveel for the ferry to the Aran Islands. Having crossed the English Channel by ferry before, I'm more than a little apprehensive, and recall a banner I saw the day before at the Mall:

In Ireland, that would refer to a sport - like this:

But what if it's more like this?

And what if it's us? Will we be hurling big chunks? I am not comforted by the sight of these on the ferry as we board.

But as we depart Galway Bay...

The water is calm, the air is fresh. There will be no hurling, Irish or otherwise.

We're staying on the largest and most populous of the three Islands, Inishmore (8mi by 2mi). Everyone there speaks Irish; all signs in Irish:

We leave our bikes behind and rent others on arrival. But we don't get to choose them; bikes have been set aside for us, and by the time I get there, the few road bikes there were, are taken. Damn! I end up with a mountain bike, my worst nightmare. It has shocks and fat tires, it weighs a ton - it feels like a tank; I'll never be nimble on this thing. It's only later when I find myself gliding over rocks and gravel, that I find out the advantages of riding a tank. Suddenly I'm fearless; It's totally freeing. Where was this on the Katy Trail? After one ride, I'm already pining for a mountain bike of my own at home (and trying to figure out how to shoe-horn it into the hallway).

Meanwhile, our B&B is not ready to take us, so we tool around the harbor getting used to our new rides.

And gather for a brief talk on the history of the Islands, whose resourceful residents made it through the Great Famine by fishing - and growing their potatoes in seaweed. The Islands themselves remained virtually untouched by the outside world until the 1960s.

Historically, control of the Aran Islands has meant control of the West Coast of Ireland, and many people have tried to possess them (there's that pesky Cromwell again).

Today, the place is more peacefully possessed by day trippers. We're dodging tour buses right and left.

And struggling to hear our guides over the din of tour-related aircraft. So when Catherine remarks about how peaceful it is here, I think she must be joking. But she tells us to disregard the madness of the port whose crowds are temporary. Where we're staying she says, the island will be ours (and she's right).

This is a beauty that defies description. It is beyond magical (yes, I will post footage later). We are encouraged to explore on our own.

Nothing's over 5 miles away. There are only about 800 inhabitants. And there are just two roads - the High Road, and the Low Road. So our guides can take a little time off from navigating without fear of the rest of us getting lost.

We get a quick lesson in Irish language basics (phonetic spellings below):

Guramahagud- thank you
Sloncha - cheers
Slon - Good bye
Adiagwich - hello

You got that? Good. Time for lunch, and exploring the unique island that is Inishmore.

Now say thank you (if you can).

*http://davidlansing.com/a-lynching-in-galway

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Ireland Day Four

8/21/2015

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The following day, I attach my helmet camera and join the group for a total of 32 miles. Jetlag has left me with four hours sleep, but hey I'm on vacation.

Catherine adds clips to my bike, and I feel ready - except for adjusting my mirror, a knack that eludes me. But the countryside is heavenly, the roads in perfect shape.

Gradually I'm starting to feel confident. Until I encounter my first tour bus.

Eegads, these roads are narrow. But then, as I round a corner, an even more dramatic sight.

Probably built by the O'Brian family, the ruling clan in these parts we're told. And now, I'll let the pictures do the talking.

You'll notice, in addition to the beauty of the landscape, that the signs are written in two languages. The Irish language is very much alive in Ireland, and it's unlike anything I've ever heard. I took Latin for 7 years, and have an instinctive knack for the Romance Languages (without really speaking any of them decently). But Irish - or Gaelic - is a complete conundrum to me. I can't even master enough of it to be polite. Catherine coaches me patiently, but I'm hopeless. "Hello" has 6 syllables which I can't relate to anything (and therefore can't remember); "Thank You" has three or four (can't remember which). By the end of the trip I have to confess, I'm a complete failure at Irish (and likely to remain so). Doomed to be an Ugly American. Sigh.

As we speed along, we pass the ruins of a house.

Ireland seems to have hundreds of these. They never fail to remind me of the Irish Hunger Memorial in New York, and now I have a much greater understanding of why the Memorial was built as it was.

Every time I pass a house like this, I have to wonder - is this a result of the Great Famine? Has it been left as a memorial? Or was it simply family simply moving away…? To ride in this Irish countryside is to constantly reflect on this.

As we climb, a fellow rider remarks that the rocky terrain is reminiscent of Turkey.

And having been there years ago, I remember - yes, he's right. But as we level out, we see a landscape that is unique to Ireland.

This is the Burren and we are headed straight for it and a lecture on its ecology, history and geology by our local guide, Shane Connelly.

On our Route Map, walking shoes are suggested. But I don't see this note until we get there, so I haven't packed them - I'm wearing cleats. Fortunately, Shane supplies these walking sticks.

But even so, I find the footing is treacherous over this rocky terrain.

We have been warned that Shane is a real character and he doesn't disappoint. He has a heavy brogue, but he's worth decoding because he's a real expert on The Burren. Here is what I remember:

Ireland has no snakes, but they do have a "slow worm," in the form of a legless lizard. Which means it has eyelids and ears (snakes have neither). It lives in this area, though we don't glimpse it.

The Burren on which we stand is limestone, composed of fossils of plant and animal life (if we look, we can see them). It used to be sea bed. As we look around, we see small pools of rainwater here and there, which host micro environments. Over time, vegetation and eventually trees will grow up there and if left alone, form great forests - which is what Ireland used to look like.

But as we can see, Ireland has no trees. The Irish chopped them all down; they have little use for them, and would rather have fields.

But if they value fields so highly, I ask where are the farms? "Well, what do you call this?" Shane asks a bit put out. He gestures towards the countryside where we see a few sleepy cattle staring back at us. I explain that in the US, we define farms as places where there are fields of wheat and alfalfa. "Ah," he says. Well we have that too, in other parts of Ireland. But as much grain as the US grows, they still import grain from Ireland. Can you tell me what that is?"

We are all silent.

And then he takes out of his backpack, a full bottle of Jamesons (pronounced JAM-sons), a plastic cup, and pours me a shot on the spot. Just what I needed. Walking on the Burren in cleats, and now walking drunk on the Burren in cleats (I'm a cheap date). Well, he will clearly be insulted if I don't drink it down (ah, the heavy burdens of the tourist), so I oblige, inwardly hoping I'm not headed for a broken hip.

We bid a fond farewell to Shane and pedal to a nearby restaurant which has been expecting us. I order two strong cups of coffee. They top off tea in Ireland, but cups of coffee are bought separately. This is a small detail in my sleep-deprived state. I go for it. And then we're back on our bikes and the ascents begin until we reach…

The Poulnabrone Megalithic Tomb (3200-3500BC)*

And I thought I was old.

There isn't much to see, and not that much is known about it but it is remarkable to be in the presence of something so ancient which has kept its original state.

As we're getting ready to pedal back, Catherine asks me how I did on the hills. I tell her I barely noticed them; that if she really wants hills she should come riding with me in the Palisiades and ascend The Beast - a solid mile of climbing on the Jersey side of the GWB.

In hindsight, I look back on this moment and blush with embarrassment. I'm telling a guide about hills? But Catherine merely nods wisely. She knows what's up ahead.

*http://irisharchaeology.ie/2013/06/poulnabrone-tomb-life-and-death-in-the-burren

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Ireland/Meet the Bikes

8/20/2015

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At Sheedy's, our VBT bikes are waiting for us. I approach mine as if tackling a stubborn mule with a reputation for kicking. It's a Fuji. The last time I rode a Fuji was on the Katy Trail a couple of months ago. It was a hybrid (as are these), heavy and unresponsive, with clunky handle bar shifters; it fought me every step of the way. I am not looking forward.

I see these have thumb shifters and decent grips.

A split top tube and a mirror. That's nice.

Knowing what I know now, I always bring my own saddle - a bad saddle can ruin a perfectly good ride.

We mount and practice riding down the driveway and back (the parking lot is gravel). The brakes are so grippy a quick stop could easily send me over the handlebars. They are also very squeaky. I remark on this, and am told nothing can be done about it. I know that's not true*. I also know our guides have 16 bikes to attend to and they all have squeaky brakes, so I don't push it.

Out we go, sounding like an orchestra of mice, for our first 5-mile ride.

Here is our route:

Haven't had a chance to attach my helmet camera - or my clips - so not a lot of pix for now. It's enough to adjust to the new bike and left-sided riding. Meanwhile, the route takes us over a few short hills, where I find my VBT bike’s thumb shifters work seamlessly. Huh. Unexpectedly easy. And come to think of it, those brakes have quieted down. This bike is remarkably responsive - and also has some righteous granny gears, which are coming in handy.

But hills aren't for everybody; some of our number pull over panting and opt to walk their bikes. I speed past them as if it were catching.

It's not that I want to show off my riding skills - I wish I could say I were coming from a balanced place. The fact is, my brush with cancer last year has left me over-terrified of physical weakness brought about by my own inactivity. I blame myself for the two years I sat at the computer scarcely moving from my desk chair, as I worked on two documentaries - and neglected my health. I rue my behavior then - except that it led to my being here now. But the memories of bicycling to radiation treatments are still very fresh - I have 6 months check ups and mammograms to remind me; and I'm afraid I'll need to put a lot of miles - and a lot of hills - between them and me before I can calm down and just ride. For now, I'm fighting for every mile; the miles provide me the opportunity to fight an enemy I cannot see and cannot confront face to face.

Meanwhile, after our ride, we gather in Sheedy's den for a cheerful Meet and Greet.

And I see that this is an older crowd than the one I rode with at Back Roads - but they are fit (these are not the Fat Americans I feared). I'm curious about where I'll fit in as a rider. My Back Roads trip had me somewhere towards the back of the pack. Age-wise I was about in the middle, but I was less experienced, and handily trounced by San Franciscans and mountain bikers.

We are offered beer and wine on the house, which is generous - but we could find these offerings at home. Peeking behind the bar, I see a lot of other options - and I'm hankering for something particularly Irish. Our hostess, Martina, brings me a single malt whiskey that she says will not interfere with a dining palate. It goes down like honey. Wow. I've never had a whiskey like this. Welcome to Ireland!

And off we go to dinner.

Well, no regrets about Sheedy's, whose award-winning chef is one of its great attractions (those peas are fresh!).

That said, there has been a revolution generally in Irish cuisine; we never have a bad meal during this trip, not even when we go off on our own, not even in the pubs. And for celiacs especially, it's a relief to have potatoes readily available.

I look forward to our first real day of riding tomorrow, and hope for enough miles on this trip to keep my demons at bay.

*http://www.bikeloveny.com/blog/maintenance-for-cyclists-only

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Ireland Day Two (some history)

8/19/2015

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The following day, we have the morning for independent activity. I walk to the Friary, as suggested by VBT. I love that it has been conserved, rather than restored:

Then a hotel suggestion catches my eye: a monument to commemorate the visit to Ennis of Muhammad Ali - whose great grandfather, Abe Grady, came from Ennis. Huh.

My father died when I was 7. He was a writer, but his sport was heavyweight boxing. After he died, Muhammad Ali became a huge hero for me - an ersatz father figure if you will. I followed his career, and even saw him fight (The Fight of the Century*), against Joe Frazier. It was his first fight since emerging from prison for protesting the Viet Nam War. He represented all the hopes of the young, and the burgeoning anti-war movement. He went a full 15 rounds - and lost. He'd spent 5 years of his precious fighting life in prison, a martyr to The Establishment (as I saw it). I mourned. I wrote him an impassioned teenage letter. I didn't get out of bed for two days.

I doubt I will ever meet him. This monument may be the closest I ever get. Here it is:

In a small way, I feel a circle has been completed. I walk back meditating on Ali, and carry my luggage down to the tour bus. I'm talking my first ride with the group to see The Cliffs of Moher.

But first we meet Catherine, one of our guides, who gets on the tour bus mic and wastes no time giving us the Irish version of Irish history - the one most Americans never get to hear. I'm ashamed to say, it comes as a shock to Yours Truly. Yes, I knew about The Troubles. But I didn't know about the bloody and determined rebellions for Irish rights dating back to 1534. I didn't know Oliver Cromwell, someone I always thought of as a hero, is considered a war criminal here. I didn't know Irish peasants could not own their own land until 1922. Think of it. I didn't understand that the potato famine was a virtual genocide by Britain, which could have stepped in any time, but whose government basically wanted Irish land for themselves, and closed their eyes while one million people starved to death.

There is so much information I can't take it all in; I want to take notes. Yet amazingly in this litany of suffering, Catherine manages to tell it all with truth, irony and humor - characteristics that can be found in the Irish psyche if you get a chance to talk to anybody. And here again is a difference between Back Roads and VBT. The VBT guides are always local. This is a priceless plus.

The Cliffs are spectacular (North Side):

(South Side):

There are signs honoring those who have died there - it turns out the siren song of the Cliffs has lured many to their deaths - and like the GWB, there are also signs with a helpline to reach out to anyone considering jumping - as well as signs telling us to proceed at our own risk. Which is a good idea, because to get close the cliffs, you have two choices. You can walk on the other side of these slabs of granite which is not that scenic:

Or you can eschew that, and take a walk on the wild side. I cannot begin to describe how spooky this is. I tried to take a photo that would convey it, but this was the closest I dared get.

Of course, we aren't the only ones there:

But then I wasn't the only one at any of the chateaux I visited in the Loire Valley last year. An attraction is an attraction - everyone wants to see it. And that makes for the usual number of corny tourist traps. For example, what would the Cliffs of Moher be without…

(No, I don't go in).

An hour or so later, we meet back at the bus which takes us to Sheedy's Country House Hotel** where we will be staying for two days...

And meeting our bikes for the first time….

*https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fight_of_the_Century
**http://www.sheedys.com/

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