Well, some time has passed since my last trip away.
A little older, little wiser but in need a little sniff of something different.
The original plan, in 2020, was to wait till the school holidays had finished and travel through Holland and Germany to Denmark because, at the time, it was reported to be the happiest place in the world, and I reckoned I could do with soaking a bit of that up.
Then we had the pandemic, and everything went on hold, my finger twiddling because I couldn't get away on a little trip being somewhat smaller than the global need to reduce deaths from it. Stay home and do your best. I did my best.
Through 2021 I was still hoping to get away, but the joys of Denmark began to fade given their rapid falling from global happiness heights, their governments pandering to hyper right wing political parties to become right mean cunts. As someone from a country who has a rather poor history of appeasing Nazis, I recon Denmark could do a lot better, but in the end, they weren't too interested in accepting UK nationals either because of the pandemic. Favel Danmark.
So, a different plan. Perhaps to go somewhere where tourists are the normal and travel restrictions might be a little less difficult.
In the meantime, my fellow Pegaso riding mate Bruce, significantly more well-travelled than me, was feeling the itch too.
Bruce and I installing some plastic flamingos into someones garden whilst they were out for reasons I dont undertand.This is not going to end well is it?
There are different kinds of itch. there is the hair on the skin itch, the paper on skin itch, cardboard, plastic, aluminium, steel, cobalt, uranium 238 and then dragon’s claw.
We were both at dragon’s claw level and were willing to do just about anything, including spend long periods of time in each others company to get away. To be fair, we both are people who love to explore the little roads, the history, the people. To go on a proper little adventure. Any more flamingos might just get my goat though.
We made plans to head to Northern Spain and then head north through France to back home. Some fantastic places found.
However, as time got closer it became clear that travel plans might be changed at very little notice.
So, what to do? Let’s not bother Europe, we've done that enough. Let’s go bother someone a little closer to home. Fire up the VAA!
Did I not say, I have a new bike, the Very Angry Airbed.
25 August 2021 - VAA
After winning a contract to provide services for a non-executive branch of the government which would see me travelling to all corners of England, dear old Betty, my 14 year old bike with over 60 000 miles on the clock and more dents than a Douglas Adams novel would have to be replaced. She was still going well, but I had to have a super reliable bike to travel the country dishing out my increadibly valube thoughts on trees.
I ended up selling Betty to a Polish chap who loved her history. I think they will have a long and fruitful relationship!
So, I got a lift on the back of Bruce’s bike over the Pennines to Padgetts at Batley to pick up my nearly new bike, a Yamaha T700, everything the next generation of middleweight adventure bikes ought to be. Apart from it being too heavy.
After melting a large proportion of my biking trousers to Bruce's bike, the cheerfully monikered "The Bastard" on the trip over, my new bike was wheeled out for me. My first thought was, it looks a bit bigger than last week when I had a new bike semi on. Quite a lot bigger.
Being 5'5" or 5'6" with a blow dry, I'm never going to play for the Harlem Globetrotters but this bugger currently looked like the north face of the Eiger. I wasn't going to ask for some step ladders to try to get on the thing because that would have been embarrassing, but, it did cross my mind.
So a few adjustments needed. either some Elton John platforms or a lowering kit.
On the plus side, Just like the summit of the Eiger, the view once on top was a joy. Added to this a load more power, a whole 72 ponies, considerably more miles per gallon, great handling and suspension that could hit a pothole at motorway speeds and not bother too much. I did like as long as I didn’t have to try to get my foot on the ground.
It took a few months, but I eventually got her lowered by 6cm so I could easily get a foot down, added a few creature comforts, got the sat nav installed and found her to be a very comfortable ride, even through central London. But what to call her? A bike needs to develop a bit of character before you can give it a name and after 9 months or so I still could not think of anything witty, funny or telling. In the end it reverted back to the initial comment I made when I took the test drive. "It’s like a very angry airbed!" VAA
27 August 2021 – Back of a fag packet plans
The requirements of this trip were somewhat exacting and caused many a trip down the wrong tunnel, as they say. Some prime directives were defined early on:
1) Go somewhere different on a motorcycle.
2) Go with Bruce
3) Go somewhere interesting
4) Go somewhere where every other bugger hasn’t decided to go
5)
Go
when less of point 4 would be likely to happen at any stage of the day
6) Go somewhere where if one was to become ill, for whatever reason, one could rely on NHS medical treatment and get home without serious bother
7) Go somewhere where the rules would not be changed in the blink of an eye
8) Go somewhere where there aren’t too many people on the whole
9) If point 3, 4, 5 and 8 are to be valid, somewhere warm and dry each evening is essential because the possibility of getting proper wet is ever increasing the way these bloody rules are panning out.
10) Go somewhere where people aren’t too bleeding hung up with rules
Just about every person was heading to northern Scotland with reports of locals throwing yogurt at campervans trundling around the North West 500 so that was going to cause a conflict with points 4, 5 and 8 of the prime directive.
I’ve had enough of the prime directive already and will not be referring to it again. Bloody waste of time.
Neither of us smoked and so we couldn’t make plans on the back of a fag packet but we eventually came up with a plan which we drew on a used bog roll. I know this is true because I have just made it up.
It seemed like a pretty solid plan. Riding in Galloway, Scotland, Northern Ireland, Northern Eire in early September was likely to produce some pretty wet days and instead of camping and experiencing some rather miserable moments, stopping for longer in a single more permanent place and heading out to see different things with a warm base to drop back into looked like a good option.
The spots we were staying in seem to offer some fantastic riding and sites to see. I was getting busy on my rough guide to Ireland and my mapping software to find some wee bimble roads.
It was looking like a trip was on. Woopiee!
1st September 2021 Thieving Greek God Bastards
Now one thing appears to be apparent on buying an Italian motorcycle named after a greek demi-god, and that is there will be no god like reliability issues to put your faith in.
There are a container load of deities at work here and most of them are working way beyond their pay scale.
Pegasus – you sunshine, are just a horse. Know your place, Pegaso has 49 dobbins, fair enough you may haver wings but I think that any wind tunnel test would suggest you are not built for flying and se your ash shredded on the fan blades behind you.
Zeus - Zip it up you dirty old bastard. These days there are enough laws to make major gods like you do so much bird, your eternal being may become a useful thing. The longer inside the better because the whole world needs to be protected from dirty old gods with the bone.
Dionysus – god of wine. Have you any idea what sort of trouble you have caused? I bet Zeus and you make a right pair down the nightclub. No one needs a god of wine thank you very much.
Demeter – goddess of the harvest. That one would be ok if she took her job seriously and learned to drive a combine harvester, tractor or a tree harvester. About a useful as the Jolly Green Giant.
Hermes – the messenger of the god. Now it is this dude whom I am really going to let lose on because all of these gods tend to add other things onto their CV’s and one thing Hermes adds to his resume is the god of thieves. So when something gets nicked, it is god telling you something?
Bruce rode into Liverpool three or four weeks before we left to donate some platelets, (whatever they are, sounded medical, not crockery) leaving ‘The Bastard’ out on the street in a motorcycle parking area and when he came back it was gone.
Some of Hermes good mates had smashed off the steering lock and wheeled her away. Never to be seen again.
Now here’s hoping that if they got it going, the Bastard delivered them straight into hands of Hades, god of the underworld, but more likely than not, he’s also the part time god of Mr Whippy ice cream vans or generosity.
So, with no bike things are not going to be easy?
The Bastard and Betty in happier times.
Fortunately,
Bruce had listened to Quetzalcoatl, the Aztec god of life, the light and wisdom
and had bought two other Aprilia Pegasos, one belonging to Jean, his wife. So stick that in your incense burner Greek deities.
The trip was still on despite the thieving Greek god bastards.
5th September 2021 – about to go, lets sex it up.
Right, we go on Monday 6th and apart from forgetting the puncture repair kit there are no comical events on the horizon.
However, the whole trip doesn’t sound very sexy does it? Its not like the lead characters are Ryan Reynolds and Tom Hardy and we aren’t really going anywhere with dragons, people with guns or going in a homemade biplane.
I have decided to ramp it up and add a sub-plot after a marvellous night of researching the illegal brewing of Poitin in the northwest of Ireland. A good night of research.
For the uninitiated, the possibility of killing yourself was quite high, but the master distillers were held as minor deities (I’ve got to stop talking about gods) and their illicit products were considered the dogs, if you liked your poison (no joke) at above 90% proof.
You can buy officially made stuff but that is no fun, we need to find some proper hookey stuff.
The Rare old Mountain Dew sung by the DublinersTherefore, I have a new goal… to travel fast and light, to cross the sea, to sleep in a caravan, to avoid tourists, to find a neat little still at the foot of a hill and buy a bucket full of mountain dew.
I probably won’t drink it though.
Next post, we will be on our way!
Monday 6th September The hardest way possible to get to Scotland
It was time to and after farewells to the ever patient Mrs B and the dog, it was off.
I met Bruce at the Haydock junction of the M6, the plan being to get to Stranraer to our luxury accommodation.
However, the M6 and A75 didn’t really seem the sort of adventure we were after where the main challenges of the day would be choosing between a Costa Coffee or a Starbucks. Instead, tying to stick to the plan as close as possible, we would get to our destination on the wee roads, and preferably those which took us somewhere nice.
So a quick blast up the M6, and into the Yorkshire Dales. It wasn’t long before we were fighting into Malham amongst the other tourists but once out of the other side things quietened down and we could enjoy the views of the limestone pavements and moorlands from our unfenced single track road.
Every now and again we would have to use a larger A or B road to link in to another route, the amount of traffic coming as quite a shock. There was still a lot of people on holiday, and why not, the weather was good and views were fine.
Since getting my job for her majesty which I carry out on my bike, I’ve installed an intercom in my helmet, quite and expensive one which will allow me to make and take calls, listen to the radio and playlists as well as podcasts. Believe you me, a cross country trip to Great Yarmouth really does need some external stimulation. What is really good is that it is all done by voice command. It is a little I am Tony Stark in the Iron Man, but a much more easy to annoy and irritate Tony Stark.
However, like most technology I read the instructions and most of the time I’ve forgotten all the commands. The “Hey Cardo, launch missiles at the caravan” command does not seem to be initiating neither does the ‘Hey Cardo, engage warp speed because I’m on an overtake and the car coming the other ways is moving a bit faster that what I thought”, although to be fair to Cardo, I may been speaking that a little bit quickly”.
To get the thing to work I have to say “Hey Cardo”, and then command “Vodka martini, on the rocks, no ice”.
Things is with any spoken commands, I can’t help add a few other phrases. Things like “yer bastard” and “pleeeeeease”. The final, “Hey Cardo, if you don’t stop playing The Ting Tings in the next 10 seconds I am going to stop and give to the biggest Johnny Wilkinson kick a helmet has ever experienced” has also been heard.
Anyway, I digress, we finally got to Carlisle via some tourtured but lovely routes and Bruce’s bike, the imaginatively named Peg1, started to flash up service indicating something was going wrong.
We pulled over into a supermarket and the problem was soon fixed as Bruce fund the starter had stuck on. I was a little worried that had this been stuck for a while it may have mashed the gearbox, but nothing sounded too problematic, so we filled up and crossed the Metal Bridge into Scotland. When you cross into Scotland on the M6 you would never know it was there, but there is a lovely relaxing service road on the left which is a much more civilised way to get into Alba.
So into Scotland, we must be nearly there? Not really, Stranraer on the far west of southern Scotland, the gateway to Northern Ireland was almost 100 miles from Gretna.
A bit of a dreary drag from here, overtaking lines of holiday traffic mixed with lorries of good, every now and again the god of awful traffic queues (Greek deities kept this one quiet) throwing the snake eyes of a two lorries and a campervan to ensure a mile long traffic queue of frustration behind it that will never diminish. On a bike you could wizz round the queue in no timbe but you knew those poor drivers behind were going to suffer 100 miles of Hades’s chains.
Eventually Cainryan, and our little caravan which was great for the two of us. The caravan park had been freshly departed by most people, but we weren’t too fussed about a massive social gathering.
Over 350 miles travelled we were both pretty knackered!
Tuesday 7th September – Galloway and campervans
We had chosen a caravan park opposite the P&O ferry terminal at Carinryan near Stranraer and it initially had looked in a perfect location. Problem is that it was so close to the ferry terminal, every 2 hours the arrival or disembarking of a ferry would provide some disturbance to sleep along with a so 70’s “dududu, hello campers” type warning that echoed around the whole district.
Still, fairly well refreshed we set off on out first day of finding the wee roads of Galloway.
Setting off in cloud we knew better weather was on its way, but after 20 miles or so up the A77 towards Glasgow along the coast within an instant the weather changed to bright sunshine. The wonderful mountains to Galloway and Ayr to the east and calm unspoilt beaches lined with nothing but gulls facing inland up to their knees in water.
Apparently this is a common weather phenomenon in the area. So much so, the US build and airbase at Prestwick just up the road because the sky was so often clear and they needed to land jets there as they sent their cannon fodder over to Vietnam. This is why Prestwick is the only place on British soil where Elvis Presley ever set foot as he was carted off to Vietnam. Thank you very much.
Our first port of call was Turnberry where there is a vulgar Trump golf complex, the plan being to expose my arse for a picture by the sign. Given the security guard there this plan fell through. Leaving a deposit in one of the holes was also out as there is security in place for such actions. Also, there were no rounds in the chamber, so to speak.
From there it was to leave the tourist traffic and lorries behind and into the wee roads that I had been looking up on maps, Google earth, and recommendations. Anywhere away from the crowds, interesting places, great views, remote spots, that was where we were headed.
Deep into the Galloway forest park, where habitation was somewhere sparse, but windfarms were going up like skyscrapers in Dubai.
Finally coming down from the moorland we stopped by a fantastic loch and ate our superb ham and cheese butties.
Onto the
Raiders road, a forestry track open to the public, we bimbled along through the
forest stopping to take photos and enjoy the quiet.
After that we went to see the aptly named Bruce Stone in the incredibly beautiful Glen Trool where Robert the Bruce and a load of Irishmen chucked a load of rocks on the Earl of Pembroke and started Bruce's ascendancy good and proper.
It turned out that we had done many miles today and it was time to get back.
One thing to know about Scotland, and that is things are a long way from one another. This means that local people tend to drive fairy quickly because life is only so long and the least of it spent on the road the better.
However, add into this mix holiday makers who aren’t so fussed by time constraints, caravans and especially the new scourge of the roads, campervan driven by desperately unhappy baby boomers trying to make their investment of £70 000 in some huge HGV sized camper van with six wheels seem worth while. I’m sure you know the type, doing about 40mph, towing a car, a speedboat, a moped, a jetski and a lunar excursion rover. Up the front are two frowning retirees who haven’t spoken in 3 days both living in absolute fear of having to park the sodding thing, something reminiscent to trying to park the Death Star at Gretna Green motorway services.
Well, we wanted to get back on the A75 a good 40 miles and there were lots of such vehicles cluttering up the roads. It was annoying.
Wednesday 8th September. Sun and Seaside
Given we had both agreed that we had done too many miles yesterday, about 165 miles, we decided to try to do less miles and a few more stop offs. The weather today was reported to be glorious, so we planned to take in a few of the southern peninsulas of the Galloway coast.
Heading over the hills on a wonderful little single track road without a house in site we came across nothing but lakes, windmills and the occasional speeding van who was not expecting anyone coming the other way which somewhat spoilt the peaceful ambience of the ride.
We dropped into New Luce “Prettiest Wee Village, Scotland 2019”. There was no arguing about that. Back out over the moors we eventually turned to cross onto a peninsula stopping at a most interesting stone circle with a very refreshing note on the interpretation board stating “we don’t know what this was all about”.
On to the fabulous Port William by the sea where I was able to furnish Bruce with an excellent ice cream and made a new friend as we looked out to sea from this very picturesque village.
Up the coast to a wonderful beach for lunch, it was getting into silly temperatures, T shirts and shorts weather, in Scotland, in September. I would soon be getting a blue tan.
We then headed to the south Rhin of the Stranraer peninsula which was like a mini Lands End because in many ways it was because it was the far south western tip of Scotland. It was wonderful to see the sea bubble and foam as two different tides crashed into one another below the lighthouse. Perhaps best place not to have a paddle!
Last stop fo the day was Port Patrick where we wanded the town looking for the public lavies only to find them at the far end of it and wanting 50p per person for a deposit. Just likes as I found at Turnberry, I didn’t have one sufficiently loaded in the barrel so I really couldn’t make best use of my 50p, extracted from me by contactless payment.
To be fair the parking was for free, so I don’t mind paying for a pee.
Cup of tea later, we left for Stranraer to do some shopping and entered it by a different road in the less salubrious quarter. What is it with Scotland and blocks of flats? Its not as if there is a tremendous lack of space to build accommodation?
A trip to Morriisons to fill up, buy some food and back to the caravan to eat, pack up and get ready for the early morning ferry crossing.
Thursday 8th September Northern Ireland and Bust
We thought it might be possible to freewheel from the caravan site into the ferry terminal, but because some noisy tradies had kept us up drinking and talking to late, we made sure wefired up the bikes, despite it being before 7am the morning.
We shot
through booking in and were soon joined by a group of scooter riders on a ride
to a scooter convenstion in Northern Ireland. One of them was dressed in
shorts, and whilst it was still warm, the weather was looking threatening with
a close mist which seems to have been a very common occurrence in these parts.
As we loaded up onto the ferry, it began to rain, it had been forecast for some time. We got a coffee and settled in for the 2 hour trip which consisted entirely of two hours of looking at the inside of a cloud, the mist never clearing.
To pass the time we walked around the ferry, had a breakfast in the canteen and made as much use of the toilets as we could.
We left the ferry to be greeted by some heavy rain, and I for one resigned myself to a day or riding in pretty miserable conditions.
Not so, after 10 minutes the rain subsided into just spots and we began to enjoy the coastal road north from Larne. Often right by the sea with large cliffs to our right interspersed with characterful little fishing villages with brightly painted pubs. This was fun riding.
Pulling off the main road we settled down to some wee roads over the cliffs. There was little rain but always in the clouds. Beautiful fuchsia hedges one each side of the road were often found leading us along the quiet narrow lanes which eventually deposited us into dryer weather out of the clouds.
We stopped at the Giants Causeway and had a long chat with the chap taking money at the car park who offered to look after our bikes whilst we walked down to it. Northern Ireland seemed a lot more motorcycle tolerant than the rest of Britain with no big surprise because Road Racing is nigh on religion in the province.
We had out butties on the causeway and set off to Ballymoney to see the Joey and Robert Dunlop memorial gardens two brilliant road races and great philanthropists. Joey Dunlop’s record of TT wins has still not been surpassed.
Traffic was increasing, but our route took us away from the main roads and up into the Sperrin Mountains on the wee roads. There was no traffic and although the pace was slow, the views were fantastic. I never new Northern Ireland had so many interesting moorlands.
One thing that struck me was the amount of flags hanging from peoples houses, across the road, bunting, all red and white to signify Unionism/Protestantism. Flags tend to signify strong belief in religions, political movements or sport. Unless the sport in these places was farming, I suspect there was no strong allegiance to the driving of tractors, raising of livestock and spreading muck. The political and religious divide in the province is clearly still a big thing for many people and the flags reinforced that. Perhaps lots more work to bridge the divide is still needed.
As we approached the border with Ireland on a little road a shower had been through wetting up the landscape, as I slowly came into a bend the next thing I knew I was sliding on my side down the road. Everyone says that things slow down during a crash and I had quite a bit of time to consider “This isn’t fair, I was going really slow” and “Am I still in the UK so if I have to go to hospital I won’t have to pay an excess on my travel insurance”, additionally I had a brief worry whether I had ticked the box for motorcycle travel on my travel insurance, but this was all ended with the thought “ I really hope the bike is in front of me, not behind me”.
This was quickly confirmed to me as I bounced off a tyre.
Fuck.
Quick check - head, arms, leg, meat and two veg. All present. I got up from the road to find VAA buried deep in a roadside hedge, just a skid plate and 2 wheels visible.
Bruce was soon on scene and as soon as he knew I was Ok proceeded to turn into Spielberg and document the whole affair. There was no way we would be able to drag the bike out of hedge by ourselves but soon a few passer by stopped to check everyone was Ok and help to retrieve the bike. It took 5 people to pull her out of the hedge.
Quick check – engine casing, forks, wheels, lights, brakes, radiator. Nothing significant damage.
Plastics was another matter, the screen had snapped off the mudguard was shattered and lots of lower fork plastics had been torn apart as the bike had flipped into the hedge.
It soon became apparent that this was an accident blackspot as Bruce pulled assorted vehicle plastics out the hedge and enquired if they belonged to me. The majority did not. A major find was discovered a few metres down the hedge where bits of the mudguard were recovered from first contact and the crowning glory, the screen was fished out from deep within the hedge.
So what had caused this accident? Apparently there had been little rain over the past few weeks and the road surface after the recent rain was incredibly slippy. The locals who had helped us out told us that this was an accident blackspot, somewhat evidenced by the amount of holes in the hedge. Bruce had locked up his wheel approaching the bend and a couple of cars approaching chattered away with ABS.
After hammering a few things straight-ish, it was time to go. I was a bit shocked by the whole affair but felt Ok to do the final 25 miles over the border to Donegal. Probably the best thing to do as I got back used to riding the bike.
Over the border into Donegal, the sun shone through threatening clouds around the mountains. Although I was full of wanting to limp back home and dark feelings in my gut, this place looked fantastic and although I needed to repair the mudguard to effectively ride, I couldn’t shirk away from this without at least trying to effect a work around repair.
We arrived
at the holiday cottage, Bruce went for some supplies in town whilst I had a
little cry surrounded by broken motorcycle parts and a few cans were snapped
open to celebrate still being here.Bloddy hell!
Friday 10th September- Piecing it all together
I woke in little better mood than I had gone to bed with. Yes, things could have been much worse but I was not wanting to ride around on a smashed up bike throwing around water from a shattered mudguard. The rest of the broken plastics like the windshield I could live without, but some things would make riding a real problem.
Fortunately, I had packed my gas powered soldering iron thinking I may need to fix some broken electrics on Peg 1. Now I was going to have to do some plastic welding, and lots of it! Having only done plastic welding with a low power electric soldering iron in the past, I was very sceptical that I could do a good job with a very hot gas powered one potentially melting everything in site before it could tack together.
Starting off on some of the less visible and less stressed bits I soon became more confident in the process. I then began to add more plastic donated from cable ties to areas that needs extra strength.
Plastic welding extrodinair!
With each new piece of plastic welded on, I felt a renewed sense of overcoming the obstacles and keep going on the plan.
After all morning on it, the mudguard was finished. A few bits were missing but in large it was complete.
We then went into Donegal to go shopping, pick up some hardware to further repair the bike and to look around the town. What a great place. The central square was called the Diamond, the central square of most towns just rotated 45 degrees. It was very busy, schools just closed, I guess mass being given with the usual Friday rush.
We wandered around Aldi shopping for a good 2 to 3 days worth of supplies. In the car park we chatted for a long time with a local chap who pointed us towards some excellent roads. People in Donegal had so far been very kind, funny and helpful. Top marks there.
When we got back to the cottage, Bruce said we should go to the beech down the road. So we did.
Once back, I welded my mirror back together and added some extra super steel to try to hold it in position. I wasn’t holing out too much hope but you never know!
Friday 11th September 2021 – will it work
I was eager to see if the bike was fit for the road or if it would fall apart like a cheap watch. Either possibility was likely.
So off we set with showers forecast, but nothing of any prolonged or serious nature.
At first a rather dull main road and then into the fishing town of Killybegs which had a wonderful petrol station/bar combo.
Coming off the main road and onto a wee road picking its way along the cliffs we reached the Muckross peninsula, a little spur of land which gave us fantastic views up and down the coast into Sligo and towards the Slieve League cliffs.
Carrying on we reached the Slieve League car park a good 2km from the main viewing point of the cliffs. An official waved us over to a chap by the gate. We expected to be ushered into a specific parking place but instead the chap opened the gate and told us to ride on up but don’t block in the shuttle bus. We had 2klm of hard stares from mere car drivers who had to walk, staring at two wheeled minor deities taking their rightful place at the top car park, whilst allowing ample room for the major deity of the shuttle bus.
It’s a good job really, because there’s no way I would have walked up that bank and distance in my biking gear!
Anyway Slieve League, the tallest sea cliffs in Europe. The picture doesn’t really say it but they are rather large.
After getting nipped by midges Bruce bought himself an ice cream (I think this is going to become a reoccurring theme) and we saddled up ready for the ride of hard stares. Come better equipped is the message from these minor deities.
A short sharp rain shower saw me putting on waterproofs just as the shower finished and I was already wet. The crap gaffer tape I had used to plug the holes in my waterproof were now flapping about like unionist flags on Orange day. They had to come off. It was a warts and all do from now on!
Into the hills we passed through the not particularly impressive Glengesh pass. Doubling back on ourselves we came across the rather impressive Assaranca falls and beyond that we rose into the mountains on a delightful road back to the Glengesh pass.
We headed back to the cottage over the mountains. The day had proved that nothing was immediately going to fall off the bike and things were holding together well. However, the lack of windscreen made wind noise a bit uncomfortable and irritating.
Back at the cottage I started to plastic weld the windscreen holder on, but this required dismantling the front end and was considerably harder as the material was some sort of plastic composite and it took a lot of heat to melt it.
Bruce had gone for a walk up to the local shop and I suddenly found my gas powered soldering iron to be out of gas. It was 4.45pm and Hendersons the local hardware store in town closes at 5pm.
So first of all, I need a bike, a quick text to Bruce and that was sorted. I had dismantled my visor to clean it, but I threw on my bike jacket and helmet minus visor as I was only going 2 to 3kms.
Jumping on a Pegaso again was a blast from the past and we chugged off up the road. It then began to rain, really heavy.
Without a visor being hit by 70kph raindrops was not fun and the best protection against it was to screw ones face up as much as possible. This did absolutely nothing but I’m sure it conveyed the seriousness of the situation to people travelling in the other direction. It was real horror show.
Into town, dumping the bike on a single yellow line (along with just about everyone else’s car), I got to Henderson’s a few minutes late. Time to search the town. What I needed was a wizened old Donegaller who knew the town like tha back of his hand. After a few tries in different shops, I had certainly missed this elusive character that I had made up.
Walking through town I tried the Spar shop and like the road to Damascus (when St Pauls fag lighter had run out and he was pegging for a burn break), a can of swan lighter gas was seen on the shelf and the shop was not going to close for another three and three quarter hours.
The bike had not even got a ticket on it, so I headed back and completed the repair. I now had a windscreen and the bike looked almost the same as just before I crashed it harder than Windows 95.
Bruce had cooked a marvellous curry. We had made plans for a long ride up to the vey north of Ireland tomorrow, Malin Head.
Sunday 12th September 2021 Malin and Muff
With trepidation I set off to see if the bike would hold together. A few cable ties in place to make sure any significant let go would not be a big problem.
Today looked like to be a long day, 270km in total but much of it on fast main National roads.
I was mainly following a travel blog from an Irishman who had recommended a circuit of the far north of Ireland by starting off at a reconstructed hill fort, Grianan of Aileach. It had rained on an off on our trip up, but rising up high above the lowlands we parked up next to the hill fort and were greeted with spectacular views out to the north of the country, deep into Derry and Northern Ireland and well away into S
This was the place to start a big journey.
We were partly following the Inishowene 100, a 100km route around the northernmost peninsula of Ireland, but we had a few spots and routes we wanted to take ourselves.
The weather was a bit rough with squally showers bringing in poor riding conditions and traffic made quick progress hard.
We stopped at a first interesting beach but were quickly joined by a wee chap desperate to talk all sorts of shit about bikes. A rescue attempt was made by another biker but this was not effective. We needed to self rescue as conversations lapsed into how this chap didn’t think the DR850 was a reliable bike at all. We said the rest of the group would be waiting for us and we better catch up to them. We noted that chaps car because we thought that he had been stalking us for the past few miles!
As we got to the north of the peninsula and away from the large mountains the weather began to ease and we saw some sunshine. Over the Mamore Gap, a rather unusual straight up pass, we fell into much better weather. The sun was out quite a lot but it was still a tad chilly.
Through the lovely village of Malin we ended up eating our lunches on the overlook of a stupendous beach desperately wanted people to banner off so we could have a quiet pee. It took far too long.
Plenty of wee roads by the coast eventually deposited us at Malin Head, the far north of Ireland. Fairly standard fare for a headland, although no ice creams to which Bruce was most disappointed. Me too.
I managed to
drop VAA on a difficult turn around on a slope creating much commotion but we
were soon upright and running again. I really should not have tried to do a
tight u turn on such a slope but I had gotten too cocky again.
Given this was a long trip for a day, we were going to hot foot it back now on the main roads and avoid stops, but there was just one thing to get into.
Part of the naughty boy fun of this trip has been seeking out place names that are rude, funny or make me laugh. So far we have been rather shoddy at getting a photo of the marvellous place names we have seen.
We had taken a large detour across the Yorkshire Dales to get to the signpost for Crackpot which would have provided seconds of entertainment, but managed to miss it whilst being caught up in a traffic jam. The village of Slaggyford didn’t really hit the spot and the inspirationally defaced “Welcome to Cumbria” sign at Tan Hill altered to “We come to Cum” was missed because I was giggling too much to touch the brakes for a mile or two.
So imagine our glee at seeing there was Muff on the map. We got into the Muff quickly after passing a sign welcoming us into Muff. We were looking for a few more signs of Muff and hunted around for it for a while. There were some lovely parts of Muff, and the town was ever so well kept with the verges kept well shorn by a lawnmower. Probably the work of the Muff Barber.
As with any interesting visit we eventually pulled out of Muff but promised to return soon, possibly to join this seaside town’s Scuba club who have members from all around the world.
https://www.muffdivingclub.ie/product/membership/
Oh, the embarrassment! Bruce had inadvertently left his helmet on top of Muff, so he had to retrieve it.
Muff the town that keeps on giving, I salute you.
We got back and spent far to long making silly Muff jokes. Most cannibalised and altered above.
Monday 13 September – Going South.
So far we had only gone north from Donegal but we could see some very inviting mountains across the bay from where we were stopping, County Sligo way.
It wasn’t long before we came across a rather fantastic Court Tomb ay Creevykeel, all the more better that you could wander around and imagine yourself what it was for and how it must have looked.
Creevykeel and associated wildlife
We found suitable refreshments from Paddy’s Place, Bruce so enjoying his ice cream he walked obliviously into the road.
Th village was lovely full of old world charms and views over the bay to the mountains
Then on to the spectacular mountains of Sligo. The Dartry Mountains held some of the most sublime peaks I have ever seen, rising so quickly from the valley floor, and I am a chap who takes particular note of mountains!
What amased me was that there were no public footpaths up to these amazing mountains. I think a mass trespass is in order!
We dropped into the city of Sligo to grab something to eat. Not really impressed to be honest, a little too much substance and little style, the two being mixed up in a blender to create a fairly utilitarian feel. Maybe I missed something.
Back on the road again we rode into Sligo on the torturous N59, home of lack of overtaking spaces and very slow drivers. Over the Ox Mountains on the wee roads was spoilt somewhat by the rain closing in. Loch Easkey was a nice stop and enjoying the clean humour of Tubbercurry (locals spell it with two r’s).
I was hoping to find a fish and chip shop with this title but Bruce won the day, should the tubber curry be a little too hot.
We ended up heading home on 80km of national routes, something akin to our A roads. Most had an ambiguous yellow lane in which walkers, or cyclist could use then to get from A to B (certainly very few footpaths). However, slow drivers were encrouaged to use this lane, if safe to do so to allow other vehicles to pass.
However, dangerous this was, very few people would use the yellow lane for this so long lines of traffic would form behind 75kph travelling coffin dodgers, and because overtaking areas were few and not well marked, we ended up in a long 20 car line behind the blissfully unaware.
As I was a in a different country and intent on flying the flag for both my nation and motorcycling, I was holding off on enthusiastic overtaking, but after 30km of following a 70kph polo from afar, I lost all inhibitions and took every chance to overtake the long line. It felt good to be moving at a decent speed again, but perhaps I had not done motorcycling or the UK and favours. Saying that, I don’t really care. Bikes are bikes and cars are for queues.
We dropped into Lidl for food once back in Donegal. Today had been a long day as it had turned out. The morning was spectacular, the afternoon, a touch less so!
Tuesday 14th September – Fanad Head and Rosmill Head, the search for a a place with no houses
Today would be a short day off to a little travelled area away from the tourist traffic where we could see a little more of rural Ireland and the coastline.
The weather had also looked really crap for most of the region and we thought heading up to the very north would be clever.
Off we set and as we reached the main road I was nearly wiped out by a Citroen 2CV driving the in the yellow lane to allow everything to overtake it. Irish roads were beginning to grind my gears. Up to Letterkenny and into the Fanad coastline, we were repeating our route up Malin head but on a less well travelled and windier route than on the other side of the bay.
There were some great views over the bay along with decent weather. Upon reaching the top of the peninsula we skirted over the head but, along with sights from most of the week, we were very aware that wherever you went there was a modern house with a bleeding massive lawn built. You never got away from it. It was like a zombie apocalypse of very nice houses with stupidly large front lawns marching across the landscape leaving little else and causing irreparable damage to the character of the area. There were so many abandoned properties left to decay leaving me to wonder, what the F?
We stopped at a little layby on the Rosmill peninsula for lunch with views of a lovely bay. Upon setting off again found brilliant parking just 200m around the coast with marvellous views onto the bay we had been looking at. You never know what is around the corner.
Past mile upon mile of seaside dunes wreaked by identical bespoke holiday cottages with no sign of any inhabitant and mental lawns the size of a moderately sized central American state.
People in
Ireland either have a weird fetish for lawnmowers, do not enjoy spending time
inside, enjoy paying a person to mow the lawns or have joined a collective
believe that having a large lawn conveys something about them. What an ‘effing
waste of time and space.
On we went, up and over, around the bends, through towns and villages back to Letterkenny to buy some gifts for Julie and the boys.
The road back began to grind my gears even morel Why was the speed camera on a patch of open road, not by the school where it was fine to do 100kph past, even at ankle biter kicking out time?
Getting into Donegal, right next to the school, parents parked on double yellow lines, did u turns right outside the school and the school bus was parked on the pavement forcing kids to walk in the road. It was awful to see and I wondered when the inevitable would happen.
We parked in Donegal and it began to rain hard. Bruce set off back and I set off to find gifts and hunt down a bit of Poitin.
Someone had suggested Pauls Party Place for some illicit booze but, but looking through the window, unless I wanted to blow a really good party balloon this was not the place. The search would have to go on elsewhere.
We were going out tonight and got a taxi into town. Sitting outside of the Old Castle Bar it was 15 to 16 degrees, quite pleasant to sit out and eat. I had a very nice local fish and chips and Bruce had a burger.
Moving on we found ourselves in McCaffertys, 3 pubs and the small street between it rolled into one. In one pub there was the sport, another had live music and another was a bit of a snug. It was fantastic.
I tried my first Irish whiskey which went down very well, so another was needed to reconfirm this.
Wednesday 15th September 2021 – Roads and Mountains
Today, our last full day in Donegal, we aimed to ride around the Derryveagh Mountains on more motorcycle orientated road along with a few nice wee roads.
Setting off we stopped off at our usual filling station which always had muzac playing as you filled up. As I was never putting more than 12 litres in I could never get into a festival mood with the music, but at one point I felt a slight need to light a joss stick.
Of we set on the ever challenging N15 up to Ballyboffey, but we soon left the national route behind and fell on the slower and much more fun regional routes which took up to the north of the Blue Stack Mountains. I was hoping to find a way through to roads beyond, but the road ended in a forestry track with a big gate on it. There is only so much route planning you can do from a computer desktop.
Back to the regional routes we went and soon found our way, with a few wrong turns on some lovely roads over the moors which required a lunch break.
As I was trying to construct routes for us to take each night using maps, guide books, peoples blogs, google, google earth and my own mapping software, mistakes and oversights were liable to happen and I soon found we were being directed on the wrong way around the route I had wanted to take.
We got sent thought many a traffic light on an awful main road with the horrid irritating sat nav bleeping its little transistorised tits off at me to turn around and go a different direction.
Going back the good old world of maps we struck off the main road and into the mountains. And when I say mountains, I use no alliteration.
Not long after we came across further fantastic vista, it was really hard to believe that we were in Ireland, somewhere nobody ever told me had a plethora of fantastic mountains!
And now came a rather unfortunate incident. We followed a car up some twisty bits of a road, he wasn’t going too fast but there was nowhere to overtake. I read the signs on the back of his vehicle stating he was an Elvis impersonator and he had been rocking Donegal since 1996.
I’m not a great Elvis fan but anyone doing such a thing should be given some unconditional love. Upon overtaking, I reached out a hand to thank his manoeuvre into the yellow lane of death, but then felt the need to show further support for his services to keeping Donegal in a state of rock for the past 25 years. I gave him the V for victory but soon realised I was actually showing him the V’s and in a state of major panic over mixed messages I sped away. I later lost all hope in life as Bruce asked me why I had given the Vs to Elvis for no good reason. Elvis, I am very sorry, please forgive me, Thank you very much.
We found a wonderful wee road through the mountains with not a soul on it, apart from a Garda car where we got a wave from both policemen.
Back to the cottage along many a lovely regional road with very little traffic, we ended up at Aldi in Donegal and to ensure Bruce didn’t start with withdrawal symptoms, we went to the ice cream parlour and both had a rather nice strawberry ice cream.
With a few things to make dinner, it was done and we were soon getting ready to leave in the morning.
It had been a great day of fairly fast riding on fantastic roads with some wonderful views. Donegal the wonderful!
Thursday 16th September 2021 Goodbye to Donegal, hello rain and mission accomplished
We had done a terrific job of packing the night before so little had to be done in the morning to get us ready for the trip to Dublin.
The main roads may have got us there very quickly but that was certainly not the tempo of the concerto. We aimed for the smallest and most remote crossing on plenty of wee roads to get back into Northern Ireland, with only a sign on the Irish side written in German, French and English to remember to drive on the left.
Back on UK roads I began to deconstruct the apparent mindset of Irish roads and that is, in my opinion, the highways authority really don’t trust the Irish motoring public. It was no overtaking for the majority of the time and only on huge long straits was this allowed where the UK system seemed to lean a lot more towards “You’re a big boy now, you make up your mind”.
Crossing back into Ireland, it had been drizzling and full on raining for most of the day so far but always, somewhere close to where we were heading for, there seemed some brightness. However, it was never quite near enough and we got wetter and wetter.
Stopping off at a rest point on one pass with a handy shelter where the rain blazed through we were not impressed with the environmental conditions especially as it was not supposed to rain today!
Proper Irish rain. The stuff that gets you wet
On towards Dublin we came out the mountains to be greeted by heavier rain. I was just a bout to stop to put on my full waterproofs, a little less so after being chewed to bits by a road and hedge , when a promising gap in the clouds appeared ahead.
Holding off stopping, after a few minutes the rain had stopped and we began to make big inroads into the kilometres towards Dublin.
After Cavan, we left the main road and headed up to a covered passage tomb on top of a hill overlooking a huge vista from Dublin to into Norther Ireland. It was a bit of a walk but the views were fantastic. Unfortunately we weren’t allowed inside it as some people had been allowed to but it was easy to see some of the rock carvings made by ancient people in the surrounding barrows.
Ancient carvings in one of the barrows
Re-joining the N3 main national route, we experienced our first Irish motorway and our speed was increased to a heady 120kph. Upon reaching the first toll booth, I was relived of 90cent for the passage of my iron dobbin.
Bruce, using a credit card made before cash had been invented, could not get through and was eventually let though for free, because he was trying to avoid using cash.
I paid for the next toll and the next one after that for the two of us, the toll lady removing my card from me and swiping it again for Bruce to return it to him. Marvellous work!
I was having a bit of a mare with traffic lights, often forgetting he usual order of things, sometimes flying through reds. I blame it on information overload!
Into Dublin, we found the hotel easily enough and after chucking everything off the bikes and locking them up we walked into town.
I was then presented with the problems of crossing the road in the Irelands capital. The wait for walk signs being an age and taking a chance much more akin to the classic 1980’s computer game, Frogger.
Given the primary mission of finding some Poitin had not been realised in the places where it is traditionally made, we took to some of the whiskey shops to see if we could find any.
The first shop we went into was quite a sight. Row upon row of whiskeys, some behind glass once they rose above the £300 per bottle mark.
There was a little section with some poitins. The chap asked me if I needed any help and I asked him if he had any of the real stuff. He didn’t but recommended that if I wanted some of the traditionally made tuff then the Killowen was the stuff. Made in small batches with a single copper still by just one man, it was the closest I was going to get to the hookey stuff. The alcohol content was hand written on the bottle, along with the name of the chap who had brewed it. 48% was pretty strong but nothing like the 80-90% of the illegal stuff.
Finding somewhere to eat was not so easy, a lot of expensive places abounded and universally uninterested in the sights of Dublin, we set off back towards the hotel.
Eating in style. No need to turn around use a phone to look ath the view
Ending up in a Milano chain pizza place, we were at least presented with a quiet backdrop of the canal to sit by. The food was good and not long after we headed back to the hotel to drop off the booze.
Invariably, the wee bottle was crying out to be tasted and so a micro measure was poured out into the plastic hotel glasses. Any problem after this was blamed on the poitin. I’ll let the Dubliners have the last word. “now learned men, who use the pen, have written their praises high, That sweet poitin from Ireland green, distilled from wheat and rye. Throw away your pills; it will cure all ills, of the pagan, Christian or Jew, Take off your throat and grease your throat, with the real old mountain dew”.
Batch 002 brewed by Brendan Carty
We went to the pub after that and I almost got run over by a bicycle.
It was a very warm night and the pub was empty because just about everyone had a seat outside. We went back after a few and soon bunkered down because it would be an early start to get to the ferry in the morning.
Friday 17th September- Going home
Waking at some ungodly hour of the morning we saddled up and entered the early morning rush hour to get to the port.
Invariably I took a wrong turn and also jumped a red light. It seemed rude not to.
We loaded onto the ferry without incident, ordered a humungous fried breakfast and sat at a window easting a jealously looking at the Irish Ferries fast ferry loading up. The crossing would take us 4 hours where that one was just 2 hours. We both wished we had forked out an extra £30 for ferry now.
However, 4 hours to stare out of a rainy window at nothing would certainly help me to reflect on the trip.
Wherever we had gone we had found friendly people, full of humour and helpfulness. The weather had been pretty good, never stopping us from doing what we wanted although it had rained on and off.
So many roads had been a joy to travel, especially the wee roads taking us to little visited places. The old complaint of the roads in Ireland being awful condition was not correct. Indeed, they were probably a little better than the UK.
The accident was a terrible shock at the time and it had made me want to go home and have a little cry but getting thought it and all the help received from everyone helped to instil “a never say die “ attitude and I was grateful for the hours spent plastic welding the freezer draws ups as the practice had made me mildly competent at putting my mudguard and screen back together. Now I’ve crashed VAA, she finally feels like she is mine!
But oh the scenery! We were blessed with great weather in Scotland which really lifter the moorlands, forests green valleys and stunning coastlines. I know I will be back there soon with the family because it isn’t far, there aren’t too many tourists and it feels marvellous.
I felt a bit sad that I hadn’t seen more of Northern Ireland, but this is always the way when I pass through an area to get to somewhere else. However, from what I saw, it has slid up the list of places to go visit.
Perhaps the most surprising was Donegal. On the far north-western tip of Ireland the place was so often a spectacle. On the day of my crash, we limped across the border into Ireland in the overcast drizzly rain and on reaching the main road down to Donegal the sun broke through the clouds over the Blue Stack Mountains and all I could say was,” Wow, I wasn’t expecting that.” It was truly fantastic and a little shot in the arm. And most days, I would repeat the same phrase, at stunning beaches, immense mountains, beautiful painted houses, massive cliffs or indescribable views.
The list of what I didn’t like was small-ish. I did not like the way the urban sprawl spilled out into much of the countryside with clone like properties spoiling some of the landscape. I was also horrified that there were so few footpaths and it was considered normal to go for a walk on a road.
However, in all a magic place, full of surprises and wonderful people.
And the method of the trip? Going with someone else and stopping in comfortable self catering? No complaints! Bruce was a fantastic travelling companion, well versed in getting by, but also equally grateful of the luxuries we encountered. We had known one another for a long time so it was no big problem and we both got along well with our idiocrasies. Never a cross word said and a healthy amount of piss taking from both parties made it fun.
Not a lot of time to think though, which is something I missed. I find writing a blog on tour as a good way to go over the day and think but in some ways, it was more of a duty. Usually, I end up in all sorts of deep thought and existential questions. However, every trip is a different one and I was glad we had done it together.
The staring out of the window and doing deep thoughts had managed to waste about 2.25 minutes of time, so we decided to explore the boat. After about 15 minutes we had done that and I settled in to doing some work which had been sitting over by shoulder like an expectant ogre for the past week.
We docked in Holyhead in much better weather and although Bruce decided to annoy everyone by fileting to front of the offloading queue we were soon away.
I was kind of dialled back in my riding at this point, I was wanting to prolong it a little so was holding back and just enjoying being out, on a bike, with nowt to worry about.
Despite having a bit of a sore ass after almost 2000 miles of riding in the past 10 days, views of familiar north Wales mountains, Pen y ole Wen, Tryfan, Glydyr Fach and the oh so secretive but amazing Atlantic Slab made me feel happy to be home. I live in a fantastic place too.
The we had to overtake a right ball of bollocks, about 40 cars stuck behind a coach going down the A5 so slow it was being overtaken by stationary vehicles. Its amazing how your Zen gets cancelled by traffic.
Bruce and I parted ways a little later, the emotional farewell and brotherly hugs cut short by the fact the bag of bollocks coach would soon approach. It came down to “S’Later”!
Home coming was totally spoilt by the dog. I parked up the bike and could hear her barking because she knew someone was arriving. Forgetting all else, I opened the door to be greeted by a dog looking rather disappointedly at me and then looking beyond me to hopefully see Nanny and Grandad, who had been coming over for the past week and half to keep her company for a little bit.
Put me in my place, that did. As said Yoda.
50 next year. Big things planned. “Hey Cardo, organise me a fun trip somewhere. Oi Cardo, are you listening to me, I’ll give you one last chance Cardo…..”
Needs a "Subscribe to" adding (so people can follow), otherwise I may source some flamingos!
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