Five Months After

I honestly do not know how I survived Ireland!

I was walking home from work tonight, and it was cold, wet and windy. Of course, the temperature was above five degrees (it was probably above ten), and the rain wasn’t hitting me in the face so hard it hurt. The wind wasn’t strong enough to send the rain in horizontally, or blow me across the road, but it was still strong enough to give me the chills.

Just like most of the time in Ireland, I had just walked out of a pub with a pint of Guinness under my belt (there is a quasi-Irish pub half-way between work and the place I'm staying). I also had the same raincoat that I had in Ireland. True, I didn’t have the nylon tracksuit pants that I wore in Ireland, but they were so useless, I didn’t really notice their absence.

In Ireland I wore three pairs of socks most of the time. Tonight I only had one pair on, but to counter that, my leather shoes are fairly water-proof, and my feet were only slightly damp when I got home, not soaking and bright red as they were after each day's ride in Ireland. The leather shoes don’t have a hole in the bottom for the cleats. Sure, the soles of the biking shoes were covered with a ‘water proof’ sticker, but that was as useless as the tracksuit pants when it came to resisting water.

All in all, I was walking home and I was freezing, but the conditions weren’t half as bad as they were when I was travelling. I honestly don’t know how I survived Ireland, and I am just waiting for the day that I am back there, trying to survive again.

Two Months After

Here I am, back in Australia and attending university. For the first time since leaving Ireland, I am reading Trinity.

Although I must have read the book close to ten times, this is by far the best reading. I am just reading the fourth part, out of seven. Up until now, the focus has mainly been on the area of Inishowen, although now the emphasis spreads to Derry, Belfast and Dublin.

While reading parts one to three, I have recognised so much. The mention of the weather and the landscape is all too familiar to me now.

But more! More than I have known before are the places mentioned! Muff, Moville, Carndonagh, the Crana river, Buncrana, Whitecastle, Redcastle and Culdaff have all been mentioned. I have been to every one of these places. If at any time some one may have wondered if it was all worth it, then I can now say an emphatic ‘yes!’

Day 31

Although I had set my alarm (on the mobile phone) to wake me at 7:30, I decided it was much wiser to sleep in. I turned it off and woke up at 10 am, dozing for another half hour after that. I found only a drop of milk left in the fridge but I really couldn’t be bothered making toast, so I ate mostly dry cereal, which was great.

I think the last few days of my trip will forever be marked by my laziness. Never mind. I blame the stay in Armagh; it got me paranoid about the state of the bike. I guess I should also point the finger at my inherent laziness - surely this played a part.

I rang John, and we decided to meet for lunch, at a pub on Vicar St., which is quite close to the Guinness brewery. Finally, a plan for the day.

I rode there on my bike. The massive complex of the brewery was easy to find, however once I arrived at that, it took me another 20 minutes to find the visitors centre.

Locking the bike, and paying £5, I was rewarded with a fairly brief tour of a museum. The tour didn’t go through the brewery itself, but an old hop storage shed. The uninterested guide explained, briefly, the history of Guinness, the process of making it and some side stories to keep us interested.

I was far more impressed with the tour at Bushmills, and the Kilmainhem Jail. Still, it was interesting and remains one of those places I can say I have been to.

On New Year’s Eve, 1759 Arthur Guinness got the lease for a run down Brewery at St. James Gate. He paid £100 (I think from an inheritance), for a 9000 year lease with a rent of £45 per year. The brewery he took over was failing, and everyone thought he was mad. He brewed ale for a while, but then settled on porter, a dark drink popular with the porters in London’s Covent Garden. This is made like ale, with the addition of roasted barley. Arthur decided to make his drink a little stronger than usual. In doing so, he declared that the new drink was ‘extra stout’.

I think I got the history right. One very interesting section of the museum was the place where they showed how the Guinness was transported. Sure, carriages and the like were shown for history’s sake, but they also showed the modern way. There was a picture of a truck the size and shape of an petrol truck - filled with Guinness! That was a surprise. I am imagining a tank - much like the tank we stored milk in back on the kibbutz - filled with Guinness. Mmm.

Also, with the Guinness at the end of the tour, I completed my Guinness tour. I have had Guinness at Quigley’s Point, Carndonagh, Culdaff, Ballycastle, Derry, Garvagh, Swatragh, Belfast, Moneymore, Armagh, Castleblayney, Drogheda, Dublin and, finally, at the source.

And, truthfully, I have to say that today’s Guinness was the best of the lot. It was so thick and smooth and took ages to settle. And the taste! Wow.

I left the brewery and headed for what I thought would have been Vicar St. (John had given me the directions from the brewery). I rode and kept riding, never passing a Vicar St. I arrived at a large intersection that led to the cathedral I visited yesterday, and realised I had missed it, besides, John’s description included nothing about a large intersection.

I stopped someone and asked them where Vicar St. was; they didn’t know. I rode back up towards the brewery, and stopped someone else.

‘Oh, the pub?’, they said?

Apparently Vicar St. is the name of the pub, and was on the street I had been riding up and down. I found it shortly after that, directly opposite a church, so maybe that is where the name comes from.

Anyway, John arrived a couple of minutes after me, and we entered. It was one of those swanky, arty type cafés. I usually wouldn’t come to a place like this to eat, even if I had a job and was on a normal budget! I thought (correctly) that John would offer to pay for a meal, but I still felt guilty, so I picked the cheapest meal.

John had to go back to work, but not before we had talked about how I was going to get to the airport in the afternoon. He told me that there were a series of bus companies on O’Connell St. that do shuttles to the airport. I went in search of these buses, and arrived back at the apartment (after looking at my Hotmail again care of Trinity College) with about an hour to go before I was to catch my bus.

While wandering up and down O’Connell St., I passed a shop called ‘Bonavox Hearing Aids’, just off O’Connell St. This is where Paul Hewson took his name from while he was still at school! (Apparently someone thought it would be cool to name him after a shop). A bit silly, really. But in his earliest interviews, the lead singer of the new band U2 was dubbed ‘Paul Hewson, aka Bono Vox’. I am really glad that I have seen it. I have always assumed that the store would be closed by now.

I just love Trinity College. When I walk through it I can’t help but feel academic. The buildings and the cobbled walkways have so much atmosphere, with the statues, grass and discrete little signs adding to it all. The mass of students, with bicycles chained everywhere as well. I would love to study there! The history! Wow.

I packed my stuff, got the bike ready and John came home. He walked me to O’Connell St., a completely different way than the way I had been taking. An interesting thing, when I first arrived in Dublin, and was asking the way to O’Connell St, I rode down one or two of the streets that we walked down today.

John gave me £10 to pay the bus fare (which was only £5!) and wished me good luck. I didn’t want the £10, but realised belatedly that all I had left was £15 in cash and one £20 traveller’s cheque, and the bus wouldn’t have accepted that.

I waved goodbye to John and the bus left. That man was so kind to me. I hope that one day I will be able to repay him in some way, but I don’t think I will be able to. If he ever goes to Australia, he will have contacts to stay with (or the money to stay at hotels!). It is so great that he would do all the things he did for me, just because he is friends with Julie!

Once the bus got onto the main road to the airport, I began to recognise all the buildings and streets that I saw while riding in a month ago. I recognised the street where I asked those two men how far it was to the city centre. I recognised the place where those bloody buses ran over my gloves. It seems so long ago - so much has happened in the meantime. To think that I was knackered after riding for only half a mile! Though, I guess that never changed much.

On the bus, I had the sad feeling that my adventure was over, I would check in, catch the flight, meet Steve and go back to the warm comfort of Aldershot.

‘Fraid not.

I had taken the pedals off the bike at John’s house, but at the airport I changed the handlebars so that they were in line with the frame, and deflated the tyres. I went to the check-in place, but the woman told me I had to pay my £15 at the desk down the line. I wasn’t too concerned at this stage - I had about 20 minutes before the flight was due to board, so I thought I had plenty of time.

I went down to the ticketing desk and bought the bike’s ticket (after a bloody long wait), went back to the check-in desk, put the bike through, the backpack (minus the daypack), and received my boarding pass. No worries. I had five minutes before the plane was due to board (there hadn’t been an announcement at this stage).

I walked down the pathway to the gate and checked all my pockets. I was clutching a ticket, a passport, a boarding pass, the bike’s seat, my wallet and my daypack. At this stage I hadn’t actually sorted everything out.

Everything there. Good. I got to the gate and had a final check, before handing over my boarding pass. No passport. That chill that we get when we realise we don’t have our wallet or purse ran through my body. I clutched at each pocket; no passport. The elderly man at the gate asked what was wrong. Someone else came from behind and asked me if I had lost my passport. Yes, I said. She told me that a security guard had picked one up from the ground just a minute ago. I thanked her and ran back to where she said the guard found the passport. No guard. I kept walking through the airport - at this stage I was back into the busy check-in area. I found a guard, approached him and asked him if he had picked up a passport. No, he hadn’t. I asked him if he could use his radio to contact every guard but he refused. He refused! I couldn’t believe it!

By this time they were calling my flight. He told me that if a guard picked up a passport, they would take it to the security office. He told me where it was (outside the complex), so I ran out there and told the woman my plight. No one had handed one in. She said not to worry, it wouldn’t be long. I told her I was boarding a flight in 2 minutes. She went off somewhere, and came back with the guard’s name, saying he was on a break and couldn’t be contacted. This was all a little crazy for a panicky Brendon.

I got their number, and went to catch my plane. I wasn’t so much worried about getting into England. It’s just that in five days I will be flying to Sweden - and there is no way I will be able to get there without the passport.

In the end, there was no miraculous appearance of a security guard through the door of the plane, or the appearance of the passport at Stanstead. Tomorrow, I will start ringing courier services - God knows how much that will cost. I am really starting to worry about it. With a weekend between now and the 20th, there is no way it will get here. Bugger.

Steve was waiting for me at the airport. He drove me back to Aldershot, and my trip was over.

So, a bit of a sorry end to a grand adventure. This last month I have fulfilled a dream or two. I have experienced much more than I thought possible and, more importantly, I have survived! I have done something, which only a year ago I wouldn’t have dreamt of!

I cannot wait until I go back to that wonderful country.

Day 30

I’m in Dublin. Exciting but sad.

I woke, yesterday, at 8:30 ish and breakfasted on the remains of the bread and honey. When I stop travelling, I think toast with honey will become a staple, or part of a staple breakfast. Honey was made to go with toast. Bananas and bread, however, will not be eaten as a sandwich for a very long time.

I found Kieren, the innkeeper, and he told me there was nothing yet to do. I asked him what I could do today, he said he wanted me to take the sheets of the hostel to the laundrette down the road. And that was it. When? ‘Not now, er ... later’.

I asked to do something, anything, and in desperation he gave me a broom to sweep the floor. The hostel has a cleaner that comes in everyday and gets paid the same no matter what the state the hostel is in.

While waiting for the clothes to be cleaned (once I actually took them down) I watched television. One of the channels had live coverage of the first official meeting of the North-South Council, brought into existence by the Good Friday Agreement. This was the measure not wanted at all by the Unionists, but insisted upon by the Nationalists, bringing, as it does, the North and the Republic closer together, institutionally.

The Council will be meeting in Armagh, at some house that I passed as I rode out of that town. I have to say I am quite proud? excited? pleased? at the prospect at being in the country while history is being made.

I felt guilty about not doing any work in exchange for a discount. Taking three sacks down to the laundrette and then back is not much work. Kieren, sticking to the bargain, was willing to charge me £4, plus the Internet time I used last night. I disagreed, and in the end, I paid £9 for the night and the Internet access (which normally costs £2.50). Which made me feel a little less guilty at doing no work.

I finished the clothes by 12:45 and decided to do some tourist type thing. There was a map on the wall of the hostel of Drogheda, with some of the highlights of the town illustrated. I have to say it doesn’t seem like the most exciting of towns, considering how old it is.

As far as I know, Drogheda was founded by the Vikings, as were quite a few towns around the country - Dublin, Wexford and (I think) Cork being some examples. Shortly after the Norman invasion, there was an area around Dublin that the English had control over, the rest of Ireland was still hostile to them. This area, about 50 km in diameter, was known as the Pale; Drogheda was the northern border of the Pale. The expression ‘beyond the Pale’ comes from this region.

I am sure that Drogheda should be famous for another reason, but I don’t know it. Now that I am here in the comfortable warmth of Dublin, I am thinking with hindsight that I should have asked someone there more about the place.

Anyway, I noticed that there was an old monastery outside the town, so I thought I would go there, as every other place on the map looked like they would cost money.

The ruins were 10 km from the hostel, and I thoroughly enjoyed the ride. It was bitterly cold, of course, but 15 minutes on a bike solves that. There was little wind, no rain and what’s more, I didn’t have the backpack. The ride was nicely hilly and the countryside beautiful. Of course, there were no signs at all pointing to the monastery. I remembered which streets I had to take to get out of Drogheda from the map on the wall at the hostel. Once I was on the road, outside of the town, I knocked on the door of a B+B and was assured that I was on the right road.

Mellifont Abbey was founded in 1142 by Cistercian Monks. It had a troubled history, with the first lot of monks returning to France (obviously sick and tired of the weather) and an unspecified scandal which caused the church in the abbey to be burnt in the 14th (or was it the 13th?) century, and rebuilt in the following century. Finally, the local lords took it over as a residence in the 16th century, though monks continued to stay there, the last abbot died in the mid 18th century.

The ruins are in fairly good condition. Although most of the walls aren’t over a metre in height, there are some areas where the walls reached over my head, particularly doorways and one impressive hallway covered over by a stone ceiling.

The latest church (16th century, I think) clearly stands, with complete walls and ceiling, while other rooms are clearly what they are shown to be, the crypt and the infirmary are the examples that spring to mind. Compare this with the ruins at say, Masada. A blue and white sign there tells us that a pile of stone was the bakery or whatever, when in truth, it looks like any other building. The infirmary at Mellifont was clearly that, with stone platforms for beds, in neat rows, a stone hallway between them.

The old monastery that I saw in Wales somewhere was much larger and in better shape, but then, I only saw that through a fence, and had to peer through people’s shoulders to do so. Here, I was completely alone, on a beautiful, sunny day in a quiet, ruined monastery.

I wandered around for about half an hour. There was a nice little stream gurgling past the ruins on its way to the Boyne. It was a really pleasant afternoon, and I enjoyed my time there.

I took a photo, not so much to show the ruins but to show the length of the shadows cast by a sun of 1:45, a long way to the south. I guess this photo also proves that there was sun at least once on this trip, which also counts for the general lack of photos; this camera is so cheap, I think one drop of water would wreck it.



The ride back to Drogheda was more enjoyable - I think the wind was behind me - and I got back to the hostel at 2:30.

I went into town to post the journal and ate lunch, going back to pack my bags and catch the 4 pm bus to Dublin.

My fare cost £4.80, the bike cost £6. Six pounds! I couldn’t believe it. I should have caught the train. It would have worked out cheaper, quicker and more comfortable, but it was too late; the ticket was bought and I (and the bike) were on the bus.

Looking back, it was sheer laziness. It is 50 km from Drogheda to Dublin, but I didn’t have to worry about looking for accommodation, so I could have kept riding well after 3 pm.

It would have been a nice easy ride, as well (I noted this from the comfort of a bus seat) but the thoughts that I have had for a day or two (that my trip is basically over), were strong and my laziness overtook my thriftiness.

At some point on Sunday I rang John Kelly, and he asked me if I wanted to stay in his apartment while I was in Dublin. He said he would be delighted to have me, so I accepted (of course!)

I got to Dublin at 5 pm and found John Kelly’s apartment building by 5:45, though no one was home. After a pint, and then another, given to me by a Dublin man impressed by my efforts, he still wasn’t home. I had to leave the pub, or I would have (finally) met John drunk. The men I was sitting with in the pub had asked me if I wanted another! I wandered, and eventually found a place selling wedges and a coke.

The apartment was in a place called The Old Distillery, in a beautiful area of Dublin. It is within spitting distance of the Four Courts, which is next to the Liffey, and only a couple of blocks from O’Connell St.

At 7:30 John answered the phone and I came here. John Kelly lived in Australia for 10 years, and for one of those years he was working with Julie in Sydney. Upon hearing I was coming to Ireland, he offered his house as an emergency address.

He is a very kind man and both he and his wife Allison have been most hospitable. And their apartment is incredible! Not only is it very comfortable, but after spending last night in a hostel, and the night before that on a haystack, it is luxury. Allison later apologised for only having an air mattress. I told her the carpet itself would have been a luxury, for which I got a funny look.

We talked for a bit when I got in and went out to a chic noodle house and ate, which he paid for.

On the walk back to his apartment he took me on a brief tour of Trinity College and the streets around it.

Trinity was really impressive by night. Clever lighting illuminates the Elizabethan buildings to make them glow. We walked through the Temple Bar district (the fashionable quarter of Dublin) and he pointed out the Kitchen to me, which wasn’t yet opened (the time then was just before 11 pm).

The Kitchen is the nightclub owned by Bono! Of all the things I want to do in Dublin, going to the Kitchen is number one on the list. As far as I know, this is the place that U2 filmed the clip to Even Better Than The Real Thing. I do know that they sometimes make impromptu appearances there.

I fell asleep, quite exhausted, in the spare room, on the air mattress.

So, my riding is over, with 457 km on the dial. I am quite proud of myself with that figure, though I did get lazy in the last two days and skipped the last 100 km. I woke up at 9:30 and helped myself to the shower, the muesli and washing machine.

John had left me the keys and instructed me to make myself at home.

Last night I rang Morgan McStay. He is the Ireland representative of the ICEJ. Mum had given me his address. He agreed to meet at 2 pm near John’s apartment. I left at 10:30 and walked to the Temple Bar district, amazed at the cafes and general wealth I was passing. A month in the countryside on a shoestring budget will turn any one into a country bumpkin.

I found St. Steven’s Green, a fairly large park with different memorials for different parts of Irish history; the Famine, Wolfe Tone, Parnell, etc. St. Steven’s Green was one of the strategic sites captured by the Irish Volunteers in 1916, along with the GPO, the Four Courts, etc.

From the park, I wandered blindly, enjoying the sunshine and the buildings and the beautiful Celtic women. I passed the Natural History Museum, the National Library, the ‘Government Buildings’ and the National Gallery but didn’t go into any of them.

After an hour or more, I found myself back at the main entrance to Trinity College, so I entered the arch and walked to the library. This is where the Book of Kells is kept, but they charge a price to see it; so I declined, mainly on principle.

The Book of Kells is very old, though I don’t know how old. It is an illustrated edition of the Gospel of Mark. Maybe it was written by St. Patrick’s groupies, I don’t know. I will have to look that up when I go to Australia. It is proof that Irish culture was ‘flowering, while Europe writhed in the Dark Ages’, to loosely quote Mr. Uris.

Which reminds me, Conor spent a good part of the book in Dublin. Actually a map of Dublin is one of the maps at the start of a section (hence, I found the place quite familiar once I was here and walking along the streets).

I found a student union type place and ate cheap food and helped myself to the free Internet access. A healthy Irish accent and a messy, half-grown goatee, complete with a backpack slung over my shoulder convinced everyone I was a student.

I walked back to the apartment at 1 pm (it took twenty-five minutes to get there) and waited until five to two, at which time I walked to the end of the street, waited two minutes and was picked up by Morgan McStay.

He is a retired engineer who is quite involved with the ICEJ and has spoken at one of the Feast’s seminars (on the Jewish roots of Christianity).

All day we had interesting discussions, even if sometimes they did go way over my head. It was good to listen to someone who is interested in the same things I am yet knows so much more about them than I do.

We drove along O’Connell St. and onto St. Patrick’s Cathedral, the Dublin Church of Ireland cathedral. He paid for us to go in there and we looked around. It was certainly a nice building, but I wasn’t all that impressed.

We drove on and came to Kilmainhem Jail. Now, this is what impressed me.

Although it was commissioned in the late 18th century as an ordinary jail, within ten years it would be the detention centre of Ireland’s republican prisoners. It held Wolfe Tone, Parnell, Robert Emmet, the Fenians, the Young Irelanders, De Velera, Pierce, Connolly and many others. The tour (paid for by Mr. McStay) was very good and intimate; there was a total of three tourists. A 30 minute film retold a lot of the history of the jail.

We were shown the place the seventeen men were executed by the British after 1916, and many other places, including rooms of the various famous prisoners. It was fantastic to see.

When we entered the ‘East Wing’ I recognised it instantly; it was where In The Name Of The Father was filmed. However, the ‘Guildford Four’ were caught, tried and jailed in England.

Mr McStay dropped me off at 5 ish and I spent a very entertaining evening drinking wine with John and Allison, talking about everything from siblings to work to history to politics to food to Sweden and back again. We drank wine, had take away Indian food and talked until midnight.

I wanted to go to The Kitchen, so I changed into my newly cleaned jeans and shirt and set off, getting there about 12:40. The doorman was very kind but very firm and said they were full and there was no way I was going to get in. It’s a Tuesday night! He said Tuesday nights are their busiest, and it wasn’t worth me waiting.

I have to admit I am pretty disappointed. Never mind - it will be there when I come back to Ireland.

Now it is 2:15 and I am going to sleep. It is very difficult to write a journal while propped up on elbows, on an air mattress.

Day 28

Well, I’ve done it. My cycling is almost over. I am in Drogheda, which is not exactly as I planned, but I’m not bothered.

The day started out alright. The hot water bottle never arrived; the reason was a bit confused in the end - I think Mary had gone into town to buy one as she had said, but couldn’t find one. I was a bit surprised to find that she had gone to such lengths, and thanked her for it. Anyway, I survived without it.

Mary has a strange way of talking. I can understand what she says all right - her accent is a beautiful combination of the harsh Northern accent and the softer tones of the Republic. A bit like what I experienced back in Inishowen. It’s what she says that is difficult to understand. She will say half a sentence and then stop suddenly, um and ah, and then start another one, or worse, finish a completely different sentence all together. I guess she is a nice, simple farm lass who never had time for the big city or all that education.

Mary and I had planned to leave at 9:00, go to mass on the way, and then she would drop me off at Slane. After waking up at about a quarter past eight, I shivered in my sleeping bag for half an hour, and then knocked on the door. There was no answer. They all slept in. I was waiting out in that bloody cold for over half an hour. I don’t know how cold it was. There was no frost on the ground, so I guess I shouldn’t complain too much, but the temperature wasn’t far off zero.

Just across the muddy driveway was a shed in the making. All that is there at the moment is newly laid concrete and the framework of the building. I wandered through that for a time. The cows were living in an existing shed, which joins the new one, so I said hello to them. These were all calves - probably about a year and a half old. (I was quietly impressed with myself when I asked how old the calves were later and was proven to be correct!)

At 9:20 I knocked again, and Mary answered the door in a nightgown! She had only just gotten out of bed! I have always understood farm people to get up at the crack of dawn! In the end, I was rewarded with bacon, an egg and something else, livers or kidney or something. When it was mixed with the bacon and egg it didn’t taste so bad. We left at 10 ish after battling to fit the bike into the back of her tiny hatchback.

We passed a church that was about to start, so we parked and went in for the mass. After the mass, I followed her out of another door and she went into a shop to get change a £20 note into two £10 notes. Out of the door, and on the way back to her car, she slipped me one of the notes! I protested, of course, but she insisted! It happened again.

She dropped me off at the foot of the Hill of Slane and waved goodbye. We had driven about 20 miles. It is funny to have driven what is usually a day's cycling in such a short amount of time. I guess I should be fitter. Even with a backpack, 20 miles is not such a long way to ride, for someone who actually rides.

The Hill of Slane was where St. Patrick lit his first fire, in 433, against the orders of Laoghaire of Tara. Patrick was summoned before him, where he explained the Holy Trinity to the High King, using a shamrock. Laoghaire allowed him to keep practising, although for the life of me, I can’t remember if he was converted at the same time. The more I think about it, the more I am convinced that he was.

I have heard that the Hill of Slane is very steep, and all I would be rewarded with if I rode up there is an old monastery, dedicated to the spot where St. Patrick did his stuff. I rode on.

I found the road to Slane Castle and set off. This involved asking three different people, and getting two different answers. In this ancient and historic town, there were signs to Newgrange and Newgrange Farm and to the battle sites of the Boyne and to the Hill of Slane, but not to Slane Castle.

The castle is about a mile out of town. From the road it is a grand sight, all big and medieval, with a long, wide driveway leading to a set of rough, iron gates, which were closed and chained. They didn’t look well used; the ivy was overtaking them.

Slane Castle is famous - in my eyes - for only one thing. In 1984, U2 recorded half of The Unforgettable Fire in the castle’s ballroom. The cover of the album has what I have always assumed to be a facade of the castle, with the lads in front of it trying to look serious, or arty, or something.

I kept riding along the road and found another grand entrance. It too was locked, but this time there was a side entrance, on a rough dirt road that looked well used. It was quite muddy and had tyre tracks in it.

I rode along this road and passed cows in a pen, of all things. The road continued, and I came across a junction giving me a choice, with a sign, of the farm or the castle.

I decided it would be better to find someone and get permission to look around the grounds.

The ‘farm’ road took me along a beautiful wooded glen, with a fast running stream tumbling beside the road. It went downhill and around the castle, and finally met the Boyne and ran along it. I was surprised to find the Boyne such a wide and fast flowing river. Sure, all it does is rain in this country, and if I had of thought about it, it would have made sense, but I was still surprised. With the Boyne flowing right past the hostel I am in now, it is still wide and fast, but now I am pretty much on the coast. The only other river I am familiar with and has lots of political history attached to it - the Jordan River - is not much more than a creek, even at the point that it spills out of the Sea of Galilee, so I guess that's an excuse.

At this point, I was on the small road (a dirt track) with a small grassy area about one hundred metres wide on my left, the castle behind me, the Boyne curving to the right and away from me, in front of me and a wooden bridge crossing the little creek that the road had been following up until this point to my right. The track led beyond the creek into a forest. Very picturesque, but a little unnerving, as there seemed to be no one about. I looked back towards the castle and took a picture, which was harder than it sounds, as it meant taking off the backpack and placing it upside down (resting on its cover) so it doesn’t get wet, taking out the useless camera (from the daypack, attached to the front of the backpack and now between it and the ground) and taking the picture. All the while, I was imagining a curtain of the castle being flicked back, with some evil women peering out unbeknown to me, as happens in all the movies.



I retraced my steps and went the route of the castle, which took me through another wooded glen, and to the front of the castle.

In 1991, the interior of the castle was almost entirely destroyed by a fire. Before this it was open to tourists but has been closed since then. I was surprised to see a rusty sign point down some steps that naturally led to the cellars or the servants quarters that read ‘Discotheque’.

Near the castle’s entrance was a generator - running - and I saw some lights inside some of the castle’s windows.

I knocked on the door and called out, feeling a bit stupid as it was a big deserted castle with workmen or a workman somewhere in a room upstairs. No answer, and as much as I wanted to go in, I didn’t.

I walked out of the front courtyard and saw, through a group of trees, another building.

I walked towards this. It was a beautiful edifice, a series of rooms built around a courtyard - all cobbled with arched entrances on opposite sides. I think it must have been the castle’s stables.

There were signs of life in one of the rooms, and I went through the nearest arch to see a car and a modern door. My knock was answered by a man, who was rather amused by my request but agreed to let me wander around the castle, as long as I didn’t go inside - which was a shame, but that’s life. He told me that he usually had to kick people out of the grounds, but because I asked for permission, he would let me wander. I wanted to talk to the man further asking about the castle’s history, etc. Unfortunately, he didn’t seem to want to talk to me (there was a baby crying inside), and apart from saying that he remembered U2 being there in 1984, he didn’t tell me anything.

I walked around the castle, trying to find the angle that the album cover photo was taken with. I didn’t recognise it, so I took a photo of each face. When I get back to England I will compare the photos to the album cover and hopefully find a match, but I don’t think I will.


A different angle

I rode back to Slane and onto the N2.

The Boyne runs past Slane (and through the grounds of the castle). The hill going down to the river outside of the town is quite steep; I got to 53 kph. Which is a lot of fun.

Any fun that I might have had riding down to the river was replaced by frustration at the equally steep bank on the other side. The view from the parking space at the top of the hill (obviously put in place for frustrated cyclists) was great. All green, with the river and old bridge with a medieval town to boot! I took a photo and continued.


The River Boyne

Just around a bend from that rest place was a small castle-like building that was completely ruined. However, to my mind, it looked more like the castle on the cover of The Unforgettable Fire than Slane Castle did. I stood there and stared for a couple of minutes - in all honesty, I was still knackered from the hill I just climbed - and then rode on. I didn’t take a photo of the place. I don’t know why.

A mile or two out of Slane was the turnoff to Newgrange. A sign said it was 7 km away, and I decided to go there. I figured I would see the tomb and ride back, wasting only an hour of my time.

Unfortunately, the so-called Celtic Tiger is trying to devour tourist money. I had to go through a visitor’s centre, paying £3. The bus to the tomb wouldn’t leave until 2:15 and would get back at 3:30. I didn’t have to wait for the bus - I was welcome to walk the route (which would take about an hour) and no, I wasn’t allowed to ride my bike to the tomb.

I decided to see it anyway. No, I don’t like riding after 3 pm, but a nice lady told me of a youth hostel in Drogheda costs £9 and was only 5 miles from where I was. She was the woman at the information desk. She asked about me, as everyone does, and I told her my story, including sleeping in a barn last night. She was really nice, and took pity on me. I thought she was about to offer me her place to stay for the evening, but she didn’t.

Maire (from Malin Head) told me about Newgrange, and encouraged me to see it if I passed through this area. Newgrange is one tomb in an area littered with them. It is the biggest and oldest passage tomb in Europe. Neolithic farmers built Newgrange and many of the surrounding tombs about 500 years before the Egyptian pyramids and a full thousand years before Stonehenge.

No other structures of their lifestyle remain and no one has any firm idea of their communities, governments, religions, etc. The only clues available are those which are found in the passage graves.

The opening of Newgrange is between two large granite slabs, a narrow passage follows a fairly straight, if slightly uphill line into about a third of the diameter of the cairn. At the end of the passage are three domed enclosures, each with a large stone bowl on which cremated human remains were placed. The tomb is the home of not one person, but many.

Using what little information there is about stone age technology, people have estimated that Newgrange would have taken between fifty and seventy-five years to build. This is pretty impressive, as the estimated lifespan of the average person at this point in history was between twenty-five and fifty years.

No one knows the exact purpose of Newgrange, or any other passage tomb around.

A passage tomb is a mound with a narrow entrance at some point. This opens into a passage, which leads to an enclosing near the centre of the mound (which can be about four or five metres high). The tomb bit, at the end of the passage usually has three round sections, in which remains are placed. For some unknown reason, the round section on the right is always the largest of the three.

The exceptional thing about Newgrange is that on the Winter Solstice, the 21st of December, at dawn (and to a limited extent the two days immediately before and after this) sunlight shines through a window above the doorway, along the passage and illuminates the central section.

The ground level in the centre is about two metres above the entrance, so the sunlight creeps along the ground and fills the section by reflecting off the stones inside.

Again, no ones knows the reason or significance behind this five day window, but various theories have been suggested - none of which sounded convincing to me. The usual questions were asked about how the people knew the days and the position of the sun, etc as it took so long for them to build the structure. The guide said that people back then were much more attuned to nature, with their crops and the like, that they would notice a lot more about the seasons and the rain, etc, and wouldn’t be so used to artificial things like calendars, as we are used to. That makes sense.

It was so cold. The wind was whipping through the fields with a hint of rain on it. Inside the tomb, it was very dry and cold (of course).

There had been no seepage into the tomb. It was incredible! The carvings were very clear, using the circular pattern that dominates all Celtic art and tourist shops.

The tour did indeed get back to the visitors centre at 3:30, and I decided to ride to Drogheda.

I contemplated stopping at farms on the way, but rationalised that if I wasn’t successful I would be caught in the darkness.

For the first time since before Malin Head, the wind was behind me, as I was riding pretty much due east. I was following the Boyne most of the time, and hence the road was, on average, down hill. Of course, it was up and down all the way, but at least the ‘downs’ went for longer distances than the ‘ups’. A rare event indeed. That last stretch of riding only took me half an hour, but it was the best stretch since that day I rode around the Malin Head peninsular.

The Green Door Hostel was well sign posted and I found it with ease.

Before I entered the door, I asked about work in exchange for a reduction. The door answerer (innkeeper?) hadn’t heard of this before - which surprised me - and agreed to get me to do a thing or two in the morning. I spent half an hour on the Internet and relaxed, eating a frozen lasagne and some bread and honey, bought at a nearby convenience store.

Towards 9 pm, I wandered into town for a drink. This blossomed into one whiskey and three pints, and a bag of chips. Maybe a little extravagant, but I enjoyed my evening and got into a good conversation with two locals. One was a drunk and annoying. The other was just drunk for the evening. Both decided that they would share their republican feelings, and their arguments were sufficiently biased that they left gaping holes in them.

However, I was enjoying myself and couldn’t be bothered arguing (besides, this is their country, after all), so I thoroughly agreed with them, and had a good craic. The drunk eventually left (after falling over!) and I had a great conversation with the remaining drinker. The remaining - his name is Mark Aspell - tried to convince me that his father had once seen leprechauns! He was being absolutely serious. He believed his father completely and kept getting frustrated when I refused to believe him! The story went that his father was walking home from the pub one evening when he saw a fire in a field. He went over to investigate; it was a campfire, with lots of small men sitting around it, singing! I commented that it was funny that his father had seen the little men whilst walking home from a pub, but I think the significance was lost on Mark, who was probably drunk enough to see little men himself. He said all he wanted to do in life was meet these leprechauns that his father had seen.

He gave me his address and made me promise that I would write to him. So when I get back to Australia (in less than a month!) I will write.

Day 27

I am lying, in my sleeping bag, on top of a haystack.

I packed up and left the hostel in the morning, about 10:30, but not before buying some bananas and a loaf of bread (90p). The bread that they sell in Sainsbury’s here is very, very nice. It is not sliced, just white, fluffy bread and very tasty.

The silent Brazilian didn’t say much in the morning; he told me that he was going to see Navan fort today, and then walked out. The students didn’t arrive until after I went to bed. They were walking out when I woke up in the morning. I guess they were keen.

It was a relief to get past the first mile without any problems, and after that I was fairly confidant that the pedals wouldn’t develop any problems - which they didn’t, thank God.

I was wrong about the Catholic cathedral in Derry having the 39 bells – it is the cathedral here in Armagh that has them. As they ring across the city, one feels quite medieval.

I rode on a smaller country road, going almost due south through Keady and on to Castleblayney. My original plan was to go through Monaghan - for two reasons: the first, because on the map I planned my route with, the Keady road didn’t appear. Also, on another touristy map of Armagh County on the hostel kitchen’s wall, the Keady road goes through hilly country while the Monaghan does not. It was only a last minute decision - the fork came up, and there was a sign to Keady. The main reason I took the road to the right was that it remained level, while the Monaghan road continued up the hill I was currently on!

On saying all of that, the Monaghan route is almost 15 miles longer and it was a good decision, in the end. The Keady road had more hills, though. I lot more hills.

They weren’t so bad. I have faced steeper hills, however today - until Keady - there were simply no downhill slopes. A climb was followed by flat road, which was followed by another climb. But I have been more knackered before today. I guess what I wrote the other day holds true; I would rather climb hills than ride against the wind.

I was rewarded with about five miles of mostly downhill slopes after Keady and across the border.

Keady is the last town before the border. I expected it to be staunchly Republican, with flags and slogans and possibly murals everywhere. I was quite wrong. Apart from a single Irish tricolour adorning a monument and an RUC station built like a fortress there was no evidence of Republicanism. I guess the town’s residents are so confidant of their Republicanism that there is no reason to advertise it, like in Belfast, where some idiot might walk the Falls and think that the inhabitants are loyal subjects of the Crown.

At Keady’s post office, I paid a couple of pounds for my postage and changed the rest of my notes into Punts. The office clerk was quite happy to get into a conversation with me about where I am going, where I’ve come from, the bad weather, etc, even though there were two or three people behind me waiting to be served! Man, I love the people in this country.

About a mile passed Keady I had a puncture in my rear tyre, now just a slick and more prone to punctures. I have two spare tubes, but in my three nights at Armagh, I didn’t bother putting a patch on the one that blew in Cookstown. So I put the other one on and was fairly worried for the rest of the day, as I now had no spare tubes.

What a nice little sentence! ‘I put the other one on and...’ My hands were so cold out of the gloves that they didn’t work properly (which I am getting used to). It took me ages to get the tyre off the rim, and then the tube out. I don’t have those tricky tools that cyclists should have to lever things out. When I had a puncture on Benjie’s bike in Israel, I used my knife (one of the blunt blades) as a level and ended up ripping the tube. I was determined not to do this again, and hence, used my hands to force the tyre off. I have seen Benjie do this in Israel (how many tyres must have he changed in his life?), so I knew it was possible. Of course, in Israel’s heat, one’s hands don’t hurt to touch. It took me about twenty very frustrating minutes getting that damn tyre off.

And get this; a car pulled up and asked me about directions! It happens everywhere! Wherever I am, people stop and ask me directions! In Israel it happened constantly. In my first week in England, I was walking down Main Street in Aldershot (with Jane) and someone asked me the way to a shop. I actually knew the way, which was a little strange. I could even tell these Irish drivers where to go, as they were asking about a garage on the other side of the town. It was a garage for heavy farm equipment, and I had passed it about a mile or two before coming to Keady. I told these guys I wasn’t from the area (in case the backpack and my constantly chattering teeth didn’t give it away), but they were happy with my answer. They didn’t offer to help, though.

It was a beautiful little piece of countryside I was riding through as I approached the border. After a nice little stretch of five miles or so of almost constant downhill, the road started curving upwards. It went around hills, and then back the other way, dipping slightly in valleys, but never going down further than I had ridden up. It was fairly hard riding, but the view was breathtaking, and I wasn’t complaining to myself too much.

As I think I have already written, Ulster is naturally protected by from the rest of Ireland by a range of hills. It was these hills that I was crossing today.

Sheep were abundant, and the standard patchwork fields, criss-crossed with leaf bare hedges and the occasional stone fence. In the distance were a set of hills that looked massive. I got closer and closer, and they didn’t get any smaller.

Just before I crossed the border, the strangest thing happened; it was quite exciting. I had been hearing a helicopter buzzing overhead from Keady. Occasionally I would catch sight of it as it flew above and over the road, seemingly in a zigzag pattern across the fields and hills as if it was looking for something. It was an army helicopter. I was hoping it would land in front of me and I would be interrogated, but that never happened. Any way, I hit a stretch of road about a mile long, with no curves and no trees on either side. The fields gently sloped away for a mile or two on each side. About half way along this stretch, I stopped for a breather.

A breather usually consists of me standing across the bike (I rarely get off the bike, but just stand with a leg on each side). I have some water, change sides on the tape and convince myself that I can continue and that I really want to do this. After a couple of days of experiments, I have worked out a fairly decent method of carrying the walkman around. I tried to use the belt clip, but it kept pinching my skin, or rubbing against my hipbone. The weight of the backpack doesn’t help this pursuit. Then I tried carrying it in the front pouch of the Kathmandu, but I noticed it kept getting wet (the water-proof section of the Kathmandu is the inner, black nylon that I now wear on the outside, most of the time). This black lining has a zipped pocket in it, so this is where I keep the Walkman. I have noticed it is a bit damp when I take it out after a day of really heavy rain (i.e. most days), but just as much as the rest of my possessions, so I am not that fussed.

Any way, I was resting, changing my tape’s side and I noticed the helicopter was hovering near the road. I looked back to the point where the road came out of the curve onto the straight bit I was on, and I saw some troops come out of the trees and set up a roadblock! It took them less then five minutes to complete a fully workable roadblock. Amazing. I saw a couple of cars being stopped and got bored. Looking back, I guess I should have stayed; I might have seen a terrorist being arrested! I was mainly disappointed that they set the roadblock up behind me. I guess there is nothing suspicious about an idiot on a bike riding through the winter, fleeing the UK into the safety of the Republic, even if he does have a camouflage cover for his backpack.

After the curving road and a couple of glens, I came to a flat-ish area of rolling hills and a straight road. This is where I crossed into the Republic. Once again, there was no passport office, or even a sign saying I was in the Republic. There was a big ‘Welcome to Monaghan’ sign, such as there is on the state borders in Australia. England doesn’t have these nice, friendly signs. Aldershot is on the Hampshire-Surrey border, and I crossed the border every time I went for a ride, or drove into Guildford to dance. There was a small brown sign reading ‘Hampshire’. At one point, I saw a sign saying ‘(the name of the county) - Jane Austin County’. Should I feel bad that I can’t remember the name of the county? Is that one of the things that I should know?

About a mile before Castleblayney, the land started to look swampy. I saw a little rubbish on the side of the road. It really wasn’t nice, compared to the loveliness I have been travelling through. The main road from Monaghan joined the road I was on, and suddenly I was on a main road. It was nice being on a country road between Armagh and Castleblayney. One is closer to the fields, there seems to be more animals. Before the border, I passed through a nice forest - it was quite spooky, as none of the trees had any leaves, just white trunks and black branches reaching up into the always grey sky. I couldn’t help thinking of The Blair Witch Project.

Castleblayney is on the N2. The ‘N’ roads in the Republic are the main highways (National roads). Ireland doesn’t have many motorways, the only one I can think of is the M50, ringing Dublin much like the M25 rings London.

The N2 is the main road between Dublin and Derry. Before reaching Castleblayney, the N2 passed through Monaghan town, and I would have travelled along this road if I had of stuck to my original travelling plan, so I guess I saved myself an extra days riding.

Castleblayney is the first town in the Republic (coming the way I did). It was built up by the local landowners, the Blayney’s, who were Lords, and they seemed to be fairly generous people. They built both Protestant and Catholic churches and also an almshouse for the poor.

The town is near Lake Muckno, which is a recreational lake, and good for fish, so these days it’s a bit of a regional centre for tourists and the like. The lake wasn’t visible from the road unfortunately, so I can’t comment on its beauty, or lack thereof.

I got to Castleblayney at around 12:15 and decided it was time to eat. I stopped at the first open pub, got a pint (£2.10) and sat down in the lounge, doing the usual with the bread and bananas (tearing off a chunk of bread and placing a piece of banana on top of it, to make a crude sandwich).

When I walked in, I got the usual strange stares and questions, but these guys weren’t being so nice as others I have met - I think they were asking the questions out of forced politeness. When the girl behind the bar told me the price was £2.10 (Irish punts), I asked if I could pay in Sterling. The girl agreed, so I handed over some coins, thinking I would get a cheaper price. But I didn’t! Mongrels! So, I paid £2.10 Sterling for a Guinness that was worth about half a pound less. (At the post office, the friendly man had only changed my notes, not my coins.) I guess I should have found a pub in Keady and not in the Republic.

I relaxed there for over an hour, nibbling away at the bread while sipping the stout and watching a movie on the television.

At 1:45 I decided to leave. I got the bag and the bike sorted out and wandered across the road to where a horse sale was occurring. There was a shed, with lots of individual pens, full of horses. It was a nice sight. A loudspeaker called out, in an auctioneer’s voice, the ongoing sales, but I couldn’t see any auction - I think it was happening inside a large shed that I couldn’t see the entrance for, from my position in the rain. I didn’t stay there very long. Just long enough to see a couple of horses, and watch the locals lounging against the railings, or looking at horses and discussing their merits or bad points.

Auctioneers are hard to understand at the best of times, but when they speak in an Ulster accent it is impossible.

The weather today was pretty good. It never rained heavily, and not often. I didn’t put my raincoat on until after I left Castleblayney. It wasn’t a very cold day (I think 7ºC was predicted) so I managed to work up quite a sweat climbing the hills.

The N2 is a good road to ride on. Apart from the fact it is a main road and gets lots of traffic - including trucks - there is a wide shoulder (almost a lane in width) and it is as smooth as the road and almost stoneless. The trucks are not buffeting me very much as they pass.

Monaghan is a very hilly area. If someone who has never been to Ireland is asked to picture the countryside, they will unwittingly think of Monaghan. From horizon to horizon, the land is bumpy. All the hills are small, nicely rounded and very green. There aren’t many trees (they have all been cleared), just fields and fields of green, divided as always by stone fences or hedges - which must look fantastic in summer. All the hedges I have seen so far have been leafless, for winter.

By the time 3 pm came around, I was more than ready to call it quits, and was glad that the first door I knocked on accepted my plea. The rain had been getting up slightly and the wind (a head wind, again) had been picking up since I left Blayney.

I knocked on a farm door and a farmer answered. He looks like a farmer, with rough, large hands, a craggy face and gumboots. Instead of greeting me with suspicion, or even a ‘hello’, he beamed when he saw me and said ‘how are ye keepin’?’ I introduced myself (after answering his question) and asked for a barn to stretch out in for the evening. Now, in all the horror films, people say ‘be careful what you wish for, you just might get it’. He pointed out a hay shed and said I was welcome to it.

I put my bike and bag in there and was invited in for coffee and something to eat. Since I had eaten almost a whole loaf about an hour before, I wasn’t that hungry, but I finished what they gave me, and was back in the shed by 3:40, wondering how to fill my time in. I put a patch on today’s puncture, listened to music, etc and slept for an hour or two.

Getting up to the top of the haystack took some effort. It is built by stacking bail upon bail in an almost vertical wall. The nearest ‘level’ to the ground was above my head. I picked up the backpack and threw it up to the level. It stayed up there on the third attempt, and I struggled up. After a days riding, even a simple effort like this is a bit of an effort. Once I got up to the level, it was easy to get to where I am now.

It is quite fun being up here; it brings back all sorts of fun memories of Bryce Perron and I playing on top of the haystack in the shed at the Howard Springs house. Of course, it wasn’t quite so damned cold then.

They turned the lights on and Mary brought me some supper and offered my a hot water bottle! She pointed out a ladder resting against the shed’s wall.

Here is the great news: She is driving to Dublin tomorrow and offered to take me. I asked if I could go as far as Slane and she agreed! Yippee! Slane is another day’s ride away.

I can see it tomorrow, ride a bit further and then hopefully be in Dublin on Monday evening. Yippee! I can’t believe my trip is almost over. I have only four days to go. To think, way back on the night of the 15th I was worried and stressed and now 27 days have passed and I have enjoyed (almost) every one of them to the fullest.

This has been an excellent trip. I have seen so much and met so many people. Strangers have blessed me with kindness, hospitality and even money. Although I am ready to leave (and I am looking forward to Sweden) it is a shame to think that the trip is almost over.

The wind has picked up (the walls of the shed have large, square holes cut in them, for some strange reason. I don’t know why, as there is lots of hay in here (which one would assume is best kept dry), as well as an impressive looking harvester type machine and another, ordinary tractor. Every thing is dry, so I guess the holes are there to let the wind pass through, so it doesn’t knock down the whole structure. This might keep the farmer happy, but it is making me shiver in my sleeping bag. I think I will build a shelter out of hay bales while the light is still on.

Later...

The lights have been on for ages. I don’t know why they are keeping them on, but it has let my finish this, and also build that shelter - which actually works! The wind is no longer cutting me to the bone.

The farmer’s wife has promised me a hot water bottle, but she came in while I was building the shelter (which is only a wall, three bails high) and told me that the hot water bottle she had in the house had a leak, and that she was going to town to get a new one! I pleaded with her not to bother, but she was adamant, saying that she needed one anyway, and this evening was just a good a time as any. Besides, she needs other things from town, so she is not going there especially. I don’t know which town she means, but I guess it is Castleblayney, which is only 45 odd minutes on a bike northward.

I am looking forward to that hot water bottle.

Day 26

Armagh is a nice little city and I hope to come back here one day. The Christmas lights are fairly cheap, but nicely laid out. They stretch across the main street in a zigzag, with other somewhat tacky lanterns on each building. They are coloured orange, and shaped to look like lanterns from last century (or the century before that?). The effect is nice, certainly nicer than Derry’s lights and almost as good as Belfast.

There are speakers - really big speakers - at strategic points throughout the city centre, belting out modern day Christmas hits. These are very tacky, but one can’t help but be infused with the Christmas spirit. Since I have been wandering around the city all day, the initial annoyance that they caused eased, somewhat, and I actually found myself singing along to the music. A little sad, but it is better than talking to myself (as I do when I am riding!)

Most of the city centre is paved, and traffic is disallowed, while the streets surrounding this no-go area are one way and quite narrow. People tend to walk in the street as well as along the footpath. The cars don’t beep them, either. They just move slowly along, and the people get out of their way in good time. I just love it! It is so different to the driving in Israel.

The effect of having modern shops, all glass and shiny, set in mostly Georgian buildings is nice, much like what little I have seen of Dublin and Belfast.

It was a cold day today, never rising above 2ºC, but without the wind and storms that are predicted for the weekend. I am hoping that the forecasters will be wrong again, as they were about yesterday morning’s ‘gales.’

I spent about an hour at the Armagh County Museum. It isn’t very interesting, but it is free, which is the main thing, and it is warm – another prime concern. I would have preferred to go and look at the observatory, but that costs money. The museum contains a collection of knick-knacks from the past 200 or so years, most interestingly some wedding dresses and army uniforms. There were also some old tools from the Bronze, Iron and Neolithic ages. Although there was no mention of the Troubles, the whole place reeked of the overly Loyalist lean that Ulster experienced before the nineties. What I mean by that, is there is no attempt to avoid hurting anyone sensibilities (like St. Patrick’s Trian and the Tower Museum in Derry, which went out of their way to make everything neutral). This museum had uniforms, both past and present of the RIC and the RUC. It didn’t have anything as crude as marching banners, but it did have an Orange sash and a bowler hat. This place was definitely built in the eighties, or more previously, and hasn’t had many injections of funds since then. It would have hardly been worth the visit, if it wasn’t free and warm.

At noon, I went to the bike shop and got the bad news, the crank on my bike is a ‘closed unit’ and although the problem is just a few cracked ballbearings, the whole thing needs to be replaced. They said they could have the part by tonight and the boy (what else should I call him?) will replace it tomorrow morning. I asked him how much the part would cost, but he didn’t know. The boy suggested I come back at about four, as the part should be in by then.

I came back to the hostel and had a lunch of honey and bread. I wandered around the city and managed to spend only £1.30, on some more pasta sauce to use up the rest of my pasta, and some more bread.

At 4 pm ish, I went back to the bike shop to learn the price of the new part and/or to pick up the bike. I figured in the event it was too expensive I would pick the bike up and catch that bus to Dublin.

They told me they couldn’t get the part. But ... the pedals were still working from when he had forced them around yesterday, and he said they still work. As he said yesterday, the crank hadn’t collapsed, just a ballbearing or two has cracked and the bike would certainly get me to Dublin. If I only I knew this yesterday! Never mind.

Four o’clock was too late to start riding, so I came back to the hostel again, watched mindless TV, paid for another night (£10.75) and am now waiting for some Raven Haired Celtic Beauties interested in Archaeology to arrive.

Because of the large group, I had to move rooms. I am sharing with a silent Brazilian and, I think, two students. I keep trying to make conversation with the Brazilian, but he either nods or gives me a one-word answer. Bollocks to him.

I managed to ring John Kelly. He was delighted to hear from me and after I assured him there was no longer an emergency, he offered me a bike, money and a place to stay in case I needed any of them.

I agreed on the last, and said I would ring him when I got closer to Dublin.

Now, where are these Dublin students...?

Day 25

To say that today has been the worse day of my trip so far would be an understatement. But first, I'll continue yesterday’s account.

I found the youth hostel, belonging to YHI, but the door was locked, and a sign on the door said the hostel was closed between 11 and 5 each day.

I was standing at the door, wondering what to do, when someone from inside opened it. She is a guest and told me the price for each room is about £10!

The wind hadn’t lessened in the time it had taken me to find the hostel since the pub. I would have been physically unable to ride on, so I decided to stay here. Now, while writing this, it does sound a little extreme, but it's true. I wish I could describe how strong it is.

The girl invited me to put my bag inside, underneath the staircase. I was a little worried about its safety, but the thought of carrying it around for the next three hours was enough to forego any of these worries, legitimate or not. I took the daypack off the backpack and prepared myself for three hours of a freezing Armagh.

I rode down a steep hill and up another steep hill, following the signs to where the Catholic cathedral of St. Patrick dominates the skyline. The cathedral was built on this hill to mark the spot where St. Patrick had released a fawn that his companions had wanted to kill and eat. The site of his first church was, long ago, taken by the Anglican Church of Ireland, so the Catholics had to settle for a lesser site.



After taking a photo of the front of the cathedral with my useless camera, I rode slowly around the building. The hill it is situated on is quite high, and the views from the top are wonderful. I could see how many hills I have ridden up and down earlier that day. I guess that the fact that ‘Armagh’ comes from the Irish ‘Ard Macha’, which means ‘the heights of Macha’ (Macha is a legendary queen from a long time ago) should have warned me that this place is hilly. I tied the bike up to some railings on the steps, near the doors and went inside.

There were some boys inside, practising their bible readings, and a choir practising a song. Four or five musicians adjusted their instruments and began playing The Minstrel Boy, a traditional Irish song that the Corrs play on their first CD! I have often thought that this song had some sort of religious sound to it, though I didn’t know why. Maybe it doesn’t, but listening to these boys, with their violins, playing this song inside the centre of Catholic faith in Ireland was quite amazing.

I group of school boys came in the front doors, with their teachers behind them, directing them to be quiet, and to sit in their proper places. More boys followed. Ten minutes after I arrived the place was full, and I mean full, of schoolboys of all ages, all dressed in uniform and a mass started!

I found out a bit later that it was the Festival of the Immaculate Conception. I sat through the mass, which was a complete mass, and looked around the church as it went on. The inner walls are covered from floor to ceiling with mosaics. Most of the patterns are repeated, the shamrock being the most common symbol.

At regular intervals, the stations of the cross are carved out of stone. They were incredible works of art. The faces had great detail, with expressions of pain and evil intent and the like. The folds of the clothes were carved with care, the whips of the Roman officers, even the grains on the cross. Amazing.

The roof also had patterns, though I have no idea if it was a massive mosaic, large tiles or just painted stones, as it was so high up.

I went outside after all the boys had left (which took almost twenty minutes) and was nearly knocked over by the wind! It really was gale strength. There was no way I could have ridden against that with the backpack on. The building did nothing to block the wind; it was coming right across the face of it. While I was trying to put the bike back together on the steps, the wind kept catching the wheels and lifted the bike out of my hands a number of times. With four or five boys looking on, I struggled like this for a number of minutes, and then had the bright idea to carry everything around to the side of the building and assemble the bike there, which took place in a minute or so, as it is supposed to.

It was now getting late. There was a little rain, nothing to worry about really; I didn’t bother putting the raincoat on. I rode into the town centre (which looks very different at night time) and found a pub that was willing to put my bike around the back; there was no place on the street to lock it.

It was a fairly small pub. There was no one in it other than the bar tender and myself. The back half, which serves as a lounge, is being done up, so there was plastic sheeting, tools and sawdust everywhere. The builder had finished for the day and I don’t think they were expecting any sort of crowd in the bar until everything had finished.

The bar tender put my bike in a shed around the back of the pub. There was a small alley between this pub and the one next to it (which had a lot of people inside it!). I had to squeeze by bike between the wall and a Guinness truck that had backed into the alley. The alley fed into another tiny road that leads nowhere. It simply serves these two pubs. The shed was on the second road. It contained used kegs and old, broken tables. It took a lot of effort to get the bike inside as a big round table had to be rolled out of the way and then lifted over a number of kegs. It was very nice of the guy to do it, but I guess I was his first customer for a week.

A whiskey, a pint and a half (£4.70) and an hour and a half later, it was finally after 5 pm and I could go to the hostel. During this time I had a fairly good conversation with the bar tender, whose name is Seamus. This was evidently a Republican pub, though it wasn’t as obvious as some of the other pubs I have been in. There were a fair amount of newspaper clippings behind glass cabinets on the walls. They weren’t so much about Republican issues, but rather about people; I guess the locals. Mo Mowlam was in one of the photos, she had her arms around an old man. In another story, someone had won the Irish National Road Bowling Championships. I asked Seamus what road bowling was. He only has one arm, so perhaps it was the wrong question to ask. He said it was a sport mostly played in Armagh. Small, steel balls are thrown onto a road in some way. He was never too clear on how to do it. Apparently it is a real art, though I would rather cricket.

I guess I shouldn’t have spent that much money on drink, but I was cold and damp (the Kathmandu hadn’t dried from all the sweat) and it was a moment of weakness. Whiskey really does warm you up! Also, Conor more than once had whiskey with a Guinness chaser in Trinity. They really work well together.

I went to the hostel, in a fairly wobbly fashion. The man behind the counter normally does not run the hostel; he is sitting in for his daughter who is away for a day or two. He took pity on my situation, but he said there was no work for me to do (there is already a Norwegian here who is doing work for cheap lodgings) and no way I could get a discount. For £10.75 per night, I get a bed in a four-bed room. Since there are only about four other guests in the hostel, it is to myself - which is some concession. And it has an en suite, so at least I won’t have to traipse down cold hallways in the middle of the night if I want a shower or the use of the toilet.

Breakfast would cost £2.25 and I accepted.

I had my first shower since Sunday morning and it was very hot and very long. I think it counts as one of the best showers I have ever had. It was pretty good.

I got directions to Sainsbury’s and eventually found it, through the gale, and bought a frozen pizza, a jar of honey, a loaf of bread and some butter for £4. I forgot to buy a toothbrush.

The route to the shop takes me past the big Anglican cathedral of St. Patrick, down some steep steps, through a plaza, along a street full of shops and then into a bit of a square where the entrance to the building housing Sainsbury’s is. Although at this point in my narrative I had only made the trek twice (there and back) I have now done it a couple of times, both during the day and in darkness. I have to say it is quite a nice little town. The Christmas lights (once you get away from the area that plays the Christmas songs) are quite nice, and the freezing cold adds to the atmosphere. Snow would fit very well, but God knows I do not want more snow with the lousy cold weather preparation I have made for the trip. The city is as nice or perhaps even nicer than the centre of Derry and certainly nicer than Belfast. It is not dirty like Belfast.

The weather on the TV said the strong wind was caused by a low pressure that is moving away. The winds would still come from the south on the 9th, ease during the afternoon and by the 10th, will be blowing from the northwest again. Another low will bring more bad weather by the weekend (11th and 12th).

No worries. I decided to stay here two nights. I will ride out to Navan fort today, no matter what the weather, and see the rest of the city in the afternoon.

Yesterday I spent £23.60. Not good.

I woke up today and went down to breakfast; I was not pleased. £2.25 should have bought me good coffee, good orange juice, bacon, sausages and eggs. And toast.

What I got was bad coffee, bad orange juice and the cheapest looking and tasting corn flakes I have ever seen. They were worse than Israeli corn flakes, and that is saying something. The toast was real, albeit only slightly warm and the jam pretty bad. I know why Yanks call jam ‘jelly’. This jam looked like jelly; there were no lumpy bits in it at all. The complete breakfast should have cost £1.

The dining area of the hostel (clean, plastic and rather large for four people) has windows that run the length of the room. They face in a northerly direction, back towards Dungannon and Cookstown. The Catholic Cathedral is just visible if one presses ones’ face to the glass and looks eastward. At breakfast, the weather outside looked fantastic! The sky was blue, there was no rain and the trees were not swaying! No wind! What happened to the two day long gale that I am sheltering from? As late as last night the weatherman told me this morning the wind would be blowing from the south with gale strength.

After a bit of contemplation, I decided I would stay here another night anyway. I wanted to see the fort and a day’s rest is nice, even if it does cost over £10.

In the end, the weather has been good all day. No rain (well, not much), almost no clouds and no wind.

I set off on the bike and was riding comfortably. It is so wonderful riding without the backpack. My best day of riding has been that day in the wind and rain at Malin Head. I had ridden for one mile when disaster struck. The axle collapsed. This should not have happened. The bike has probably only ridden about 450 kilometres (350 on this trip).

I was pedalling quite normally, going up a hill, so I stood up to get more speed (‘King of the Mountain!’). It is great not having the backpack on. I have a tried a number of times to stand up while going up a hill with the backpack, and it is just impossible to do for more than a pedal or two. Anyway, I stood up and noticed that the pedal was a little stiff. I didn’t have any time to think about this, however, as in the next rotation there was a loud cracking sound and the pedal was stuck. The bike rolled to a stop, a got off and looked. The shaft going down to the pedal didn’t look askew, but it wouldn’t rotate.

I was instantly having all sorts of thoughts along the lines of ‘this trip is over’, etc.

I walked backed into town and found a bike shop almost straight away, and asked what it would cost to fix it. That was when I was told that the axle had collapsed. It would take twenty pounds to fix, but it would take him a week to get the part. According to the man, no shop in Ireland would have the part, as Scotts (the brand of the bike) are not sold over here. He directed me to another shop, saying they would say the same thing, but it was worth while trying them just in case. The new shop scoffed at the first shop, and said £20, and it would only take two days to get the part.

I didn’t know what to do. I gave it a bit of thought and decided against it. I thanked them for their help, but told them no. They said that if I changed my mind, I would just have to go back later in the day.

I had a couple of possible contacts. There was a guy who stayed on the kibbutz for only three days way back in early ‘98 called Shane Leahy. He was the guest of a volunteer who met him in some hostel in Tel Aviv. I was off work at the time due to a fractured skull, and spent a bit of time with him. We became pals in those three days. He was impressed at my general knowledge of the Troubles, and more impressed with the amount of newspaper articles on my wall. He told me that his parents ran a youth hostel in Cashel called ‘Bailey’s’. The makers of the liqueur sponsor it, and any guest has free Bailey’s for as long as they are there! One day I would love to go there. Shane told me that his parents often allow people to stay for free in exchange for work, and that he would make sure I would get a job there if I was passing through Cashel. I rang the hostel. Shane’s father answered and told me that Shane is in England until the 17th, and that there was no work (it being winter and all). He said it was a shame that I would not be able to make it to Cashel and meet up with Shane.

It really is a shame that I can’t get there. Cashel was at one stage the seat of the High Kings of Ireland. It is very close to Tara, where each new king was splashed in the blood of the preceding king (who was killed), in a ‘birth’, so as to show that the line of kings never die. A little gruesome, but I’m sure it would be worth seeing.

Due to a little confusion with the bloody public phone, the call cost me £1.50.

I rang John Kelly in Dublin (£1) but couldn’t get hold of him. John Kelly is a friend of my sister and expressed willingness to put me up in an emergency.

I rang the McStay’s, but they weren’t home. These are a name associated with the ICEJ - Mum had given me their name and number, but I was a little reluctant to use it, they don’t know me and they don’t know about me. I was going to ask about cheap accommodation - in the hope they would offer their house!

I had left a message on John Kelly’s (work) answering machine but couldn’t get hold of him when I tried later. It is now 4 pm and I will try his home number soon.

I went to ‘St. Patrick’s Trian’. This is a museum divided into three parts; the history of Armagh, the story of St. Patrick and also Jonathan Swift, the author of Gulliver’s Travels, who was Dean at the church here. The latter is designed for children, but it was shelter from the rain and cold, so I'm not complaining. A decent museum; I spent two hours in there and came out wondering what to do. The museum cost £3.75 and was well worth it.

St. Patrick was born to a wealthy Romano-British family in northwest England in the 5th Century. The Roman Empire was just about finished by this time but his family still held some prominence.

The community that he lived in had fallen away from the Church and God, though the priests still exhorted them to remain true to God.

His family had some land on the coast and he was holidaying here at 16 years of age when some Irish raiders (probably attached to the Viking settlements in Ireland) kidnapped him and many other youths, whisking them away to slavery.

For six years he was a slave, tending sheep on some mountain in Co. Antrim (which Mary Alcock pointed out for me from the car). He started praying and became closer and closer to God, having a deep personal relationship with Him.

After six years he had a dream in which some voice told him that it was time to run away and go back to his homeland. He roamed 200 miles before he found a ship going to England and willing to take him, and was reunited with his kinsfolk.

After a short time back with his family, he had another dream telling him to return to Ireland as a missionary. He did this, with great success.

The ministry he founded was a mixture of the pagan Gaelic traditions with the Roman faith. The Trinity and God, etc. still had dominance, but services were held in Gaelic, the great Gaelic stories were written down for the first time, etc. And the gospels were written down in Gaelic.

Padraig (Patrick) wanted to build a church and he found a nice hill two or three miles from the fort of Navan, the capital of Ulster and where the High King lived. The King granted him permission to build his church at the foot of the hill, which wasn’t what Patrick wanted, but he was obviously not one to complain.

While he was building his church, the king’s horse wandered into Patrick’s land and the next day was found dead. Patrick went to see the King (to apologise?) who was quite angry and condemned Patrick to death, whereupon the King instantly dropped dead himself.

The Queen was predicably upset and she obviously noted this to Patrick, who blessed some water and sprinkled it on both the King and his dead horse (I’m unclear as to how the dead horse came to be at the palace along with Patrick. Both recovered and the King was so pleased by his recovery that he allowed Patrick to build his church on top of the hill.

Patrick carried all his stuff up there (it’s a bloody steep hill, I might add) and built his church.

Four centuries later, Brian Buru defeated the invading Normans but died in the same battle. He was buried in the (now ruined) church, which he had promised to restore. The church was rebuilt and destroyed a number of times, by the Vikings, the Saxons (English), the Normans (English), and by the Catholics (as it was a Church of Ireland church by this time). The big Church of Ireland cathedral now standing was built in the 19th Century and all there remains of Brian Buru’s grave is a plaque saying he is buried ‘near this spot’.

I remembered I had a BT calling card in my wallet; it turned out to have £4.10 on it! I rang the two Dublin numbers again, with the same result.

It was 2 pm. I decided I would have to have the bike repaired - not being able to contact the Dublin people was a worry. I went back to the bike shop and ordered the part. The woman told me to come back with the bike at about 5 pm.

Back to the hostel, via (the outside of) the Church of Ireland cathedral - it costs £1 to enter.

I will spend another £25 of food and accommodation here at least. I have to spend £15 to get the bike back to England on the plane and a bus trip to Dublin (now more likely) will cost £15 (during my wanderings, I went to the bus station - the bus to Dublin via Monaghan leaves first thing in the morning).

I have £85, minus the £55 above is £30, plus the £40 I have in the bank leaves me £70. The bike will cost me £20, leaving me with £50 maximum for the next 6 days. Which is more than the £4, but I will have no emergency money left. God help me.

I am going to get receipts from the bike shop and the hostel and hopefully get a refund from the bike manufacturer.

6 pm

A faint hope has made me a little happier than I was two hours ago. I took the bike back to the shop, as requested, and was met by a boy younger than me who seemed to know what he was talking about (as opposed to the women who I have been talking to the whole time so far). He forced the pedals to go round, and they did! He said that the crank might not be broken after all, but the ball bearings might be stuffed - or something else. He told me he wouldn’t know for sure until he opened it up and had a look. If I return it to the store by 12 pm tomorrow, he will be able to tell me by then.

I went and phoned John Kelly, but still got no answer (so he will be left with a panicked message from me saying I have no money and need accommodation). I took £30 out of an ATM. It wouldn’t let me have £40. Hmm. So I guess I can take £10 off the amount of money I have for the next six days.

And I spent £1.50 at an Internet place.

The hostel says I can check out tomorrow and then check in again if I have to, but all my bags, etc. will have to left in ‘left luggage’. Now that I think about it, that won’t be open until 5 pm so perhaps I will leave the bag under the steps. There is a panel of buttons at the front door. When I was given the keys, he also gave me the code to get in both the gate and the front door. Leaving the bag under the stairs will enable me to get it if I want to leave here before 5 pm tomorrow (which I really do!)

So, in all, good news. If the best possible option occurs, I will be able to leave here tomorrow, get an hour or to of riding in, not have to spend much money on the bike and not have to pay an extra £10 for accommodation!

I bought a toothbrush, pasta and pasta sauce at Sainsbury’s for £2.60.

Today I spent £21.10, including tonight's accommodation. Tonight I plan to watch TV, read Understanding Ulster, listen to Jerusalem Arise and generally try to relax. I’ll ring John Kelly later.

Later...

Nothing new, except I couldn’t get hold of John Kelly. Also, there will be 35 archaeology students from Dublin here tomorrow night - which if I wanted to be here and had money - could be fun. I guess they’ll be a bit young; university students would be bound to visit Navan fort in their first year, wouldn’t they? I wonder if any Celtic Beauties study archaeology?

One (among many) unfortunate things about suddenly having no money is my Guinness drinking will stop. I have often heard that the closer one gets to Dublin, the better the Guinness gets. I have pretty much been testing this, having a pint every ten or twenty miles. I guess that experiment is at an end.

Day 24

I am in Armagh. I have to admit, over confidence in the last few days has led to overspending. The gloves I am not really worried about but the pints of Guinness that have been finding their way down my gullet have been increasing. Now, suddenly faced with forking out £20 for two night’s accommodation - without food - I am realising that perhaps that Guinness money would have been better left unspent. Let me explain...

I got up at 7 am and after 15 minutes or so of packing my bag, I went into the house for the promised breakfast. The heater in the demountable was useless - it blew out semi warm air directly upwards for about half an hour, then I started smelling electrical smoke so I turned it off. I can’t believe I wrecked their heater. I had tried to position my socks so as to dry them out through the night, but they were still damp this morning. Since they were my driest pair, however, I forced them on, and the wet cycling shoes after them.

I was wearing my jeans with the ‘waterproof’ tracksuit pants over them. In the pocket of the tracksuit pants, I put my toothpaste and toothbrush, in the hope I would be able to use their bathroom. The demountable didn’t have any sink, and my teeth were feeling a bit furry when I woke up. The father and eldest daughter (Sally) were already in the kitchen - the others were still asleep - and over bacon and eggs we talked for quite a bit.

The kitchen is quite old; the stove being the same type I am getting used to. The fridge looked like it was built in the seventies, and that was probably the most modern convenience there was. The window over the sink overlooked a gentle, grassy slope leading down to the stream that I crossed just before knocking on this door. From the map I bought the other day in Belfast, I think I spent the night near Sandholes, at the point where the second stream after Cookstown crosses the road (about three miles from Cookstown).

Once again, they were very friendly and welcoming, but once again, I noticed a reservedness in their hospitality. Throughout the day’s riding, I worked out why these people seem a little different. The Irish I have encountered seem to be completely unreserved in their friendship and hospitality. The Australian culture is just different. In Australia, if someone turned up on a doorstep asking to be able to pitch a tent in the back yard, most people would say no straight away. Maybe it is different in rural Australia, but most of my life experience in Australia have been in an urban context. Also, there is a greater percentage of the Irish living in rural areas then there are Australians.

We breakfasted and talked until 9:30, during which time, the other occupants of the house joined us.

After breakfast, I was able to use the bathroom, and the first thing I did was to go to the toilet - I had been busting for ages. They gave me their address in Adelaide and I set off. I left without telling them about the heater – which is not very good, but I didn’t know what to say.

It was a nice day. There was plenty of blue sky around and it wasn’t very cold. It didn’t rain until well after I got to Armagh.

I stopped at a service station just a couple of hundred metres down the road so I could try and clean the chain and gear thingys with an air hose. I wandered into the room where the guy was sitting and he told me to go ahead with whatever I wanted to do. He followed me out and while I was unsuccessfully trying to clean everything (they had gotten muddy at some point yesterday), we talked about travelling and the like. The conversation was interesting to a point; he told me his dreams and I told him I am currently fulfilling mine, etc. The most interesting thing was that he already knew who I was! Some how, he had heard through the grapevine that I was Australian, I was travelling around Ireland on a bike and that I stayed with the Warnock’s last night! I asked him how he knew all this stuff and he just shrugged his shoulders!

I was riding for about half an hour, and making pretty good time, when I felt something in my pocket. I stopped and investigated - it was my toothpaste. After brushing my teeth, I had forgotten to put them back in my bag, but now my toothbrush had fallen out. I was tempted to ride back looking for it, but realised it would waste too much time. Perhaps it was only ten metres away, but then again, maybe I would have to ride for five miles before finding it, if at all.

I have finally come to the absolute conclusion that the raincoat is completely waterproof, just not breathable. After riding my three and a half hours today, the Kathmandu was soaked with sweat, which wasn’t all that comfortable.

The new gloves are certainly warm, but I still don’t know if they’re waterproof or not.

The problem today was the wind. My God, that’s an understatement! It was always coming from the southwest and grew stronger and stronger as the day went on. In the morning, the riding was lovely, and I thought I would go a long way today. I think that today is actually the first day that I have ridden any real distance two days in a row (Carn to Culdaff doesn’t really count as a long way). So, I am surprised that I was able to get up and power away so easily, especially since my legs were aching all of last night because of the walking in Belfast the other day. But as the day went on, the wind just got stronger.

I really struggled today, the front cog being in first gear most of the day. The wind was slowing me down between five and ten kilometres per hour. When it stopped for a while (which did happen occasionally) the bike would surge forward as if someone was pushing it from behind. And then it would start again - and so suddenly that the bike’s speed would instantly plummet, up to 10 mph and once or twice I even came to a standstill. At one point I was going downhill but not moving because of the wind. I have come to the conclusion that I would rather ride uphill than against the wind. It is like trying to walk fast whilst in waist deep water.

By the time I crossed the border into Armagh County I was knackered and looking for a pub. The border between Tyrone and Armagh is covered by two towns that have swallowed each other up to become one. Moy and Charlemont are on either side of the River Blackwater. I stopped at the first pub I saw, which was about ten metres after the bridge but it was closed. I was a little surprised - sure it was before lunch, but still, I am in Ireland!

This might sound a little dumb, but crossing into Armagh was a little nerve-racking. South Armagh is the big Republican stronghold of Ulster. I have already mentioned those signs about snipers – and the fact that the last British soldier to be killed in Northern Ireland was leaning into a car talking to the lady inside, in Armagh, when a sniper shot him (apparently he knew the lady).

Now, my route is not going to take me to South Armagh (which is really Southeast Armagh). I had planned originally to go that way, across to Newry and then down to Dundalk. This way is a little shorter but it takes me across more hills and also onto a big road going almost all the way down to Dublin. The way I will go is to the west, across the border into Monaghan, to Monaghan-town and then southeast. The advantage to this, aside from all the other ones listed above, is that it takes me through Slane, of U2’s The Unforgettable Fire fame!

To get back to the point, I still feel a little uncomfortable about being in Armagh at all, and I will be glad to have safely left this part of the world behind.

Since Armagh is a fairly big town, I could feel myself drawing closer to it, even without the road signs creeping by. The traffic seemed to get heavier the closer I got, and the road better, a little wider, if that is possible, as it is a very wide road. What is worse, is that Armagh is obviously built on a plateau, as I was riding gradually uphill for about the last five miles, ever since leaving Charlemont.

I was exhausted upon reaching Armagh, almost exactly twenty miles from where I started, and I needed a drink. I went up this impossibly steep street (pushing the bike) and turned left into a pedestrian only, paved street. Bad, bad, bad Christmas carols were blaring out of speakers strung up in between the Santas. Santa Claus is Coming to Town, and other songs just as classy. They were pretty much the same songs that Pascal and I used to play very loudly at a couple of our barbecues on the kibbutz as we were approaching Christmas last year (we borrowed the tape of Richard - I would never own a tape like that!).

There was a pub on the road, so I tied the bike up the post just outside the pub, taking off the front wheel and attaching it to the back, taking off the speedometer, the front light, the seat, the water bottle and the pump. I always try and squeeze these items into my daypack, but it never seems to work properly and I tend to carry one or two of the extra things in my hands. I walked into the pub like this, plus the bloody backpack, of course. I set every thing down on the table and turned around. What a pub! It was really narrow, with just room for the bar, a couple of stools, a narrow passage and then a small table against the wall. There were two patrons in there (probably a record!) and the bartender. The windows were that cheap beer bottle-coloured brown that old pubs have. Everything else was cheap glass or vinyl. This pub has not been touched since the seventies or something. It’s a relic! I think the bar tender has been in here since opening day as well. She has that look of a bar tender who has seen and heard it all - dyed blonde hair pulled back to expose grey roots, the cigarette in her hands, the lines on her face.

I asked for a Guinness and then settled in for the usual conversation I have in bars over here - which I do enjoy. At some point I expressed my concerns about South Armagh - which is the first time I have brought up the Troubles in a conversation while over here. She told me not to worry, that is all over now. She didn’t ridicule my concerns, though. I thought she might have.

I had been riding about two and a half hours, but I had about an hour’s worth of rest in total during the ride (the wind really took it out of me), so I got to Armagh about three and a half hours after starting this morning, at 1 pm.

I left the pub after half an hour. I had one pint (£1.90) while I was there, though I would dearly have loved to stay all afternoon. There was a TV in the corner and while I was there, the weather news came on - for the afternoon, southerly gale force winds had been forecast, with stronger winds from the same direction tomorrow. I knew then that I could not keep riding. When I stepped outside, the wind was even stronger than when I had entered, and I had trouble with the bike when I was putting it back together again (but nothing like later!).

I had seen a sign for a youth hostel while riding into the town centre, so I followed it and fairly quickly found a modern looking hostel.

I have to finish writing this tomorrow; I am completely exhausted.