Day 1
After finishing off last night’s drivel, I repacked the backpack, again. I forgot to mention in my itinerary, I also have a rain cover for the backpack, designed with a camouflage motif. I am a bit worried about this; in the North and particularly in the border areas I think that some people might be a bit sensitive about the use of camouflage. The British Army has long been in these areas, particularly South Armagh, and I would not like to upset the wrong person. I spent the last few days in England looking out for a place that sells flags. I found one or two shops - usually camping equipment suppliers and the like - but all they have stocked are Union Jacks, the English flag and the Scottish flag, three out of the four flags (the other being the Irish tricolour) that I would definitely not want to carry on my back during the upcoming trip. I planned to somehow pin an Australian flag over the camouflage and hence announce to every one that I am as neutral as can be. I guess I will have to make do with the camouflage - and potentially have to talk very fast.
Despite the vodka, which got me drunker than I admitted, I got up when the alarm clock sounded, got dressed and went straight downstairs for a much-needed glass of water, followed by a strong coffee.
My good friend from church, Steve, had offered to take me all the way to Stanstead Airport - it took about two hours - so when he came we loaded the bike and the backpack into the car, had another coffee and set off.
Before checking the bike in, I had to go to the ticketing desk and pay £15. I will also have to pay this at Dublin airport on the way back. We wandered around the modern looking airport for a while. Steve couldn’t wait until the plane left as he had to get back home before his daughter had to go off to school. We sat down in a café and prayed; he blessed me and the trip and then he was off; I was alone.
I changed some British Pounds into Irish Punts (they both have the same symbol) and sat down to wait for the flight. There is roughly £1.20 Irish in £1 Sterling, however I have decided for the ease of calculations, that I will make them the same for the duration of the trip.
The flight was as normal as any other flight. We started the descent into Dublin just after the Irish dawn and I was afforded my first view of Eire. Stretching in three directions was a rich green. As we got closer to the ground, the green diversified into hundreds of different shades, from the palest lime colour to a rich emerald green. It was all, however, very green. The fields were not rectangular or of even shape, they were any shape, usually with many more than four sides.
As the plane was slowing down on the runway, I noticed that even the grass next to the tarmac was a thick green. They obviously didn’t dub this the 'Emerald Isle' for nothing. And it was raining. Of course it was raining. Every one I have told my plans to in the last six months has told me that it will be raining for the whole I will be here. (I have proved them wrong already - hoorah!)
At the passport control, the girl only took about 10 seconds to look at the passport and then waved me through. I asked her if she would stamp my passport and she told me that passengers from England never had their passports stamped. I asked if she would make an exception and she agreed. Cool. I have an Irish stamp in my passport. The bike was already waiting for me next to the baggage carousel and the bag came along soon afterwards. I went outside to find the rain had stopped and the sun was trying to peek its way past the clouds. One of those signs telling us the time and temperature told me it was 10ºC. I found a bench and spent about 15 minutes preparing the bike for riding. A condition of putting the bike in aircraft was to align the handlebar with the bike, to deflate both tires and to remove both pedals. With no major dramas I was on my way.
A sign said seven miles to the city centre. I set off. The backpack was a little uncomfortable on my back but I wasn’t bothered by it too much. At the airport I saw that it weighed 13kg. After half a mile I was knackered. I just can’t believe that I thought I could ride around this country for a whole month! The backpack is too heavy and it isn’t balanced, so - despite the straps - it kept threatening to slide down my left side. I am sure that once I get settled (where?) this evening I will be able to repack it. At the moment the tent is on one side (I did this so it would be easy to reach when I needed it) but I will have to put it in the middle of the backpack.
I rode for one and a half miles until I passed my first pub. I was wondering which I would pass first, a pub or a church. A quarter of a mile later was the first church. Three and a half miles from the airport was the first McDonalds. How depressing. Sure, Ireland is a growing, Western country (the Celtic Tiger!) but all the stereotypes and postcards don’t mention McDonalds. I guess I was hoping that this country would have been spared from all of that.
After riding for a while, the initial cool 10ºC became a very hot 10ºC. Riding is hard work. My woollen gloves I have in the backpack, but I was wearing the ski gloves - which don’t look so ridiculous when I am riding a bike. I took these off and clipped them together with the helpful little clip that Thinsulate provided with them. I came up with an ingenious method of hanging them over the handlebar. After another minute or two I happened to notice that the gloves had disappeared. I went onto the sidewalk (I had been riding on the bus lane of an increasingly busy road) and looked back. I saw my gloves and a bus approaching them. It ran over the gloves. The left tyre of the bus actually crushed them. I wheeled the bike back along the path towards the gloves and saw a second bus do the same. This time the tyres didn’t hit it but I imagined the draft would send my gloves flying into the middle of the traffic. Luckily, it didn’t. I reached the gloves, though I had to wait for a taxi to run over them first before it was safe to go out and get them. There was nothing wrong with them! What a pair of gloves! I decided not to try and loop over the handlebar again. I put them in the backpack and kept going.
At various times in the last couple of years, I have looked up The Irish Times on the Internet. The site gives an option of looking at a live shot of Dublin from a camera on the Connolly Bridge. I have looked at this live scene and dreamt about going there. When I finally made it to the River Liffey, I looked up and down and recognised the buildings, and even some of the signs on the buildings. It was a great feeling, one that is still with me now, only two or so blocks away from the Liffey. I can’t believe that I am here!
It is a strange feeling indeed. How many movies have I seen the Liffey and O’Connell Street in? How many pictures of these scenes have I seen in travel brochures? How many times on the Internet have I seen the Liffey from the camera on The Irish Times web site? It is very, very strange to walk down a street that I have never been on before, not really knowing where I am going, yet recognising most of what I see! The large posters on the sides of buildings. The architecture of the buildings! I have dreamt of walking along this street for so many years and finally I have done it! This is such a great precursor to my coming adventure. How many dreams will I fulfil?
I haven’t spotted any Raven-Haired Celtic Beauties, yet. But I have certainly seen a lot of good-looking redheads. I stopped every good-looking girl to ask for directions to a main train station - just to hear their accents. The first one I stopped was an American tourist - worse luck. I asked three more people where I could find a station that would have a train to Donegal leave from it. I got three different answers. After following the directions of the first person for five minutes I was lost, so I asked someone else and so on. The third girl pointed to a bridge and gave fairly clear directions in a completely opposite direction from that in which I was heading. The intracity railway seems to run on overhead lines. I followed these lines to the nearest station and luckily it was a big one; Connolly Station.
I went to the ticket office and was greeted with some rather bad news - there are no trains to Donegal-town. The whole county of Donegal doesn’t have a railway. Damn. In Trinity it does, but that was set a hundred and fifty years ago. The nice lady behind the glass suggested I could catch a train to Derry, via Belfast. I agreed and bought my ticket; £30, including the bike’s fare. The next train to Belfast was to leave at 1:20 pm. I found the platform that the train was to leave from and also a left-luggage cabin. For £2 I left the backpack and rode into the centre of the city. Once again asking a cute redhead with a thick accent where O’Connell Street was, I found it and the GPO. The GPO featured in both the Easter Uprising of 1916 and also the Civil War a few years later. In 1916, it was one of the buildings occupied by the rebels and (I think) was shelled by the British. When I saw the Irish flag flying over the top of the building, I was filled with a great feeling, like that one we get when a film reaches a happily emotional climax. Also similar to the feeling I get whenever I am driving and listening to Where The Streets Have No Name, a wonderful feeling, welling up inside of me. It sounds a little corny, but I can’t think of how else to describe it.
In a nearby street I found a place to lock the bike up. I went into the Post Office and changed some more money into Irish (the train fare had taken most of my money!) It was time to try a Guinness.
I came down a smaller street off O’Connell St., parallel to the Liffey. I passed a number of pubs before coming to this one. They all look roughly the same, but I figured that the further away I get from the main street, the cheaper the drinks would be. After three blocks I gave up. I was tired and the bike shoes are hard to walk in.
The Plough is a quiet pub. It is now about lunchtime, but there are only another three people in here. The barman waited five minutes before he finished pouring the pint. According to the advertising campaign, it takes 119.5 seconds to pour the perfect Guinness. I guess that because I am a tourist, I have to wait a bit longer.
The Plough is a nice little pub. Like the pubs I passed before coming into this one, the windows have a stained glass effect. The floor is made from some sort of slate; a nice black colour. The walls are a combination of wood and brick, the furniture is oak. Michael Jackson has just come over the speakers, singing Billy Jean. So much for a couple of Irish sitting in the corner and playing the tin whistle.
And my first Irish Guinness? Fantastic. Thick and creamy, it holds it head well and tastes better than any other Guinness I have tried throughout the World, whether they were in England, Wales, Israel or Australia.
I have another hour or so before the train leaves, so I plan to sit here and enjoy the last little bit of my Guinness.
Later...
On the way back to the station, I saw a shop that had lots of flags in the window. On closer inspection I found it to be a tourist shop. The doorman was an Australian. He agreed to mind the bike and I went in, asking the good-looking girl behind the counter if she sold Australian flags. She didn’t know, but pointed the way to where the flags were displayed. I looked through a collection of a good fifty flags, and there were no Aussie flags at all. However, there were five or six New Zealand flags. After a bit of hesitation, I decided to buy one. It will make a point of conversation trying to convince someone that I am definitely not a New Zealander. If Mum finds out about this she will die of laughter. I spent £9 of the flag. Nine punts!
I am now on the train to Belfast. This train will terminate there, and I will have to wait about half an hour before boarding the next train to Derry. One of the stations along the route will be Portadown. Wow. The thought of being in a place like that, or Belfast, is quite exciting. For how many years have I read these place names in newspapers and in textbooks? Sure, I will only be in them briefly and not even have the chance to have a look around, but it is still a bit of a thrill to me.
I only just made this train. I lost track of the time while I was in the shop, buying the flag and talking to the Australian. He is from Melbourne, and has only been in the country for a week and is loving it. I guess he proves that there are certainly jobs around. He thought I was crazy to be planning on riding around on the bike at the time of year.
There is a sign at Dundalk station, clearly visible from where I was sitting in the train; 'You'll never see the man again who sat across from you, better to look away'. I am sitting backwards. I hate travelling on trains backwards. Never mind. It is really full.
Green fields are flashing past. Cows are common, though also cultivated fields. My plan for this evening? To find an Ordinance Survey map for the Derry region. I have never actually seen an OS map, but I understand they are very detailed. I will try and find a farm on the map that is close by and aim for that. I will buy some bread and a banana or two before going on to the farm and asking them if I could pitch a tent in one of their fields. I am not going to bother asking for work tonight, I'll see what happens in the morning. I am now very tired and dehydrated.
Many cottages are going past, I will be fine. Unfortunately I will get to Derry after dark.
Later...
I have just woken up on the train, in the North. All I see outside are rolling green hills, very steep and covered with cows. Stone bridges, roads into small villages, fields fenced off with hedges, sheep, beef cattle. I’m back in Britain. It feels weird to have had a one-day excursion into another country. Strange that here, I will have to use British Pounds.
Green, no rain, sun shining, beautiful day, blue sky, 5ºC.
Despite the vodka, which got me drunker than I admitted, I got up when the alarm clock sounded, got dressed and went straight downstairs for a much-needed glass of water, followed by a strong coffee.
My good friend from church, Steve, had offered to take me all the way to Stanstead Airport - it took about two hours - so when he came we loaded the bike and the backpack into the car, had another coffee and set off.
Before checking the bike in, I had to go to the ticketing desk and pay £15. I will also have to pay this at Dublin airport on the way back. We wandered around the modern looking airport for a while. Steve couldn’t wait until the plane left as he had to get back home before his daughter had to go off to school. We sat down in a café and prayed; he blessed me and the trip and then he was off; I was alone.
I changed some British Pounds into Irish Punts (they both have the same symbol) and sat down to wait for the flight. There is roughly £1.20 Irish in £1 Sterling, however I have decided for the ease of calculations, that I will make them the same for the duration of the trip.
The flight was as normal as any other flight. We started the descent into Dublin just after the Irish dawn and I was afforded my first view of Eire. Stretching in three directions was a rich green. As we got closer to the ground, the green diversified into hundreds of different shades, from the palest lime colour to a rich emerald green. It was all, however, very green. The fields were not rectangular or of even shape, they were any shape, usually with many more than four sides.
As the plane was slowing down on the runway, I noticed that even the grass next to the tarmac was a thick green. They obviously didn’t dub this the 'Emerald Isle' for nothing. And it was raining. Of course it was raining. Every one I have told my plans to in the last six months has told me that it will be raining for the whole I will be here. (I have proved them wrong already - hoorah!)
At the passport control, the girl only took about 10 seconds to look at the passport and then waved me through. I asked her if she would stamp my passport and she told me that passengers from England never had their passports stamped. I asked if she would make an exception and she agreed. Cool. I have an Irish stamp in my passport. The bike was already waiting for me next to the baggage carousel and the bag came along soon afterwards. I went outside to find the rain had stopped and the sun was trying to peek its way past the clouds. One of those signs telling us the time and temperature told me it was 10ºC. I found a bench and spent about 15 minutes preparing the bike for riding. A condition of putting the bike in aircraft was to align the handlebar with the bike, to deflate both tires and to remove both pedals. With no major dramas I was on my way.
A sign said seven miles to the city centre. I set off. The backpack was a little uncomfortable on my back but I wasn’t bothered by it too much. At the airport I saw that it weighed 13kg. After half a mile I was knackered. I just can’t believe that I thought I could ride around this country for a whole month! The backpack is too heavy and it isn’t balanced, so - despite the straps - it kept threatening to slide down my left side. I am sure that once I get settled (where?) this evening I will be able to repack it. At the moment the tent is on one side (I did this so it would be easy to reach when I needed it) but I will have to put it in the middle of the backpack.
I rode for one and a half miles until I passed my first pub. I was wondering which I would pass first, a pub or a church. A quarter of a mile later was the first church. Three and a half miles from the airport was the first McDonalds. How depressing. Sure, Ireland is a growing, Western country (the Celtic Tiger!) but all the stereotypes and postcards don’t mention McDonalds. I guess I was hoping that this country would have been spared from all of that.
After riding for a while, the initial cool 10ºC became a very hot 10ºC. Riding is hard work. My woollen gloves I have in the backpack, but I was wearing the ski gloves - which don’t look so ridiculous when I am riding a bike. I took these off and clipped them together with the helpful little clip that Thinsulate provided with them. I came up with an ingenious method of hanging them over the handlebar. After another minute or two I happened to notice that the gloves had disappeared. I went onto the sidewalk (I had been riding on the bus lane of an increasingly busy road) and looked back. I saw my gloves and a bus approaching them. It ran over the gloves. The left tyre of the bus actually crushed them. I wheeled the bike back along the path towards the gloves and saw a second bus do the same. This time the tyres didn’t hit it but I imagined the draft would send my gloves flying into the middle of the traffic. Luckily, it didn’t. I reached the gloves, though I had to wait for a taxi to run over them first before it was safe to go out and get them. There was nothing wrong with them! What a pair of gloves! I decided not to try and loop over the handlebar again. I put them in the backpack and kept going.
At various times in the last couple of years, I have looked up The Irish Times on the Internet. The site gives an option of looking at a live shot of Dublin from a camera on the Connolly Bridge. I have looked at this live scene and dreamt about going there. When I finally made it to the River Liffey, I looked up and down and recognised the buildings, and even some of the signs on the buildings. It was a great feeling, one that is still with me now, only two or so blocks away from the Liffey. I can’t believe that I am here!
It is a strange feeling indeed. How many movies have I seen the Liffey and O’Connell Street in? How many pictures of these scenes have I seen in travel brochures? How many times on the Internet have I seen the Liffey from the camera on The Irish Times web site? It is very, very strange to walk down a street that I have never been on before, not really knowing where I am going, yet recognising most of what I see! The large posters on the sides of buildings. The architecture of the buildings! I have dreamt of walking along this street for so many years and finally I have done it! This is such a great precursor to my coming adventure. How many dreams will I fulfil?
I haven’t spotted any Raven-Haired Celtic Beauties, yet. But I have certainly seen a lot of good-looking redheads. I stopped every good-looking girl to ask for directions to a main train station - just to hear their accents. The first one I stopped was an American tourist - worse luck. I asked three more people where I could find a station that would have a train to Donegal leave from it. I got three different answers. After following the directions of the first person for five minutes I was lost, so I asked someone else and so on. The third girl pointed to a bridge and gave fairly clear directions in a completely opposite direction from that in which I was heading. The intracity railway seems to run on overhead lines. I followed these lines to the nearest station and luckily it was a big one; Connolly Station.
I went to the ticket office and was greeted with some rather bad news - there are no trains to Donegal-town. The whole county of Donegal doesn’t have a railway. Damn. In Trinity it does, but that was set a hundred and fifty years ago. The nice lady behind the glass suggested I could catch a train to Derry, via Belfast. I agreed and bought my ticket; £30, including the bike’s fare. The next train to Belfast was to leave at 1:20 pm. I found the platform that the train was to leave from and also a left-luggage cabin. For £2 I left the backpack and rode into the centre of the city. Once again asking a cute redhead with a thick accent where O’Connell Street was, I found it and the GPO. The GPO featured in both the Easter Uprising of 1916 and also the Civil War a few years later. In 1916, it was one of the buildings occupied by the rebels and (I think) was shelled by the British. When I saw the Irish flag flying over the top of the building, I was filled with a great feeling, like that one we get when a film reaches a happily emotional climax. Also similar to the feeling I get whenever I am driving and listening to Where The Streets Have No Name, a wonderful feeling, welling up inside of me. It sounds a little corny, but I can’t think of how else to describe it.
In a nearby street I found a place to lock the bike up. I went into the Post Office and changed some more money into Irish (the train fare had taken most of my money!) It was time to try a Guinness.
I came down a smaller street off O’Connell St., parallel to the Liffey. I passed a number of pubs before coming to this one. They all look roughly the same, but I figured that the further away I get from the main street, the cheaper the drinks would be. After three blocks I gave up. I was tired and the bike shoes are hard to walk in.
The Plough is a quiet pub. It is now about lunchtime, but there are only another three people in here. The barman waited five minutes before he finished pouring the pint. According to the advertising campaign, it takes 119.5 seconds to pour the perfect Guinness. I guess that because I am a tourist, I have to wait a bit longer.
The Plough is a nice little pub. Like the pubs I passed before coming into this one, the windows have a stained glass effect. The floor is made from some sort of slate; a nice black colour. The walls are a combination of wood and brick, the furniture is oak. Michael Jackson has just come over the speakers, singing Billy Jean. So much for a couple of Irish sitting in the corner and playing the tin whistle.
And my first Irish Guinness? Fantastic. Thick and creamy, it holds it head well and tastes better than any other Guinness I have tried throughout the World, whether they were in England, Wales, Israel or Australia.
I have another hour or so before the train leaves, so I plan to sit here and enjoy the last little bit of my Guinness.
Later...
On the way back to the station, I saw a shop that had lots of flags in the window. On closer inspection I found it to be a tourist shop. The doorman was an Australian. He agreed to mind the bike and I went in, asking the good-looking girl behind the counter if she sold Australian flags. She didn’t know, but pointed the way to where the flags were displayed. I looked through a collection of a good fifty flags, and there were no Aussie flags at all. However, there were five or six New Zealand flags. After a bit of hesitation, I decided to buy one. It will make a point of conversation trying to convince someone that I am definitely not a New Zealander. If Mum finds out about this she will die of laughter. I spent £9 of the flag. Nine punts!
I am now on the train to Belfast. This train will terminate there, and I will have to wait about half an hour before boarding the next train to Derry. One of the stations along the route will be Portadown. Wow. The thought of being in a place like that, or Belfast, is quite exciting. For how many years have I read these place names in newspapers and in textbooks? Sure, I will only be in them briefly and not even have the chance to have a look around, but it is still a bit of a thrill to me.
I only just made this train. I lost track of the time while I was in the shop, buying the flag and talking to the Australian. He is from Melbourne, and has only been in the country for a week and is loving it. I guess he proves that there are certainly jobs around. He thought I was crazy to be planning on riding around on the bike at the time of year.
There is a sign at Dundalk station, clearly visible from where I was sitting in the train; 'You'll never see the man again who sat across from you, better to look away'. I am sitting backwards. I hate travelling on trains backwards. Never mind. It is really full.
Green fields are flashing past. Cows are common, though also cultivated fields. My plan for this evening? To find an Ordinance Survey map for the Derry region. I have never actually seen an OS map, but I understand they are very detailed. I will try and find a farm on the map that is close by and aim for that. I will buy some bread and a banana or two before going on to the farm and asking them if I could pitch a tent in one of their fields. I am not going to bother asking for work tonight, I'll see what happens in the morning. I am now very tired and dehydrated.
Many cottages are going past, I will be fine. Unfortunately I will get to Derry after dark.
Later...
I have just woken up on the train, in the North. All I see outside are rolling green hills, very steep and covered with cows. Stone bridges, roads into small villages, fields fenced off with hedges, sheep, beef cattle. I’m back in Britain. It feels weird to have had a one-day excursion into another country. Strange that here, I will have to use British Pounds.
Green, no rain, sun shining, beautiful day, blue sky, 5ºC.
posted by Bren Carlill @ 5:24 AM
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