From here to there and somewhere in between way (and not a green way in sight.)

Tags

birkenstoks, caravan, Co Galway, Greenways, redingtons of clarinbridge, seamus Heaney, thatch cottages., the flaggy shore., the west of ireland, the yellowbicycle, Tyrone House

When it comes to being on a bicycle, there are those who incline to greenways and others to the open roadway.

But a few of us veer towards the small stony find your own way.Grass growing in the middle-way. Thatch cottage and stone wall way. Out of the ordinary way. Getting totally lost way. Stop and ask the locals the way. Past the old disused pump way. Clamber over the lichen covered wall way. Push your bike along the seashore way. Pass the hawthorn fashioned by the prevailing wind way. And the ancient shell midden way. Find the house of your dream way. Arrive back to where you started way. Realise that though the hours have passed and you haven’t been idle you haven’t done huge mileage  way. 

Last Saturday I woke in a small caravan along a flaggy shore.

Not Seamus Heaney’s flaggy shore, but a similar stretch of land jutting out into the Atlantic to the north of his.

The world outside my window was cloaked in mist.

From my bed I could just make out the red shellfish dredger dangling, suspended between sea and sky and the small pier with its two idle boats.

and finally as though the curtain of a stage was slowly lifting, the sinister ruins of Tyrone house across the bay. (NOT a good Landlord from all accounts).

I sipped my morning coffee and considered how by sheer placement he could spy on the tenants across the bay even though he would have been better looking after his own, because this side of the bay was under the reign of a more benevolent Landlord, Redington of Clarinbridge

Yesterday I had noted that all these objects were correctly attached to land and sea, which assured me that I and my caravan had not become adrift in some ethereal land while I lay sleeping.

Despite this mist, the day had the makings of a good one and by the time I had finished that first coffee, followed by my breakfast of almond scone and coffee it had cleared.

Recently a ‘slow bicycle’ friend from Canada made a cycling map of his city with places of interest sketched out. I wish I had thought of doing that on this route.

Instead here is a photographic pictorial of my wanderings by which I will (instead of writing any commentary) take you along.

Just to say that the sprig of elderflower attached to my handle bars to protect me from punctures and getting lost only worked for the former.

and that the gap in photos between the pump and scrabbling with the yellow bicycle across the low wall onto the seashore is due to the fact that I had to concentrate in wading barefoot through a muddy seaweedy shortcut to reach the field that would finally lead me to the shore. (Thank goodness for easily slip off-able Birkenstoks)

I could call my route the thatch cottage way but that would be too obvious and so with no further ado get on your bicycle and follow me!

And home again five hours later with the sun well and truly in the sky and the mist gone.

 

 

 

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When the shoe is on the other foot (Wild camping barefoot style)

Tags

browntrout lakes, fishing, holy wells, Omey Island, St Feichín, storms, the west of ireland, the yellow bicycle, turf, weather forecast, wild camping

Crossing the beach at low tide is the only way to Omey Island. I am in search of Saint Féichíns well (Ordnance map no:37). The only need for my shoe is to stop the stand on my bicycle sinking into the wet sand. Below is st Feichíns well in which disappointedly there was no feckin water.

I can stay in the grandest of hotels with the best of them but give me wild camping anyday and I will really feel at home.

The yellow bicycle proving her worth as a means of sheet drying.

Wild camping is very much in vogue these days but for me it is more an addiction than a fashion. I have wild camped year in year out since I was a child. In fact I have been reared on it and every year around the same time my head turns westwards and I sniff the air and pack my tent.

I can’t help myself.

When we were young my dad who had a great ‘grá’ for the west would do the same. One day he would be happily rowing around our local lakes (Actually we would be rowing he would be fishing) the next, he would give the command and the process of packing for a  month or two of wild camping would begin (Again it was my mother and us who did the packing, my dad just organized his fishing gear) and we would head westward in search of the perfect place that would allow him fish and do his watercolors, my eight siblings, swim and explore and my mother keep tabs on us all.

Now, my parents didn’t wild camp because they chose specifically to do so , It was something they just did.

They didn’t need to give it a name.

Even if there had been campsites back then my father would have shunned them.

He could not see the point of lumping a crowd of people together in an enclosed area full of tents. (We are enough of a crowd on our own he would say, as he escaped across the bog towards some small lake, creel over his shoulder, Hardy rods in hand and proverbial tweed jacket which he only removed on the warmest of days about his body, its pockets filled with his small water color box and brushes, to fish peacefully on some small brown trout filled lake away from his feral children).

We camped wherever there was water.  By rivers and lakes and sea. On the sides of mountains where streams splashed over rocks and once in the grounds of the ruins of an old abbey (with a lake nearly at its doorstep) where my mother heard the long departed monks sing at night.

But mostly we camped by the sea. On strips of unfenced land running down to white shell encrusted beaches and turquoise oceans. And we would abandon our shoes and run barefoot for the summer.

A week ago I found myself once again in such a place re pegging down my tent as gale force winds did their best to deny me the certainty of a bed for the night.

But I was not concerned for it was not new to me. (‘Tent battling’ is considered by many of us wild campers as a sport and we relish it in the same way two people in a proper camp site with shelter and electricity might relish a game of cards as a way of passing the evening).

The night after the storm when the wind calmed to a gentle breeze I took out my notebook (Wild camping =no electricity=no laptop) and jotted down a list of my tips on the art of wild camping.

These tips will soon alert you to the fact that I do not wild camp in the south of spain nor on the greek islands but rather in the wilds of the west of Ireland.

• DON’T check the weather forecast before you go (or you will never go)
• Umbrellas do NOT count as part of rain gear. (They will be turned inside out, spines broken and carted out to sea in less than a minute of unfurling them)
• Abandon shoes and other conventional footwear. This is your chance to kill two birds with the one stone (Wild camping and barefoot living go hand in hand…Pardon the pun)
• You may wear clothing (Ireland is too cold not to)
• Prepare to spend a lot of time standing on a hill holding up a wetted finger (the old way of telling which way the wind is coming from)
• Dry bedding is a priority (As opposed to a tidy looking tent interior) and gets priority of place even if it means giving up your new camping chair for it.
• Bring lots of bread, butter and jam (They are a comfort food and you will need lots of comfort food)
• Bring lots of drink (I mean wine and whiskey not water)
• In fact bring more drink than food.
• Forget about your five a day (There is nothing worse than dreeping peaches in a small tent, squished lettuce underfoot, sticky oranges when water is only for drinking (don’t use wine to wash your hands unless you love ants)
• If you ARE obsessed about your five a day, remember wine is made from grapes so drink five glasses of wine)
• Expect to come back from your rainy walk and find a group of random people sheltering in your tent
• Understand that it is normal not to know these people personally.
• Remind yourself that that it is ok to allow them stay (you may find yourself with the same need sometime)
• Remind yourself also that random walkers (no matter how irritating) are likely to carry chocolate in their pockets and maybe willing to admit to this and share it with you in return for a half hours shelter.
• Remind yourself that it is ok to search their pockets if they refuse to admit carrying a chocolate stash(due to the tightness of the tent they maybe unable to stop you doing this)
• Give them a generous nip of your whiskey (drunk people on the whole are more compliant)
• Don’t Try to detain them when they wish to leave. No matter how lonely you are after a week or so without the company of another human being (Drunk random walkers carry swiss knives and may not hesitate in attempting to cut themselves out of your tent if you refuse to unzip it by conventional means)
• It is allowed to take whiskey in your Irish breakfast tea. (Whiskey is made of wheat and so is toast but a toaster has no place in the list of wild camping equipment)
• Don’t forget your Kelly Kettle (Thank you Kelly brothers from Co Mayo.)https://www.kellykettle.com/kelly-kettle-history.
• If you eat tomatoes prepare to find (the following year) a crop of such plants where you dug your toilet hole.
• Dig your toilet hole between showers (there is nothing quite as unfulfilling..Again, Pardon the pun, as getting drenched whilst carrying out such a boring chore. No one has ever to my knowledge being rewarded by finding treasure despite digging a super deep hole).
• Bring your ordnance survey maps.(see reason below)
• Search for a spring well, of which there are are over 3,000 in Ireland (marked in red on Ordnance survey maps). The water from such a facility is so sweet and well worth the search.
• But don’t always expect to find water in the well. (I spent a half a day searching for Saint Féchins well on Omey Island only to find there was no feckin water in it)
• Remind yourself that it is permissible (even advisable) to lick your plate after each meal.
• Increase your wine intake as the day progresses and the wind strengthens.
• Bring earplugs (To cut out the noise of the flapping tent)
• Actually don’t bring earplugs (you will need to be able to hear if you need to abandon the tent)
• Familiarize yourself with the tent noise EWS (early warning score) This system is an internationally recognised scoring system devised to alert nurses on the stability of their patients with a view for the need to send them to the High Dependency Unit. Being a nurse I use it on a daily basis and have tweaked it for my own wild camping use.(See below)

Score of one: The odd mild flap (to be expected on the calmest of summer nights)

score of two: Flapping of front section only (nothing to get excited about just watch your cooking table doesn’t get upended)

Score of three: Continuous flapping of whole tent (check out a more sheltered spot but no need to take action yet)

Score of four: Annoyingly loud flapping with parts of tent blowing inwards (check guy ropes and tighten if necessary)

Score of five: flapping loud enough to prevent you having a normal conversation. Yes talking aloud to oneself is considered normal whilst wild camping. (Strongly consider move to that sheltered spot)

Score of six: Loud flapping preventing sleep and finding your nose constantly tickled by the now flattening inwardness of your tent. (In the field of nursing this score would warrant ALERTING the patient to HDU staff and taking necessary actions for imminent transfer) So begin your move to the more sheltered place as follows:

Remember it will be pitch black and probably raining

I suggest going naked because their is no point in wasting precious dry clothing.

Prepared to get drenched.

Leave your bedding intact in tent.

Pull up all pegs and free all guy ropes. Allow the wind to catch it. The wind will blow the tent in the direction you want. You just need to hold on and guide it.

When you reach your sheltered place (around a hill or even a hummock) Pull the tent around into it and re peg .

Reward yourself with a nip of whiskey, dry your body briskly with towel and snuggle back into bed. Sleep soundly.

Score of seven: Ripping sounds from tent and snapping of poles (Evacuate! you obviously didn’t read the above, have left it too late and don’t deserve to be considered a wild camper)

As I lift my head from my notebook I note the wind has swung to the north west, Time to light the Kelly Kettle and make a cup of tea.

Now where did I put that bottle of whiskey.

 

 

The kelly kettle is the one in the background left. In this photo I am boiling some potatoes in my conventional kettle. A kind farmer gave me a gift of a bag of turf. Yes they ARE firelighters in the basket. It’s perfectly ok to cheat now and again.

The exuberant flounderings of a reluctant sea woman ( A mermaids tale)

Tags

camping., castles, downfalls, mermaids, sisters, storms, the west of ireland, the yellow bicycle

I am sitting on a rock looking out to sea, contemplating Mermaids.

‘Do you think you may have been a mermaid in a previous life’ ? I ask myself ‘Would you like to be a mermaid ‘?

As yet I am only pondering these questions. I am in no rush to come up with any immediate answers

But last weekend I found myself heading west with my sister and a friend in search of a suitable seaworthy abode for a mermaid.

Did I say ‘mermaid’ I meant ‘mermaids’.

Probably 8 in total.

It all began with a photo!

Of a tiny kitchen in a small green tent.

It must have been the colours that caught the eye of a few Online friends. Or maybe it was the book on connemara or even the shiney coffee pot.

It certainly looked like a inviting nest where one could crawl out of the small space and stand in the morning sun, stretch and greet the day, admire the view and plan a swim or a walk or a cycle.

But what the photo failed to show was the northwesterly storm blowing outside, causing that small tent to dance and tug on its guy ropes, whipping up the waves and sending the diving terns skew ways.

Yes! the photo which should have been a blur caused by the movement of flapping canvas which in turn led to shaking table as the wind pushed the side of the tent inwards was taken with a modern camera which had the ability of catching a frame and freezing all motion.

I crawled out to check the guy ropes were keeping us attached firmly to the ground and righted the yellow bicycle which had blown over on it’s side (another dent to it’s already rusty battered frame), this was a place of rock.

Back inside I made some order to my tiny kitchen, put on a pot of coffee, found my book (Tim Robinson’s ‘Connemara’) and settled myself comfortably upon my blow up bed and silk cushions to wait out the storm, hoping it wouldn’t take a turn for the worse, taking me and my accoutrements out to sea.

In the midst of reading and sipping and waiting out the storm, I took the photo.

And from that kitchen on that stormy day came the mermaid project.

Whether it will flourish or flounder (pardon the pun) remains to be seen.

~~~~~~~~

I am a woman of enthusiasm.

And spontaneity.

I open my mouth before I think things through. I even speak my thoughts out loud without realising it.

This was all very well when I was young and had the energy to carry out my impetuous ideas.

They usually worked.

I had a good gut instinct for the impromptu schemes that I knew I would be able to accomplish. (Cycling the the wild atlantic way two years running, cycling belgium and the netherlands, cycling the towpaths of Ireland. Cycling across france after my treatment for cancer, to name but a few.) I was able to convince myself that because I had accomplished these ventures, my impetuosity was a good thing

But I am older now and NOT wiser and even though my head is full with idea’s it doesn’t seem able to convince my brain that my body has slowed down.

So I try to reign myself in a bit and strive to meditate.

I feel it (meditation) will help me become one of those calm women who smile serenely and pause before replying. Who sensibly say ‘ I will think about it’ before committing themselves.

But……..

‘Lets meet here next year’ I typed with gusto on my trusty laptop to all those who gave positive feedback on my photo. ‘Lets camp and chat and play music and swim and of course cycle’.

(It was, after all through love of bicycles that we had originally met).

‘Yes yes yes!’ my mermaid friends typed back with equal enthusiasm. ‘Lets do all those things’!

I was slightly taken aback ….and a bit scared by the exuberance and speed of their replies.

I realised these mermaid ladies meant business.

Now every irish person knows when someone says yes they mean no and vice versa.

‘Would you like a cup of tea’?

‘Ah no’ Is the expected reply

‘ah you will!’

‘ No, no!’

‘Ah go on’.

‘Alright so!’

(it’s acceptable to accept the third offer)

‘But just a cup in the hand’ (The irish way of saying, without cake or biscuit or other accompaniments)

Oh how you have been DYING for that cup of tea.

It took marriage to a dutch man to learn that the above only pertained to Ireland and I learnt it the hard way!

During my first visit to my new sister in law I politely said no to a lovely cup of freshly brewed coffee (we were still drinking instant in ireland in the home. You had to go to Bewleys or Roberts if you wanted fresh coffee and that was only in Dublin) and sat sadly while everyone sipped merrily at there’s.

‘I thought you loved coffee’ my new dutch husband exclaimed later as we drove home. ‘

‘I do’ I cried ‘but I was waiting to be asked a second time’.

‘A second time?’ He looked at me perplexed ‘Why do you need to be asked twice? If you didn’t want it the first time why would you want it when asked a second time?’.

He was genuinely puzzled and I tried to explain how it was seen as polite in Ireland if you refused the first time. He thought that was stupid as well as confusing and even downright lying. You want something yet you say you don’t want it, just so you can appear polite.

I tried to explain it was deeper than that. Irish people are extremely hospitable and would give you their last crumb. It is a sort of unspoken code that the guest understands that the host may actually be too poor to have extra food or drink in the house to offer. 

But back to the mermaids.

I now hoped that the enthusiasm everyone was showing would, just like the northwest gale blowing around my tent the day of the photo, die down.

But it didn’t and so in a panic I went to visit my very practical sister and get some advice.

‘I feel responsible’ I wailed ‘ for the enthusiasm of these mermaids. They are making quite a journey to get here. They think from my photo that they are in for a weeks camping in glorious weather. What if it rains the whole time and they are stuck wet and miserable inside small tents. What if it blows a gale for the entire week?’

My very practical sister sat for a moment looking out to sea, the wind whipping her hair about her rosy cheeks.

She thought awhile before turning back to me.

‘We will rent a castle’ She announced stoutly.

‘A castle on the sea. After All, If a castle can withstand northwesterly gales for over two hundred years, it will continue to withstand them, at least until the end of next june’.

‘No mermaid in this day and age needs to be wet and miserable!’ She continued ‘Now lets get off this rock and go and find one.’

And that is how my very practical sister got entangled in the mermaid’s Tale too.

To be continued

~~~~

The weather, mermaids are unlikely to get for their week’s camping.

Heading to the ‘other place’ (Wild camping beyond the wild atlantic way)

Tags

Afternoon tea, cafes, families, holy wells, John Creedon, the west of ireland, The wild atlantic way, the yellow bicycle, wild camping

Every year at about this time, a longing comes on me to travel west in search of solitude. 

Wild camping. Going for early morning swims. Picking mussels off the rocks to cook with garlic, and wild thyme for my supper.

Sitting and being mesmerized by the sea. Watching gannets and terns dive and If I’m lucky seeing a pod of dolphins swim by my camp, which is set so close to the water that I can almost touch the waves with my toes as I sleep.

Drinking from the tidal spring well. Walking barefoot. Exploring small boreens on my yellow bicycle.

These are the things I dream about during the winter.

I usually stop enroute to visit those of my family who live in the west.

***

I am sitting drinking coffee with my sister in a cafe in a small town in the west of ireland.

Its a tiny establishment. Three bar chairs along a counter. A window seat with a small table in front of it. Two more mismatched tables and three seating areas outside. My sister loves this place despite the fact you don’t always get what you order.

Ask for an americano and you will most likely get a cappuccino.

Order a latte and you may get an americano.

The elderly man who runs the cafe is not interested in complaints and no one bothers objecting to what is placed in front of them.

The coffee is the best you’ll get around here and he knows it. He also sells olive oil from a friends olive farm in Italy. Local honey. Duck eggs, though today that area of the shelf is empty and a sign stating ‘ducks are not laying at the moment’ stands in place of the eggs, and bags of coffee.

The menu is simple. Bagel with cheese and ham. Tuna sandwiches. Homemade apple pie. Chocolate cake.

The place is busy and we are lucky to get a spot at the window seat.

My sister orders an americano for me and a latte for herself.

A cappuccino arrives, followed a few minutes later by a second one. Much cursing and banging can be heard between the making of them from behind the counter at the ancient coffee machine.

‘I’m getting a new machine tomorrow’ the proprietor tells us proudly.’ I’ll be able to make two coffees at the same time’

‘Good’ retorts my sister ‘Now maybe we’ll get what we order’. I look worriedly at his retreating back (I’ve never been thrown out of anywhere in my life) ‘Ah he’s deaf don’t worry’ she laughs ‘Do you know his goal is to get his clients chatting to each other. If you want a quiet cup of coffee forget it! though some days he’s not very successful’.

This seemed to be one of those days.

My sister and I are easy in each others company and laugh a lot. The other customers are a quiet bunch, mostly seriously reading their newspapers and rattling their spoons noisily. (all coffee’s are served in china teacups). After a few futile attempts to draw them together, the owner gives up and busies himself behind the counter.

Our conversation, meanwhile, turns from mundane chat to discussing our mad family.

‘My Tom thinks he got the sanest of us’ She grins at me over the rim of her coffee cup.

I am about to reply that, seeing as I have a job as a nurse in a busy surgical ward where insanity among staff would not be tolerated, maybe I am the sanest of us, when her mobile phone rings.

She listens attentively for a moment before shouting loudly into the receiver

‘Don’t worry, I have the semen in the jeep! I can meet you on the Leenane road’

You could hear a pin drop in the place!

I look around nervously hoping no one has overheard her. Everyone appears busy taking great interest in their teacups.

‘Or’ …She looks at me enquiringly with one eyebrow raised.

I shake my head vehemently. Nope! I do not want to spend the day helping inseminate mares through fair means or foul.

‘Ok! the Leenane road it is so, see you in about thirty minutes’

She throws her phone into her bag.

I want to tell the other customers in the cafe (is it my imagination or are they leaning closer in our direction) that my sister has a licence in artificial insemination but before I can open my mouth she is up off her seat.

‘Come on’ she shouts ‘I can leave you back at the house first’

I better mention here that not only are we mad but we are also a family of shouters.

A thing which we cannot be held responsible for!

We developed this as a necessity when we were young and spending our summers in the west.

As we traipsed across and spread ourselves widely over vast areas of mountain, lake and seashore, we needed to be able to communicate and so slowly we developed powerful vocal skills to enable us to do so successfully.

And the fact that our mother was taken away to be treated for TB for a whole year when we were young meant we learned to take responsibility for each others safety from an early age.

So…

Though we could be far apart and busy at our various tasks of collecting shells or searching in rock pools or climbing high sand dunes or scaling cliffs, every now and again we would lift our heads and call out, checking on each others whereabouts.

###

The next morning I say farewell to my (mad/shouty) sister and head southwards.

The sheeffry hills are to my right, the partry mountains to my left.

I pass a large ugly blue sign with a WWW painted in white proclaiming the ‘wild atlantic way’. Why oh why did they not make them look more appealing? How difficult would it have been to curl each wave?

And there is an ‘S’ in brackets on this one for fear you didn’t know you were heading south.

For some reason it is placed in front of and blocking the view of a small lake whose water lily leaves are upturned prettily by the breeze. A water hen with her chicks is nosing noisily among the reeds (I know this because I stopped to look behind the sign)

‘Tell us about your hidden gems’ John creedon demanded of us recently on an RTE program in which he is  travelling northwards in a old fashioned vw camper along this now famous way.

‘Your small laneways leading to hidden places’.

‘I will not’ I emailed him, ‘If I did, they would no longer be hidden, and once unhidden, the county council will see it necessary to place a tarmacadam car park. A height restriction barricade. A cement toilet block and some rubbish bins (to the delight of the crows) and that would certainly take the ‘gem’ out of them’.

‘And anyway go and find them yourself! In your little VW van!’

Of course I didn’t put it as rudely as that.

I wrote instead of my concern that we were jumping without caution into promoting tourism with this idea. (for which I am sure some young chap, who barely leaves his dublin office, except for his holidays which he spends in the maldives renting a house on stilts perched over crystal waters whose very presence is destroying the living reefs there, came up with, and was well rewarded for, the thinking of) that I feared the very thing they wanted to promote i.e the wildness of it would be destroyed and that I agreed with Jeremy Irons, who was interviewed on the program that the west coast should be treated carefully and with delicacy and that we should maybe get out of our cars and walk or cycle it.

Remember the story of the goose that laid the golden egg?

But maybe I am being unfair to Mr Creedon. Afterall I don’t have a TV and only happened upon one episode of series when dog sitting one day at my daughters house. Maybe later he did go off himself in later episodes down small boreens in search of hidden gems.

With no further ado. I head south along the wild Atlantic way and beyond it and set up my camp so close to the sea that my toes can tip the water from my doorway

~~~~~

The next morning I wake to be greeted by some startled sheep which appear to have been dropped from the heavens. They eye me and my camp nervously before making their way past and scuttle on to the beaches behind.

I take my morning swim, make and drink my coffee and pack the panniers of the yellow bicycle with some sustenance for my cycling day ahead.

 Other’s seem to have started the day ahead of me.

I set off up the hill away from my tent and from here I can see my road in the distance.

The road across the bog from Ballinaboy bridge to Cashel is a delight. Not an electricity pole or pylon to antagonise the view. The wind is from the north west and behind me.

I sail along only having to pedal more strongly at some slight hills. I won’t bore you trying to describe it.

Here is what I see.

The country house hotel does the most amazing afternoon tea for the errant cyclist and the owner does not seem in the slightest bit perturbed by my wind swept hair or my grass stained knees (I have been taking a lot of photo’s)

I sit and spread thick cream and fresh strawberry on warm scones and try not to make too much slurping noises. The waiter, a friendly chap, who gives me as much attention as the owners of the maserati parked outside, fills me in on holy wells of which I have professed great interest.

He tells me of one up behind the graveyard.

‘Walk around it anticlockwise’ He instructs me. ‘And don’t forget to throw some coins in for luck. I’ll be up to fish them out in the morning’ He adds laughing

‘I’ll throw in a five euro note for good measure’ I say with a straight face.

He gets my joke and his booming laugh knocks the maserati owners out of their sunday stupor.

When I ask him what the well has the cure of, he thinks deeply, scratching his head.

‘It’s for all ailments’ He says at last.

I know this can’t be true but I go up to visit the well anyway.

(To be continued)