The Blasket Blast

Well, I had planned on going to Morrocco again this year to do some of the desert routes with a highly romanticised though of waking up on my birthday on top of a mesa I had spied out on the edge of the Sahara. Two weeks before I was to go, my precious mother-in-law became very ill and that put paid to that trip. I had booked my ferry tickets flexi so I’m planning on going late October, so no harm done there. I was very much needed at home and it was my honour to help with the arrangements that became painfully necessary. However, the itch was still brewing and after thing settled down, I set my mind on trying to think of the most I could do on a 4-night trip, Perhaps Scotland’s Inner Hebrides, maybe north York moors which we had recently been to in Rita, our micro camper. Even a quick blitzkrieg through the Netherlands, Belgium and north France, but that may be a bit too many miles on my panzer, sorry bike, and perhaps that was also a bit bad taste. What was really floating my boat though was a trip to southern Ireland. Much of the coastline of Ireland really punches way above its weight, the only thing letting it down being the weather. Julie and I had done a 2-week camping trip around Ireland not long after we were married, and it rained for 10 of those days. However, I now had two new helpers for my dastardly plan, the weather forecast and Booking.com. I had two trips planned one for NW Scotland and one for SW Ireland. Wherever had the best weather would win. 3 days out and SW Ireland wins.

The Plan – take quick ferry to Dublin and cross most of Ireland. Then go over the mountains and leave bike chained to something while taking ferry to a deserted island to spend the night there by myself (super excited about that - Lord of the Island for one night). Apparently, Luke Skywalker lived there, having something to do with those new Star Wars films – Star Wars Episode 93 - The Search for more money. I digress. After that, get off the island, and head down the coast and mountains for as far as I can go in the time, I have left on the smallest roads I can find. I can see the possibilities of thing going wrong as entirely negligible. Saying that, last time in Ireland I stuffed my rather new bike straight through a hedge and smashed it up, most ungainly. So that is the plan, it will be a short blog but I’m sure there are going to be thing that I want to record, I’m even taking my proper camera. Monday 5 May 2025 So off we set at 7am and was immediately hit by the 3 degrees. Not the 70’s disco funk band, the air temperature. On with all my clothes which made me more circular than tall but I was at least not losing any more heat. Opting for the scenic A5 route things were fairly uneventful, it was fun to ride through usually super busy places like Llangollen and Betws-y-Coed early in the morning on a bank holiday to find them mostly empty. The first 120 miles done and I arrived at Holyhead and got on board the Dublin Swift fast ferry. The ferry was to leave at 10:45 and once on board, I went to the toilet at about 10:30 and all of a sudden everything (on the ship) started to rattle. We were on our way a whole 15 minutes early. I hope no one was running a bit late!

Passing north stack on Anglesea Once out of port, the ferry went not just to ridiculous speed, it was ludicrous speed. Going out of the back there was a huge spray of water coming out of the back of it. I realised that I was on a really, really big jetski. I told you it was an overgrown jetski The ferry seemed to be pretty modern but the whole thing was shaking about awfully. All of the ceiling panels were vibrating about. V It was hard work updating the blog as the laptop was vibrating away from me into the Café Lafeyette lounge. I last saw my bag vibrating its way into the duty free. After retrieving my bag that had made its way to some chiming bottles of Beefeater Gin, I guessed that I best have something to eat. I went to the café and bought a sandwich and thought, I’ll have a pint of Guinness zero. So I asked the nice man and he said that there was no Guinness zero. I asked him if there was anything alcohol free and he frowned, pointed at the normal Guinness and said, ’well, that is is Guinness…………..zero’. Obviously clearly not a fan of alcohol free stout. There was a long awkward silence and I managed to fold, rather easily. The tenseness in the air evaporated and walked away with sandwiches and a properly served pint of stout. I guess it will be mostly worn off by the time I get off the ferry!

I was literally forced into it! So off the ferry, a breeze through immigration and customs. I was asked kind of sternly by the customs chap if I’d been to the duty free shop. He could not keep the sternness on for long though and when I said no, he said off you go and waved me off. This place is rammed full of the nicest people. The sat nav directed me through the centre of Dublin which was always going to be trouble as every traffic light was against me, as was all of the roadworks. I muddled on through and people seemed very chilled out, it was a sunny bank holiday and chilled seemed to be the way to go.

What goes on in there? I ended up riding past the Guinness factory. It was surrounded by a rather totalitarian wall and it put me at unease. I soon worked out that it looked like Willy Wonka’s factory (the second film with Johhny Depp). Who knows what goes on in there? Do they really boil up penguins to get the white stuff to rise to the top? And does everyone who goes on a tour end up coming out purple, stretched or covered in squirrel shit? I had no time to ponder these most important questions as the traffic lights eased off the speed increased and out of Dublin I increasingly sped. I was most impressed at what I saw, there seems to be a massive amount of redevelopment going on in the city centre. However, they need a few more trees in my opinion. This is my opinion on most matters. So down the N7/M7 to Limerick with no delays and the speed never dropping below 100. Kph that is, not mph. Traffic was light and the only surprise was seeing a tractor driving down the motorway. Yes a tractor at 50kph.

Into Limerick and a bit of shopping in Lidl which was somewhat predictable, but after 500k I was not wanting to engage any neurons. I was stopping at the university which was very plush. The accommodation, next to the River Shannon was for visiting lecturers or guests and was so quiet. Just what I needed. I was going to go into the city to get something to eat but the busses were a bit infrequent with it being bank holiday so have a takeaway pizza and early night Tomorrow is going to be an adventure! Tuesday 6 May 2025 I slept like a baby with the sound of the Shannon coming through my window. After a couple of cups of tea, I was soon on the road as I had a ferry I needed to catch. The busy roads of Limerick, Irelands third biggest city slowed me considerably but once out on the A roads I was soon clawing back time. It wasn’t too long before I crossed the border into County Kerry and it started to grow a few mountains which steadily got bigger and bigger. Eventually, I arrived in Tralee and nipped into the supermarket for essential wild camping items. A really good cheese and a bottle of wine. The roads grew narrower and steeper as I started up the Connor Pass to take me over to Dingle. It was a bit hairy in some places but quite fun. Tiny narrow points with huge drops down to the valley floor. After finally navigating the somewhat congested roads heading around Slea Head, mainland Irelands westernmost point, I got to Dunquin and found Mary with whom I had been chatting to in reference to catching a ferry over to the island. Selecting the carefully prepared bags I had packed last night I walked down the incredibly steep Dunquin harbour path which was about the width of ¾ of a car.

You may regonise it from the film Ryans Daughter which was filmed nearby I would not have a chance to return so I really did have to have things like a tin opener, lighter for the cooker and all my medication. The ferry was much smaller than I remember, room for just 12 people, it turns out there were just three of us, a young Dutch couple and myself.

We pottered out over the sea, the sleeping man not stirring in his bed

The sleeping man Transferring to a rib, we were dropped at the landing point and that was it. I was on the Great Blasket Island. There were quite a few day visitors about and I slowly chugged up the path from the landing point carrying my 4 bags. It was a bit of a sweat on.

Not exactly Stena Line but job done. I had spotted a point near the beach to pitch up and it was just what I was after. Not too far from the landing point but away from the village and near the beach where the waves and howling of the seals could be heard. Perhaps that will become the stuff of late night nightmares!

Once the tent was up, I rushed over to the place where the official tour guide would give us a walk and talk. He immediately started with a long speech in Irish which took us, the Dutch couple and I, by surprise. However, as time went on, You could see how this island played a major part in saving the Irish language from extinction.

The quota was to produce 10 offspring. a good 3 to 4 would die before reaching adulthood In Ireland 150 years ago, Irish was the language of the poor, English was the language of the well to do. It doesn’t matter how poor you are, no-one wants to look like they are poor. Therefore, the Irish language became something very few people wanted to speak. On the Blasket Islands, it is all they ever spoke and as no one ever wrote anything down everything was passed down in the oral tradition. The Irish spoken here was pure and unaffected by outside influence and the storytelling was off the scale. This was recognised by some scholars who came to the island in the early 20th century and encouraged people to record their experiences of living on this harsh but beautiful Island.

Soon after, when everyone had consigned Irish to the bin, it began to revive with a recognition of its poetic turn, its deep and meaningful turns of phrase and significance to the people of Ireland. This place was really important for that. So, over with the show and on for a bit of a walk. I really wanted to see what the far side of the island looked like and there were some good paths over there. It soon turned out to be a bit of a slog, the summit being 350m high and a good 4km away, However, a steady plod got me moving and eating yesterdays second breakfast (As you all know, I am a hobbit), helped to keep me moving.

The views were spectacular and the sun beat down on me. I passed one or two people heading back down, no doubt to catch the last ferries off the island. Pic of point island I’ve had quite a bit of stress over the past few months, not to say others have not had worse, and I felt, however this island does it, I don’t know, any stress, concerns upsets and worries dissolve away like instant coffee in boiling water. I was at the edge of the world, far from the maddening crowd and it felt like the right place to be.

Looking back to teh mainland I got to what I thought was the top only to be presented with a valley beyond and what had to be the top about a click away. Photographic excellence was now driving me on so off I set for this new summit.

Lumbering up to the top and the trig point, it was a proper 360 of pure Irish beauty. The open sea, the sharp cliffs, the little islands, the wee villages, the Kerry mountains. Pic of far wast It was time for a little lie down in the sun and enjoy the fruit of my labours with a pack of crisps and some water.

Worlds end I really don’t do lying down or enjoying the fruit of my labours for much more than 2 minutes so it was up again, a few photos and head back. It was well past 4pm and at least one and a half hours to get back to camp. I needed to develop a need for a good bit of grub, so a march on was dialled in to the cruise control with occasional Kodak moment breaks.

Getting back to camp, everything was very quiet. The café had closed, the tour guides had gone, just me and one or two others on the island now, I got the tent ship shape and ready to go and then settled down to get a tasty meal ready. Pasta and sauce, tinned peas, tinned ham and a few shallots. Proper Gordon Ramsey.

However, it was bloody brilliant and I ate it on my camping chair watching the waves come in, the seals singing and the world grow a little older. This was top banana wild camping. While we are on the subject, bottom banana wild camping is buying a motorhome the size and GDP of Belize and then camping up in a layby or car park to save a few quid and then pissing and shitting everywhere. That is not wild camping, that is being a tight fisted prick. Wild camping is camping for starters in wild places and leaving absolutely no mark of you ever being there. The latter being the most important. Annyway, after dinner and the bottle of wine, it began to get cold, the temperature was dropping slowly but the sea breeze was robbing me of warmth. Close to sunset I took a walk to the north of the island to see if I could get a picture of the sunset over one of the islands but not my favourite one, it was , however, the sleeping man. Oh well, never mind

Time to settle down with the sound of lapping waves and 300 seals singing.

Wednesday 7 May 2025 It had been cold in the night, maybe down to 3 or 4 degrees so I had to put my biking jacket over my feet. Otherwise, a very peaceful night eased along by the sound of waves and singing seals. Morning brought nothing new, just the same peaceful look out to the seals and the sea.

What was beginning to be a pressing concern was morning ablutions and at 8am the café would not be open until 9.30am. I was going to have to think of distractions. Making tea and putting all the gear away did this well, as was ferrying my bags over to ‘The road of the dead’, the road that left the island because it was down that road the dead were taken to be buried on the mainland. Cheery stuff! At about 9.20 the door to the café’s bogs opened and ignoring all luggage movements I was in there like a shot. Pre 9am morning ablutions is the closest thing I come to religion. Looking in the mirror, it was clear that yesterday, I had caught the sun. Now if Scotsmen can get a blue suntan, I think I may have achieved an even rarer green Irish suntan. Down at the landing platform I sat in the shade an conversed with a few inquisitive seals.

The boat made its way in with a group of visitors. The next group on the rib were the tour guides and seeing the chap who had taken our tour yesterday I said to him ‘Dia duit’ meaning God to you. To that I was replied to ‘Dia is Murie duit’ meaning God and Mary to you. It was all a bit hail Mary to me, but when in Ireland be Irish. I had spoken my first words of a language measurably more descriptive and poetic than my own. Learn a new thing every day. Getting onto the boat, I was the only return fair. The chaps looked at me and told me they hadn’t seen my bike when they arrived this morning. I had been expecting this and they soon admitted it was a bit of craic. It was sad to leave the island but I had to remind myself that I had seen it at its absolute best. I will be back, this place always demands a return visit.

Dropped off at Dunquin harbour, I had to get up to where VAA (very angry airbed) was hopefully sat at the top. Walking down with everything had been a challenge so I was going to go up in two sittings. The first one saw me up with a few rest breaks, the second was a bit more of a struggle.

Halfway up I had to take a minor heart attack break. A lady, obviously a tourist, came walking past me and offered sympathetic words. We began to talk, and she was obviously from north America, she asked me where I was from and then I asked her if she is American (lots of Yanks here as many come back to see where there ancestors came from. Well talk about a lesson learn. From now on anyone with a north American accent I ask about their country of birth, I will say ‘Oh you must be Canadian’. The lady was not pleased I had asked if she was American. She was all up for giving me her postcode. After a very slow loading up of VAA, everything was in place and it was time to go. Time had slipped, and it was now about 12 with a good 250km to cover over some very narrow roads with what was likely to be a shit load of Bob and Marg’s in their huge campers. Bring it on, this bike was made for screaming past inconveniences.

Out of the back roads out of Dunquin. My first mission was to get off the Dingle peninsula and onto the Iveragh peninsula, home to the much vaunted Ring of Kerry. The day was bright and warm but the roads were pretty slow with few overtaking opportunities. The people who paint the lines here are very cautious. You would ride down a perfect 1km straight, long enough to set a land speed record, and it would have a solid line in the middle, no overtaking. Only the last 200m would have broken lines and by that point I had gone into tootle mode and missed the opportunity.

Finally onto the Ring of Kerry, the northern section had one or two nice points but I was relatively underwhelmed, however, I had been on the Blasket Island the day before so for me to be impressed was going to take quite a lot of effort on the part of the views. I had a date with a dinosaur on Valentia Island and instead of taking the road and bridge I opted for the ferry into Knight’s Town.

It took all of 5 minutes to cross but it really made be feel like I was landing on an Island. Along some of the narrowest lanes I have ever ridden, I got to the Tetrapod car park and walked down to the sea. About 30 years ago a Danish archologist was surveying the area and came across some footprints. They were from the earliest recorded creatures to walk on earth from about 350 million years ago.

To be honest, it wasn’t Jurassic Park, I didn’t pee myself, but it was quite an experience to see, especially as in the background was the great Blasket Island. Back on the road again an off the island of Valentia I was going to take a variation of the Ring of Kerry that had been recommended to me, the Ring of Skerrig. There are more rings around here than in a call centre.

This had my name on it. A little narrow road with enough room to bully past slow moving cars, it took me up to the top of the hill and gave fantastic views over the surrounding countryside. Helmet cam on it did one sweep, but that not being enough another had to be done. To be fair things had not changed much after the first sweep. The rest of the road was more of the same with little communities found down by the marvellous looking beaches. I was a lucky man.

I’ve always considered myself to be lucky, I’ve had plenty of bad fortune too and perhaps what makes someone in my situation lucky is learning from the bad times, taking responsibility for your reactions to the bad times and then really relishing in the good times that sometimes, out of no where, pop up. Saying that, I live amongst the top 20% of people in the world. I am lucky by default, no skills, attributes or decency needed. Eventually I joined back up with the Ring of Kerry, which was still not floating my boat, especially after the Ring of Skellig. This is beginning to sound like a new Tolkien novel isn’t it? Anyway Frodo became weary, sorry, I was feeling a bit knackered after a lot of klicks covered today, upon reaching Kenmare, it was into the supermarket, pick up some essentials and find a campsite before my bum caught on fire. It can happen. T7 seats are not the comfiest. First on the list on the Beara peninsula was the Beara campsite and my little tuch opted for this option. Good and bad. I was shown to the camping field which was very nice and flat but I got a tad agitated by the nearby road and the ditches which would most likely mean midges. I set up camp and was getting my evening meal started when I heard the unmistakable sound of a Minnerelli 660 engine plod onto the site. There was a Frenchman on a Yamaha 660 off loading and we had plenty to talk about. My old bike Betty had the same engine which was bulletproof. My new friend had owned a bike like my current one, a T7 but had had it stolen, He could not afford to replace it like for like so bought the older 660. I could see the pain in his eyes. Having a bike stolen is like losing a family member, You have to be a biker to understand this.

Dinner cooked and while eating it I realised that I was adding a considerable amount of insect protein into my already highly evolved travel diet (fried shallots, packet pasta and sauce, half a tin of spam like shit and half a tin of xyz veg). You grow to love it! Anyway, there were lots of floaters, bloody midges. Well, I was not missing the extra protein rations but I was not liking the biting. Obviously, the campsite knew that midges were a problem and had supplied a place for a fire which was also under shelter. I was going to partake. In there was a UK couple and an extremely red-haired firey Irish woman who where chatting away. I felt a bit bad barging in, but them midges were little buggers. I sat down and kept my gob shut because I was invading a party, however when I heard the Irish lady had been at Dunquin the night before I had to say that I was camping on the Great Blasket Island. Well, it all kicked off then, she had seen my tent and said what a lucky bastard. I didn’t see her VW caddy camper with dog and her in it because I was trying to make sure no was nicking my bike. It is a small world, but even smaller in Ireland. She was a writer and band member, quite a free spirit and it was great to talk to her about folk song, the Irish/English relationship and travel. We were soon joined by another Irishman biker and an English chap in a camper (shit transit conversion). The conversations changed but it soon became obvious that the Englishman had worked it all out and everything was by far the best the way he liked it. English on top, where they belong. There are a lot of Englishman I come across when I’m abroad, always joyous to meet the exception, who are generally a bit of a disappointment with no understanding of the need to respect other people’s boundaries. To totally bugger things up for him, I entered into a long and really interesting conversation with the lovely Irish man on road racing in Ireland and on the Isle of Man. We were mashing it up big style and all he could do was sit there and say every now and again that motorcycles were dangerous. Really? Well I best push it in the ocean and take the bus home….. I went to bed