Day 2
The train arrived at Belfast at 15:30 for 20 minutes. I locked the bike up on the platform and wandered through the train station. Trinity described Belfast as the result of Ulsterism. The ruling class keeping the working classes - Protestants and Catholics - separated and fighting each other. The result; a soulless city. It is a good overall description, I think, even if it may not be entirely correct.
Red brick buildings and drab concrete constructions. The football ground was drab grey concrete. The people are a downcast people. The harsh Northern Irish accent doesn’t help, but the people there don’t smile, they have an almost angry expression. I went to the train station shop and - without thinking - tried to pay for my 60p bottle of water with an Irish punt. The girl looked at me with disdain and said: 'I don't take that here.' I was a bit surprised at that. Sure, I was in the North, but I was also in the only train station in Belfast with trains departing to and arriving from Dublin, one every three hours, no less.
Once again, I almost missed the train. Someone had told me that the train to Derry left from the same platform I had arrived from. Looking back, I guess that sounds a little silly, but at the time I didn’t think about it. When I returned to the platform, about two minutes before the train was due to depart, I was undoing my bike when I realised that I had the wrong platform. I had to run up the ramp (with my bike and backpack) cross some tracks and then run down the correct ramp to the correct platform. I could just see myself stranded at Belfast Central for another two hours, resulting in the fact that I wouldn’t get to Derry until 9 pm. However, I made the train. I put the bike in the freight car (with the help of the conductor) and sat down in the closest car to that.
A lady of 86 sat next to me and we talked for a while. She had lived in Belfast all her life. When she found out that I was a tourist she started telling me about the Troubles and what it was like to live in Belfast before they started, while it was at its peak and now, after the cease-fire. She was a Protestant, but took no sides, wondering why both parties couldn’t live in peace. She called the IRA and the UVF and all the others 'murdering scum'. She did all this to demonstrate how safe it was now.
She told me about her brother who she hadn’t talked to in a decade and a half. He had moved to Scotland about 50 years ago and rang her up asking her if he could stay with her during the marching season, about 15 years ago. She then had a big argument with him, telling him that he was part of the problem and there was no way that she would have him in her house if all he wanted to come over for was the 12th of July and its affiliated celebrations. She told him to come in the winter, and hadn’t talked to him since. She was quite proud of this. I didn’t have to ask many questions during our conversation, and she was the one who brought up the topic of the Troubles.
I had decided while still in England not to talk about them unless asked and not to give an opinion at all. However, she seemed eager to talk about them, and I was just as eager to listen; I will find out so much more from listening to people who have lived with the Troubles than I ever will from so many newspaper articles.
After she got off I went to sleep, with my foot entwined in the straps of the backpack.
I got to Derry at 7 pm - dark, cold and windy but no rain. I asked some girls the directions to Inishowen and they laughed and said: 'It's miles away'. They asked me where I wanted to, 'Redcastle, Moville or Greencastle?' I had no idea and gave the rather stupid answer: 'Um... just somewhere in Inishowen'. They laughed again but gave me directions any way. They turned out to be very clear and I didn’t get lost using them, as I expected to after the effort that went into finding the train station in Dublin in the morning.
I didn’t want to wander around Derry after nightfall with no map and no idea where I was going, so I forgot about finding a map and instead worried about finding the Republic. I have to admit I was scared last night. All the bad things about Derry that I had heard and knew not to be relevant now, with the cease-fire, were pounding in my mind.
Alex had told me that in the bad areas of Belfast and Derry, a group of kids might kneecap strangers and rob them just to make a name for themselves. This little tidbit of information wasn't comforting me last night.
The road I was told to go down was fairly large and well lit. I had to cross the river (which feeds into the Lough) over a really long bridge that went up for ages before finally coming to the apex and then I sped down the other side. Soon afterwards I found the roundabout promised by the girls and the sign which pointed to Muff, Moville and Buncrana.
Following the girls’ instructions, I took the turn off to Moville and soon found myself on a much smaller road. I followed this for a time and then the streetlights finished. For the first time I found that the lights I bought for the bike were fairly useless. They were good to show the cars where I was, but not to illuminate the road in front of me. I had to slow right down, but still I hit lots of potholes.
The road was bordered on both sides by a stone fence except where a house appeared - which was rare enough. The stone wall was broken at one point and there were tractor tracks leading into the dark field beyond. I was tempted to go straight into the field and pitch the tent. The thought of talking to an angry farmer in the morning made me ride onto the next house. I knocked on the nearest door, but the suspicious woman inside told me the nuns down the road owned it.
I kept riding and found a nunnery that doubled as a nursery. The house that I think was supposed to house the nuns was right near the entrance, and a paved driveway led the way to a well signed plant nursery. I guess nuns are allowed to enter the commercial world. I knocked on the door but there was no one there. Maybe nuns are allowed to have a night out on the piss?
I kept going. I was starting to get that uneasy feeling we get when every thing is sliding out of control. I passed a school and decided to go back to it. I found a door but the caretaker inside told me I couldn’t pitch a tent anywhere on the property - and he didn’t have a suggestion as to where else I could go.
Through the clouds I could see that the moon was half full, but I didn’t see any clear sky. The wind now had the smell of rain and I knew I would get wet very soon. It was very dark.
I arrived at a village called Culham. I didn’t know it was a village until later, I was simply presented with a turn off and a shop. The sign pointing down the darkened road said Culham Pt. I nervously left the bike outside and went into the shop. I asked the guy if he had a map. No maps. Instead I got a fruit loaf (69p) and a bunch of bananas (84p). In change, I had £1.10 sterling and 50p Irish. I paid with that and the guy cheerfully accepted it. I asked him where there was a field I could pitch my tent, and he said there was one down at Culham Pt. This was the road that ran down, away from the shop and off the main road.
I went down the road. Halfway down two teenagers and a dog said to keep going, turn right, turn left past a 'big white house and a wee garage' and down a lane to a football pitch.
The fact that the shopkeeper so cheerfully accepted both currencies made me realise that the girl at the counter in the newsagent at the Belfast station didn’t reflect official policy. It was either her personal politics or Belfast politics, but this guy here in County Derry didn’t mind at all when I gave him the two different monies - even though the Irish currency is worth less. Maybe the village of Culham is Catholic?
No worries. I turned right, but missed the wee lane and ended up at Culham Pt.; no field - just an outcropping of rock and a yacht club. I couldn’t get to the very tip of the point as the yacht club occupied it; and it kept me out with mean looking barbed wire. There was a small road leading south along the line of the fence and I followed this until I got to the other side of the point, a trip of no more than 50 metres.
I went back to the road and then back up to the original right hand turn. I turned right; to head in the same direction that I was going in originally but ended up with nothing. I found a small field with a couple of burnt out cars and a bull, but I wasn’t game to pitch my tent in there. The occupant of the nearest house said the same and told me that the football pitch is actually along the first road I took and I should get back to that one. He seemed anxious to get rid of me.
I have a friend in England who grew up in Belfast during the Troubles. When I told him about my plans he laughed. He told me that if he lived in the countryside and some guy knocked on his door after dark he would greet him with a shotgun, not a smile. He was the only person in England who discouraged me in any way.
I went back to the road and found a wee lane, complete with garage. I knocked on the door and a lady told me to see Joe Cully, three houses down. I knocked on the appropriate door and a lady told me that Joe was the next house, the house that had stone eagles on its gateposts. The lady was very nice and said that if I didn’t find any place to stay I could go back to her house and she would arrange something for me. I was a bit surprised by this and decided then and there that I wouldn’t bother her again. I would be fine on my own.
Joe's house had no lights shining in it, and a knock on the door proved my fears; he wasn’t home. By this time it was about 9:15 and it was about to rain. Also, I was busting to go to the toilet.
I once again struggled on the bike and road back towards the point and then left into the wee lane. Instead of stopping at the house with the white garage I continued. The road lost its bitumen covering and became rocky. This soon turned into sand. The sand was too deep for the bike and I fell off. I managed to get my shoes free from the pedals in time, but it was still a clumsy fall with the backpack tugging me down.
I picked myself up and wheeled the bike further along. I came across a dilapidated cottage with lights on the inside. I was a bit spooked by this stage - I saw The Blair Witch Project about two weeks ago. A feeling of helplessness was creeping over me as I knocked on the door. No one answered. I knocked again and waited for about five minute but I had to leave. I was about to pee my pants for want of a toilet and had to keep moving.
I kept pushing the bike down the road, which had now become more of a path, and discovered the football pitch. It had cows on it! A small, easily crossable fence divided the path from the ground, but I decided not to risk it. I have enough experience with cows to know that they would have definitely trampled the tent.
I remember that when I left a ladder in a cow pen back on the kibbutz unattended for five minutes the cows had knocked it over and a large group of them were standing around it in an excited pack.
Another five or so minutes and I came across a beach. When I was following the road along the fence of the yacht club, I came across this side of the point, but the road had only led to a boat ramp. Before me now was a sandy beach - lit only by the moon - that stretched in both directions. Half way up the beach the sand became dark with driftwood. The lough was very thin at this point. On the other side was a massive factory with smokestacks and lights blazing. I decided to pitch the tent here. For the first time since I got off the train at Derry it had started to rain and I was feeling desperate. I was more than a bit worried about my security; added to the fact that this was a very deserted beach, was the knowledge that I was in Northern Ireland. Sure, the Troubles are over and I have known for years that so called 'trouble spots' aren't usually as bad as the media or American movies would like us to believe (Israel taught me that), but I was still spooked. My first day in Ireland was not supposed to turn out like this.
First things first: I urinated against a fallen branch and then proceeded to put the tent up. My backpack was a little bit wet, but not enough to be concerned about. I had not put the cover over it - the whole camouflage thing - but the rain up until this point had not been so heavy. Later inspection revealed that nothing important (ie. my clothes) had gotten wet.
The beach was not nice, clean sand. It was seaweedy and rocky. When I tried to put the tent pegs into the sand, more often then not I was stopped by the underlying bedrock. The sand was very crumbly and the pegs pulled out very easily. Despite the wind I managed to put the ten up in about ten minutes (all those training sessions in Jill’s back yard paid off) and I threw the backpack inside.
The safety of the bike was now worrying me. It wouldn’t fit inside the tent with me. I took of the front wheel and put that inside. Anything removable also went into the tent; the seat, the front light, the water bottle and the pump. I tied one of the fly ropes to the bike and positioned it so the back wheel would stick under a flap and would be visible at all times. When all this was finally done, I crawled into the tent myself. I was in there for not more than two minutes when the rain started properly.
I closed my eyes and prayed long and hard for my safety and the safety of the bike. I was petrified that the wind would lift the tent up and all would be lost. Roving terrorists entered my mind once or twice as well.
I was really hungry. I hadn’t eaten since the plane (about seven in the morning) and had barely drunk any water, that Guinness and the 60p bottle of water from Belfast station being the only liquid I had had since the airport. I took the bread and bananas out of their respective plastic bags and ate, tearing the bread off in hunks and placing about half a length of banana in the middle, folding over the bread to make a crude sandwich. My mouth was full of sand by the end of it. A brief inspection of the contents of the tent revealed sand everywhere, brought in mainly by the bike tyre as well as my shoes, in my hurry to get myself into the dryness.
I have already learnt a few things from my first day:
1) to find accommodation, either in the tent or otherwise before 4:30 (when it gets dark)
2) to not go onto a beach again. The bike's chain, crank and axles and the tent, both inside and out are covered with sand
3) to balance the backpack properly (ie. the tent in the middle and not to one side) and
4) to never, ever go unprepared on a trip like this again.
Last night it rained, though I have to say that the wind died down to the point of disappearing. My biggest worry (apart from having the bike stolen) was the ease in which the tent could blow away, yet remarkably there was no wind.
According to my speedometer-cum-clock I crawled out of the tent at 9:30 this morning. I had ridden ten miles out of Derry. It was half light from about 6:30 but I didn’t bother getting up. The rain was still going strong at that stage. When the rained stopped for longer than five minutes, I went outside. I took some photos of my environs and also the tent, then repacked the bag, leaving a tent shaped whole in the middle. I pulled down the tent, fitted it in the bag, put the bike together and put on my wets with seconds to spare, as it started to rain. The backpack now had the cover, and I tied the New Zealand flag onto the top of the backpack, with two corners of the flag. I tried to tie in as much of the Union Jack as possible.
Culham Point Beach. Water wrecked the rest of the photos I
took that day. But it's OK - this is how I remember the beach.
I pushed the bike back along the path, past the football pitch, the old cottage - which didn’t look half as threatening in the daylight. When I got to the sealed part of the road, I started riding, feeling a bit stiff from a night of sleeping with no mattress - I guess I'll have to get used to that. I came out of the wee lane and turned right, back towards the road that led to the shop and the main road.
This road was a nicely sloped road last night. I had to apply the brakes the whole time I was looking for the right hand turn and the wee lane. Now it was a hard slog, with the rain setting in quite heavily.
I went into the shop and bought a thing of toothpaste (I hadn’t brought any with me from England) and a bottle of water.
I left the beach at about 9:45 and continued riding north for a while. I was happy to be riding at a fairly slow pace. It was raining almost all of the time, though fairly lightly.
From what I experienced today, the rain in Ireland is unlike any rain I have ever seen. When I wrote that it was raining lightly, I meant that the air seemed to be thick with water. The tiniest droplets of water would swirl around, seemingly taking hours to reach the ground. I could stand in rain like that and not feel as if I was getting wet, only to find that five minutes later I would be soaked. The rain would continue like this for five minutes or so, and then the wind would pick up and hurl the rain at me. Then the rain would stop and only the wind would be present. The wind constantly had a wet feel to it. I guess the tiny droplets of water got even smaller to the point of invisibility. The air always seems to have a wet feel to it. The stone walls that lined the road wherever I went today always looked wet. The grass beyond the walls looked wet. Everything is wet.
I started sweating so I took off the Kathmandu and left my shirt and raincoat on. During a moment of relative dryness, I stopped for a rest and found a path down to the rocky shores of the lough. There was only about a metre of 'beach' - which consisted only of largish stones - before the steep embankment led up to the road. I took off the backpack and rested it against the bike. I didn’t sit down, as the ground was too wet, so instead I walked up and down while eating the rest of the bread and two more bananas. I had one banana left.
Last night I had a couple of moments where I almost panicked, but in general I think I did all right. Today on the beach, while eating the last chunk of bread I had a really big panic. I began to realise what I had gotten myself into. I am completely unprepared for this trip and, now that I am on it, I don’t have the money to prepare myself fully. Last night was bearable in the tent, but I was never warm. It will be getting colder. The girl at 'Millers' who sold me the sleeping bag said it was good for temperatures as low as -5ºC. This is wrong. I was cold last night and there is no way the temperature was that cold. There was no frost on the ground when I woke up. I also realised the backpack is simply too heavy for me. It weighs only 13kg but to have it on my back all day is too much. I also know that I can’t ride much more than 30 or 40 miles each day, with or without the backpack. I am simply too unfit.
The worse part about that little panic session is that I realised there was absolutely nothing I could do about my situation. My plane ticket is booked for the 15th of December and it can’t be change - and I don’t have enough money with me to buy another one. Nor do I have enough money to hole up in a hostel somewhere for a month. I have to continue on with what I planned to do.
I prayed then and there that God would send me peace, warmth, calmness and a healthy state of mind. He sent everything but the warmth. Just as I got on the bike the sun came out from behind the clouds for the first time today, which led me to wonder how the rain can come in so hard it hits you horizontally while the sun is shining.
The wind was incredible all day. Most of the time it came from the side, but if the road (which is heading northward) curved in towards the lough, it became very difficult to ride. Even while going downhill (which is half the time - the ground is never level), I couldn’t be in top gear, I had to stick to the middle gears or lower while riding against the wind. The wind here is an almost solid force. It is usually present, but in varying degrees of strength. It will be a fairly gentle breeze, bringing in cold, wet air from across the lough and then, without warning, a wall of wind will hit me, the bike will move about half a metre across the road, until I bring it under control, and then it will happen again.
The backpack and particularly the backpack cover catches the wind. It billows out and the space between the backpack and the cover becomes open and full of air. The flag is useless. Instead of flying out the back like a cape - which is what I had imagined, the wind catches it and twists it around and around until it is a sodden mess, usually lying over my left shoulder. When I try to flick it back, without tipping over the bike, it goes in the small space between my shoulder and the backpack. It is very difficult to flick it right over so it lies across the cover of the backpack without me actually getting off the bike. Whenever I do actually get off the bike and fix it up, I don’t ride a further ten metres before the wind flicks it back around in front of me again.
My feet were wet and so cold they hurt. The shoe covers don’t work very well. I imagined that once they got wet, they would become warm, just like a wetsuit works. Not so. The constant motion of my feet pedalling made the water on them evaporate so as to cool down my feet. I have the feeling that they are made to protect the shoe against splashing from puddles and the like, maybe even a light shower. After all, who goes out to ride a bike in the middle of winter in Ireland? My hands were also really cold. Obviously there is a major difference between snow and water. The ski gloves got soaked and the water went right through them. My hands became as cold as my feet and they really started to hurt. But the rest of me, inwards from the neck, wrists and ankles were sweating like hell all day.
Next time I do something like this (or the next time I hear of any one doing something like this) I will buy (or recommend they buy) the very best clothes. While I was looking for clothes I kept coming across the words ‘warm and breathable’. I ignored this and looked instead for warm and cheap.
At the end of today my shirt and jeans were both wet with sweat.
At 11:30 I was worn out. I had only ridden 10 miles.
An aside; by this time I was firmly in the Republic, though only the sign 'Welcome to Donegal' greeted me. No passport office. Just over the border - which I think is a bridge - is the town of Muff. This is one of the towns that was on that sign lasts night. I still didn’t know whether or not Ireland uses miles or kilometres (it is kilometres). Since I hadn’t come across any road signs with numbers on, I wasn’t sure that it mattered. It wasn’t until three this afternoon that I found out.
When I got back on the main road I was at least a couple of hundred of metres inland. I was passing through forest for a short while, and then I got into farmland. A lot of these houses looked like they belonged to people who work in Derry and want to live in the country. The road headed north constantly, but slowly veered towards the east.
After I rode through Muff - which is a tiny little town with a lot of service stations and really bad roads - I came across my first decent view of the lough during daylight. A glorious sight. Despite the clouds and the rain, the other side - which is part of Northern Ireland - was clearly visible. The lough was just as I imagined it. Along the shores of the lough is the seaweed that I read about in Trinity. In the book, during the worse ravages of the famine, the members of the village were granted the wracking rights for the seaweed. I still have no idea what wracking rights are, but to see seaweed on the rocks beside the water was really exciting. It is still exciting to be in the same area as the village. I wish I had of brought the book with me. The road then ran parallel to the lough, about 100 metres from the shore.
At 11:40 I had had enough. I was at the point where I was riding for 15 minutes and then resting for five. To my right was a beautiful looking house placed in green fields. The lough resting behind it looked magical. I cycled down the long drive and knocked on the door - no one home, damn. I was tempted to look around the back to see if I could find anyone but decided against it.
I had just reached the road and was about five metres away from the entrance to this place when a car pulled over. He had seen me leave and wound down his window inquiringly. I asked him if he had any work available in exchange for food and a place to pitch a tent. He said he didn’t, but I was welcome to come into his house for some lunch. 'Aye', I said, 'that would be grand'.
The farmer (whose name I later found out to be Billy Doherty) lives with his wife and family on the opposite side of the road, further up the hill. I think I forgot to mention that there is simply no flat space here in Inishowen. From the lough, the ground soars upwards to the inner part of Inishowen, called the Highlands, and then sinks back down to the level of Lough Swilly, on the other side of the peninsular. The Doherty's house has windows on two walls in the dining room area that look over an incredible view of the road below, the house beyond that and finally the lough and County Derry on the other side. I was told later that Iris, Billy's wife, had been watching me as I went into the house on the other side of the road. That house belongs to Billy's mother who is now in hospital, and they have made it a habit to keep watch over it.
At lunch he asked me if I would stay the night. I offered to work for it, but he said no, I could stay. I thankfully accepted his offer, wondering what sort of person would be so kind as to let a stranger stay in their house for free. Lunch was corn beef sandwiches (I had no idea how great corn beef could be) and he suggested I leave the backpack and go for a ride up to the head or to Greencastle (the fort overlooking the point).
I sat and talked with Iris until 1:30 and was about to leave when the perpetual rain turned really heavy. I waited until it turned back into a light cheek-stinging downpour and set off. I had two and a half hours of daylight left. I went along the coast road to Greencastle (about 10 miles). On the way I passed through Moville and stopped in at a tourist shop and asked for a map of Inishowen. The women gave me an A4 size tourist map for free. She even took it off the wall for me! In gratitude I bought two postcards and sent them to Richard and Jane.
Everyone is so friendly. It's just amazing. The views of the lough are fantastic. I kept on going until Greencastle, a castle built in 1305 by Richard De Burgo, the Red Earl of Ulster, to dominate the O’Donnell’s and O’Doherty's in the area. The place in the book at the end where Conor and the others crossed the lough to destroy Lettershambo castle occurred here, at the thinnest part of the lough. The other side has no castle and, in the book, nor does this side. Poetic licence, I guess. I have now been up and down the lough and not found Ballyutogue - it doesn’t exist. The locals haven’t heard of it. The locals call a town (that on the map is called Carrowkeel) Quigley's Point. This is the same area that Ballyutogue would have been. It is very close to where I am staying. I am at Whitecastle, so called because there used to be a castle, with a big white house built on its ruins. The farmhouse that now occupies the spot belongs to this farmer's mother. At Greencastle, I took a photo of the castle and of the distant shore.
What I would really like is a library where I can find a copy of Trinity. I would love to look at the maps at the start of each section and see where I am in relation to what happened in the book.
As I was riding back it started raining heavily. And the wind changed. It was now just as strong or stronger than it had been, but now it was southerly, blowing right in my face as I headed back to the Doherty's. I couldn’t believe it. It was hailing at one stage, and that hurt like nothing else. I got back to the comfort of this blessed house (I blessed it!) and had a shower.
That was a wonderful shower. Not only was it the first time since arriving yesterday was I able to relax in the cleansing warmth, but it was the first time in 6 months that I had a shower. The British love their baths so much. Jill’s house doesn’t have a shower, only a bath. A bath might be a luxury that people may love, but I will choose a shower over a bath any day.
I have come to the conclusion that I cannot ride around with the backpack on in a blind search. I can ride quicker and longer without it, so I need to find a base. Despite the weather and in particular the hail, I quite enjoyed the ride up to Greencastle and back. I got a little wet and cold - and my camera got soaked - but I was able to go so much quicker without the backpack on. God, did I feel light.
I have two options: 1) a pub or place of employment and a cheap bed and breakfast 2) a farm house with farm work.
Billy suggested I to ride to Buncrana tomorrow (the largest town in Inishowen) in search of work. He said I could come back here tomorrow night. He told me that if I were to find any place in Inishowen with work then it would be there. He has said more than once that it really is a bad time of year to come for work. Aside from the madness of riding around in this weather, there is simply no work around. He said that most of the farmers are weather dependent and at this time of year they don’t have enough work for themselves, let alone someone else. He said that my best option would be to find a job in a bar or restaurant and sleep each night in a B+B. I suggested the tent and he laughed. 'Madness', he said, ‘your scheme might have worked better in spring'.
Buncrana is about 30 km away. I will do as he suggested. I have succeeded in my goal of finding out about Ballyutogue. Now I am simply here to experience something new. The tent and sleeping bag are a bit of a waste, but I needed them last night and might need them again if tomorrow doesn’t work out.
I will ride to Buncrana, stopping at every farm, shop, pub, bar and restaurant along the way asking about work.
A quick aside; last night in the tent I noticed my left thumb had pins and needles. It hasn’t stopped all day today and is still happening now, even though I am warm and dry, on a nice comfortable bed - which has nothing to do with my thumb; it is simply a wonderful luxury to writing be this while curled up under a duvet. This bed belongs to a son of Billy and Iris who is, I think, studying in Belfast.
Another thing, I just answered a question with 'aye' and not 'yes'.
Three more things: with a name like Billy I didn’t have to ask whether he was a Catholic or Protestant. There is a bottle of Irish Cream in the house called St. Brendan’s. Billy warned me not to use the New Zealand flag as the Union Jack would upset a lot of people, he said the camouflage is fine, so that is a waste of £8.99
I have spent: UK£15 in bike freight, UK£1.60 food, I£30 on train ticket, UK£1.50 water, tooth paste, I£9 on flag, I65p on postcards, I£2.50 on Guinness, I75p stamps, UK60p on water. Is that all?
I am an idiot. I was trying to change my speedometer from miles to kilometres and cleared everything. Up until now I have done 76.86 km.
Red brick buildings and drab concrete constructions. The football ground was drab grey concrete. The people are a downcast people. The harsh Northern Irish accent doesn’t help, but the people there don’t smile, they have an almost angry expression. I went to the train station shop and - without thinking - tried to pay for my 60p bottle of water with an Irish punt. The girl looked at me with disdain and said: 'I don't take that here.' I was a bit surprised at that. Sure, I was in the North, but I was also in the only train station in Belfast with trains departing to and arriving from Dublin, one every three hours, no less.
Once again, I almost missed the train. Someone had told me that the train to Derry left from the same platform I had arrived from. Looking back, I guess that sounds a little silly, but at the time I didn’t think about it. When I returned to the platform, about two minutes before the train was due to depart, I was undoing my bike when I realised that I had the wrong platform. I had to run up the ramp (with my bike and backpack) cross some tracks and then run down the correct ramp to the correct platform. I could just see myself stranded at Belfast Central for another two hours, resulting in the fact that I wouldn’t get to Derry until 9 pm. However, I made the train. I put the bike in the freight car (with the help of the conductor) and sat down in the closest car to that.
A lady of 86 sat next to me and we talked for a while. She had lived in Belfast all her life. When she found out that I was a tourist she started telling me about the Troubles and what it was like to live in Belfast before they started, while it was at its peak and now, after the cease-fire. She was a Protestant, but took no sides, wondering why both parties couldn’t live in peace. She called the IRA and the UVF and all the others 'murdering scum'. She did all this to demonstrate how safe it was now.
She told me about her brother who she hadn’t talked to in a decade and a half. He had moved to Scotland about 50 years ago and rang her up asking her if he could stay with her during the marching season, about 15 years ago. She then had a big argument with him, telling him that he was part of the problem and there was no way that she would have him in her house if all he wanted to come over for was the 12th of July and its affiliated celebrations. She told him to come in the winter, and hadn’t talked to him since. She was quite proud of this. I didn’t have to ask many questions during our conversation, and she was the one who brought up the topic of the Troubles.
I had decided while still in England not to talk about them unless asked and not to give an opinion at all. However, she seemed eager to talk about them, and I was just as eager to listen; I will find out so much more from listening to people who have lived with the Troubles than I ever will from so many newspaper articles.
After she got off I went to sleep, with my foot entwined in the straps of the backpack.
I got to Derry at 7 pm - dark, cold and windy but no rain. I asked some girls the directions to Inishowen and they laughed and said: 'It's miles away'. They asked me where I wanted to, 'Redcastle, Moville or Greencastle?' I had no idea and gave the rather stupid answer: 'Um... just somewhere in Inishowen'. They laughed again but gave me directions any way. They turned out to be very clear and I didn’t get lost using them, as I expected to after the effort that went into finding the train station in Dublin in the morning.
I didn’t want to wander around Derry after nightfall with no map and no idea where I was going, so I forgot about finding a map and instead worried about finding the Republic. I have to admit I was scared last night. All the bad things about Derry that I had heard and knew not to be relevant now, with the cease-fire, were pounding in my mind.
Alex had told me that in the bad areas of Belfast and Derry, a group of kids might kneecap strangers and rob them just to make a name for themselves. This little tidbit of information wasn't comforting me last night.
The road I was told to go down was fairly large and well lit. I had to cross the river (which feeds into the Lough) over a really long bridge that went up for ages before finally coming to the apex and then I sped down the other side. Soon afterwards I found the roundabout promised by the girls and the sign which pointed to Muff, Moville and Buncrana.
Following the girls’ instructions, I took the turn off to Moville and soon found myself on a much smaller road. I followed this for a time and then the streetlights finished. For the first time I found that the lights I bought for the bike were fairly useless. They were good to show the cars where I was, but not to illuminate the road in front of me. I had to slow right down, but still I hit lots of potholes.
The road was bordered on both sides by a stone fence except where a house appeared - which was rare enough. The stone wall was broken at one point and there were tractor tracks leading into the dark field beyond. I was tempted to go straight into the field and pitch the tent. The thought of talking to an angry farmer in the morning made me ride onto the next house. I knocked on the nearest door, but the suspicious woman inside told me the nuns down the road owned it.
I kept riding and found a nunnery that doubled as a nursery. The house that I think was supposed to house the nuns was right near the entrance, and a paved driveway led the way to a well signed plant nursery. I guess nuns are allowed to enter the commercial world. I knocked on the door but there was no one there. Maybe nuns are allowed to have a night out on the piss?
I kept going. I was starting to get that uneasy feeling we get when every thing is sliding out of control. I passed a school and decided to go back to it. I found a door but the caretaker inside told me I couldn’t pitch a tent anywhere on the property - and he didn’t have a suggestion as to where else I could go.
Through the clouds I could see that the moon was half full, but I didn’t see any clear sky. The wind now had the smell of rain and I knew I would get wet very soon. It was very dark.
I arrived at a village called Culham. I didn’t know it was a village until later, I was simply presented with a turn off and a shop. The sign pointing down the darkened road said Culham Pt. I nervously left the bike outside and went into the shop. I asked the guy if he had a map. No maps. Instead I got a fruit loaf (69p) and a bunch of bananas (84p). In change, I had £1.10 sterling and 50p Irish. I paid with that and the guy cheerfully accepted it. I asked him where there was a field I could pitch my tent, and he said there was one down at Culham Pt. This was the road that ran down, away from the shop and off the main road.
I went down the road. Halfway down two teenagers and a dog said to keep going, turn right, turn left past a 'big white house and a wee garage' and down a lane to a football pitch.
The fact that the shopkeeper so cheerfully accepted both currencies made me realise that the girl at the counter in the newsagent at the Belfast station didn’t reflect official policy. It was either her personal politics or Belfast politics, but this guy here in County Derry didn’t mind at all when I gave him the two different monies - even though the Irish currency is worth less. Maybe the village of Culham is Catholic?
No worries. I turned right, but missed the wee lane and ended up at Culham Pt.; no field - just an outcropping of rock and a yacht club. I couldn’t get to the very tip of the point as the yacht club occupied it; and it kept me out with mean looking barbed wire. There was a small road leading south along the line of the fence and I followed this until I got to the other side of the point, a trip of no more than 50 metres.
I went back to the road and then back up to the original right hand turn. I turned right; to head in the same direction that I was going in originally but ended up with nothing. I found a small field with a couple of burnt out cars and a bull, but I wasn’t game to pitch my tent in there. The occupant of the nearest house said the same and told me that the football pitch is actually along the first road I took and I should get back to that one. He seemed anxious to get rid of me.
I have a friend in England who grew up in Belfast during the Troubles. When I told him about my plans he laughed. He told me that if he lived in the countryside and some guy knocked on his door after dark he would greet him with a shotgun, not a smile. He was the only person in England who discouraged me in any way.
I went back to the road and found a wee lane, complete with garage. I knocked on the door and a lady told me to see Joe Cully, three houses down. I knocked on the appropriate door and a lady told me that Joe was the next house, the house that had stone eagles on its gateposts. The lady was very nice and said that if I didn’t find any place to stay I could go back to her house and she would arrange something for me. I was a bit surprised by this and decided then and there that I wouldn’t bother her again. I would be fine on my own.
Joe's house had no lights shining in it, and a knock on the door proved my fears; he wasn’t home. By this time it was about 9:15 and it was about to rain. Also, I was busting to go to the toilet.
I once again struggled on the bike and road back towards the point and then left into the wee lane. Instead of stopping at the house with the white garage I continued. The road lost its bitumen covering and became rocky. This soon turned into sand. The sand was too deep for the bike and I fell off. I managed to get my shoes free from the pedals in time, but it was still a clumsy fall with the backpack tugging me down.
I picked myself up and wheeled the bike further along. I came across a dilapidated cottage with lights on the inside. I was a bit spooked by this stage - I saw The Blair Witch Project about two weeks ago. A feeling of helplessness was creeping over me as I knocked on the door. No one answered. I knocked again and waited for about five minute but I had to leave. I was about to pee my pants for want of a toilet and had to keep moving.
I kept pushing the bike down the road, which had now become more of a path, and discovered the football pitch. It had cows on it! A small, easily crossable fence divided the path from the ground, but I decided not to risk it. I have enough experience with cows to know that they would have definitely trampled the tent.
I remember that when I left a ladder in a cow pen back on the kibbutz unattended for five minutes the cows had knocked it over and a large group of them were standing around it in an excited pack.
Another five or so minutes and I came across a beach. When I was following the road along the fence of the yacht club, I came across this side of the point, but the road had only led to a boat ramp. Before me now was a sandy beach - lit only by the moon - that stretched in both directions. Half way up the beach the sand became dark with driftwood. The lough was very thin at this point. On the other side was a massive factory with smokestacks and lights blazing. I decided to pitch the tent here. For the first time since I got off the train at Derry it had started to rain and I was feeling desperate. I was more than a bit worried about my security; added to the fact that this was a very deserted beach, was the knowledge that I was in Northern Ireland. Sure, the Troubles are over and I have known for years that so called 'trouble spots' aren't usually as bad as the media or American movies would like us to believe (Israel taught me that), but I was still spooked. My first day in Ireland was not supposed to turn out like this.
First things first: I urinated against a fallen branch and then proceeded to put the tent up. My backpack was a little bit wet, but not enough to be concerned about. I had not put the cover over it - the whole camouflage thing - but the rain up until this point had not been so heavy. Later inspection revealed that nothing important (ie. my clothes) had gotten wet.
The beach was not nice, clean sand. It was seaweedy and rocky. When I tried to put the tent pegs into the sand, more often then not I was stopped by the underlying bedrock. The sand was very crumbly and the pegs pulled out very easily. Despite the wind I managed to put the ten up in about ten minutes (all those training sessions in Jill’s back yard paid off) and I threw the backpack inside.
The safety of the bike was now worrying me. It wouldn’t fit inside the tent with me. I took of the front wheel and put that inside. Anything removable also went into the tent; the seat, the front light, the water bottle and the pump. I tied one of the fly ropes to the bike and positioned it so the back wheel would stick under a flap and would be visible at all times. When all this was finally done, I crawled into the tent myself. I was in there for not more than two minutes when the rain started properly.
I closed my eyes and prayed long and hard for my safety and the safety of the bike. I was petrified that the wind would lift the tent up and all would be lost. Roving terrorists entered my mind once or twice as well.
I was really hungry. I hadn’t eaten since the plane (about seven in the morning) and had barely drunk any water, that Guinness and the 60p bottle of water from Belfast station being the only liquid I had had since the airport. I took the bread and bananas out of their respective plastic bags and ate, tearing the bread off in hunks and placing about half a length of banana in the middle, folding over the bread to make a crude sandwich. My mouth was full of sand by the end of it. A brief inspection of the contents of the tent revealed sand everywhere, brought in mainly by the bike tyre as well as my shoes, in my hurry to get myself into the dryness.
I have already learnt a few things from my first day:
1) to find accommodation, either in the tent or otherwise before 4:30 (when it gets dark)
2) to not go onto a beach again. The bike's chain, crank and axles and the tent, both inside and out are covered with sand
3) to balance the backpack properly (ie. the tent in the middle and not to one side) and
4) to never, ever go unprepared on a trip like this again.
Last night it rained, though I have to say that the wind died down to the point of disappearing. My biggest worry (apart from having the bike stolen) was the ease in which the tent could blow away, yet remarkably there was no wind.
According to my speedometer-cum-clock I crawled out of the tent at 9:30 this morning. I had ridden ten miles out of Derry. It was half light from about 6:30 but I didn’t bother getting up. The rain was still going strong at that stage. When the rained stopped for longer than five minutes, I went outside. I took some photos of my environs and also the tent, then repacked the bag, leaving a tent shaped whole in the middle. I pulled down the tent, fitted it in the bag, put the bike together and put on my wets with seconds to spare, as it started to rain. The backpack now had the cover, and I tied the New Zealand flag onto the top of the backpack, with two corners of the flag. I tried to tie in as much of the Union Jack as possible.
Culham Point Beach. Water wrecked the rest of the photos I
took that day. But it's OK - this is how I remember the beach.
I pushed the bike back along the path, past the football pitch, the old cottage - which didn’t look half as threatening in the daylight. When I got to the sealed part of the road, I started riding, feeling a bit stiff from a night of sleeping with no mattress - I guess I'll have to get used to that. I came out of the wee lane and turned right, back towards the road that led to the shop and the main road.
This road was a nicely sloped road last night. I had to apply the brakes the whole time I was looking for the right hand turn and the wee lane. Now it was a hard slog, with the rain setting in quite heavily.
I went into the shop and bought a thing of toothpaste (I hadn’t brought any with me from England) and a bottle of water.
I left the beach at about 9:45 and continued riding north for a while. I was happy to be riding at a fairly slow pace. It was raining almost all of the time, though fairly lightly.
From what I experienced today, the rain in Ireland is unlike any rain I have ever seen. When I wrote that it was raining lightly, I meant that the air seemed to be thick with water. The tiniest droplets of water would swirl around, seemingly taking hours to reach the ground. I could stand in rain like that and not feel as if I was getting wet, only to find that five minutes later I would be soaked. The rain would continue like this for five minutes or so, and then the wind would pick up and hurl the rain at me. Then the rain would stop and only the wind would be present. The wind constantly had a wet feel to it. I guess the tiny droplets of water got even smaller to the point of invisibility. The air always seems to have a wet feel to it. The stone walls that lined the road wherever I went today always looked wet. The grass beyond the walls looked wet. Everything is wet.
I started sweating so I took off the Kathmandu and left my shirt and raincoat on. During a moment of relative dryness, I stopped for a rest and found a path down to the rocky shores of the lough. There was only about a metre of 'beach' - which consisted only of largish stones - before the steep embankment led up to the road. I took off the backpack and rested it against the bike. I didn’t sit down, as the ground was too wet, so instead I walked up and down while eating the rest of the bread and two more bananas. I had one banana left.
Last night I had a couple of moments where I almost panicked, but in general I think I did all right. Today on the beach, while eating the last chunk of bread I had a really big panic. I began to realise what I had gotten myself into. I am completely unprepared for this trip and, now that I am on it, I don’t have the money to prepare myself fully. Last night was bearable in the tent, but I was never warm. It will be getting colder. The girl at 'Millers' who sold me the sleeping bag said it was good for temperatures as low as -5ºC. This is wrong. I was cold last night and there is no way the temperature was that cold. There was no frost on the ground when I woke up. I also realised the backpack is simply too heavy for me. It weighs only 13kg but to have it on my back all day is too much. I also know that I can’t ride much more than 30 or 40 miles each day, with or without the backpack. I am simply too unfit.
The worse part about that little panic session is that I realised there was absolutely nothing I could do about my situation. My plane ticket is booked for the 15th of December and it can’t be change - and I don’t have enough money with me to buy another one. Nor do I have enough money to hole up in a hostel somewhere for a month. I have to continue on with what I planned to do.
I prayed then and there that God would send me peace, warmth, calmness and a healthy state of mind. He sent everything but the warmth. Just as I got on the bike the sun came out from behind the clouds for the first time today, which led me to wonder how the rain can come in so hard it hits you horizontally while the sun is shining.
The wind was incredible all day. Most of the time it came from the side, but if the road (which is heading northward) curved in towards the lough, it became very difficult to ride. Even while going downhill (which is half the time - the ground is never level), I couldn’t be in top gear, I had to stick to the middle gears or lower while riding against the wind. The wind here is an almost solid force. It is usually present, but in varying degrees of strength. It will be a fairly gentle breeze, bringing in cold, wet air from across the lough and then, without warning, a wall of wind will hit me, the bike will move about half a metre across the road, until I bring it under control, and then it will happen again.
The backpack and particularly the backpack cover catches the wind. It billows out and the space between the backpack and the cover becomes open and full of air. The flag is useless. Instead of flying out the back like a cape - which is what I had imagined, the wind catches it and twists it around and around until it is a sodden mess, usually lying over my left shoulder. When I try to flick it back, without tipping over the bike, it goes in the small space between my shoulder and the backpack. It is very difficult to flick it right over so it lies across the cover of the backpack without me actually getting off the bike. Whenever I do actually get off the bike and fix it up, I don’t ride a further ten metres before the wind flicks it back around in front of me again.
My feet were wet and so cold they hurt. The shoe covers don’t work very well. I imagined that once they got wet, they would become warm, just like a wetsuit works. Not so. The constant motion of my feet pedalling made the water on them evaporate so as to cool down my feet. I have the feeling that they are made to protect the shoe against splashing from puddles and the like, maybe even a light shower. After all, who goes out to ride a bike in the middle of winter in Ireland? My hands were also really cold. Obviously there is a major difference between snow and water. The ski gloves got soaked and the water went right through them. My hands became as cold as my feet and they really started to hurt. But the rest of me, inwards from the neck, wrists and ankles were sweating like hell all day.
Next time I do something like this (or the next time I hear of any one doing something like this) I will buy (or recommend they buy) the very best clothes. While I was looking for clothes I kept coming across the words ‘warm and breathable’. I ignored this and looked instead for warm and cheap.
At the end of today my shirt and jeans were both wet with sweat.
At 11:30 I was worn out. I had only ridden 10 miles.
An aside; by this time I was firmly in the Republic, though only the sign 'Welcome to Donegal' greeted me. No passport office. Just over the border - which I think is a bridge - is the town of Muff. This is one of the towns that was on that sign lasts night. I still didn’t know whether or not Ireland uses miles or kilometres (it is kilometres). Since I hadn’t come across any road signs with numbers on, I wasn’t sure that it mattered. It wasn’t until three this afternoon that I found out.
When I got back on the main road I was at least a couple of hundred of metres inland. I was passing through forest for a short while, and then I got into farmland. A lot of these houses looked like they belonged to people who work in Derry and want to live in the country. The road headed north constantly, but slowly veered towards the east.
After I rode through Muff - which is a tiny little town with a lot of service stations and really bad roads - I came across my first decent view of the lough during daylight. A glorious sight. Despite the clouds and the rain, the other side - which is part of Northern Ireland - was clearly visible. The lough was just as I imagined it. Along the shores of the lough is the seaweed that I read about in Trinity. In the book, during the worse ravages of the famine, the members of the village were granted the wracking rights for the seaweed. I still have no idea what wracking rights are, but to see seaweed on the rocks beside the water was really exciting. It is still exciting to be in the same area as the village. I wish I had of brought the book with me. The road then ran parallel to the lough, about 100 metres from the shore.
At 11:40 I had had enough. I was at the point where I was riding for 15 minutes and then resting for five. To my right was a beautiful looking house placed in green fields. The lough resting behind it looked magical. I cycled down the long drive and knocked on the door - no one home, damn. I was tempted to look around the back to see if I could find anyone but decided against it.
I had just reached the road and was about five metres away from the entrance to this place when a car pulled over. He had seen me leave and wound down his window inquiringly. I asked him if he had any work available in exchange for food and a place to pitch a tent. He said he didn’t, but I was welcome to come into his house for some lunch. 'Aye', I said, 'that would be grand'.
The farmer (whose name I later found out to be Billy Doherty) lives with his wife and family on the opposite side of the road, further up the hill. I think I forgot to mention that there is simply no flat space here in Inishowen. From the lough, the ground soars upwards to the inner part of Inishowen, called the Highlands, and then sinks back down to the level of Lough Swilly, on the other side of the peninsular. The Doherty's house has windows on two walls in the dining room area that look over an incredible view of the road below, the house beyond that and finally the lough and County Derry on the other side. I was told later that Iris, Billy's wife, had been watching me as I went into the house on the other side of the road. That house belongs to Billy's mother who is now in hospital, and they have made it a habit to keep watch over it.
At lunch he asked me if I would stay the night. I offered to work for it, but he said no, I could stay. I thankfully accepted his offer, wondering what sort of person would be so kind as to let a stranger stay in their house for free. Lunch was corn beef sandwiches (I had no idea how great corn beef could be) and he suggested I leave the backpack and go for a ride up to the head or to Greencastle (the fort overlooking the point).
I sat and talked with Iris until 1:30 and was about to leave when the perpetual rain turned really heavy. I waited until it turned back into a light cheek-stinging downpour and set off. I had two and a half hours of daylight left. I went along the coast road to Greencastle (about 10 miles). On the way I passed through Moville and stopped in at a tourist shop and asked for a map of Inishowen. The women gave me an A4 size tourist map for free. She even took it off the wall for me! In gratitude I bought two postcards and sent them to Richard and Jane.
Everyone is so friendly. It's just amazing. The views of the lough are fantastic. I kept on going until Greencastle, a castle built in 1305 by Richard De Burgo, the Red Earl of Ulster, to dominate the O’Donnell’s and O’Doherty's in the area. The place in the book at the end where Conor and the others crossed the lough to destroy Lettershambo castle occurred here, at the thinnest part of the lough. The other side has no castle and, in the book, nor does this side. Poetic licence, I guess. I have now been up and down the lough and not found Ballyutogue - it doesn’t exist. The locals haven’t heard of it. The locals call a town (that on the map is called Carrowkeel) Quigley's Point. This is the same area that Ballyutogue would have been. It is very close to where I am staying. I am at Whitecastle, so called because there used to be a castle, with a big white house built on its ruins. The farmhouse that now occupies the spot belongs to this farmer's mother. At Greencastle, I took a photo of the castle and of the distant shore.
What I would really like is a library where I can find a copy of Trinity. I would love to look at the maps at the start of each section and see where I am in relation to what happened in the book.
As I was riding back it started raining heavily. And the wind changed. It was now just as strong or stronger than it had been, but now it was southerly, blowing right in my face as I headed back to the Doherty's. I couldn’t believe it. It was hailing at one stage, and that hurt like nothing else. I got back to the comfort of this blessed house (I blessed it!) and had a shower.
That was a wonderful shower. Not only was it the first time since arriving yesterday was I able to relax in the cleansing warmth, but it was the first time in 6 months that I had a shower. The British love their baths so much. Jill’s house doesn’t have a shower, only a bath. A bath might be a luxury that people may love, but I will choose a shower over a bath any day.
I have come to the conclusion that I cannot ride around with the backpack on in a blind search. I can ride quicker and longer without it, so I need to find a base. Despite the weather and in particular the hail, I quite enjoyed the ride up to Greencastle and back. I got a little wet and cold - and my camera got soaked - but I was able to go so much quicker without the backpack on. God, did I feel light.
I have two options: 1) a pub or place of employment and a cheap bed and breakfast 2) a farm house with farm work.
Billy suggested I to ride to Buncrana tomorrow (the largest town in Inishowen) in search of work. He said I could come back here tomorrow night. He told me that if I were to find any place in Inishowen with work then it would be there. He has said more than once that it really is a bad time of year to come for work. Aside from the madness of riding around in this weather, there is simply no work around. He said that most of the farmers are weather dependent and at this time of year they don’t have enough work for themselves, let alone someone else. He said that my best option would be to find a job in a bar or restaurant and sleep each night in a B+B. I suggested the tent and he laughed. 'Madness', he said, ‘your scheme might have worked better in spring'.
Buncrana is about 30 km away. I will do as he suggested. I have succeeded in my goal of finding out about Ballyutogue. Now I am simply here to experience something new. The tent and sleeping bag are a bit of a waste, but I needed them last night and might need them again if tomorrow doesn’t work out.
I will ride to Buncrana, stopping at every farm, shop, pub, bar and restaurant along the way asking about work.
A quick aside; last night in the tent I noticed my left thumb had pins and needles. It hasn’t stopped all day today and is still happening now, even though I am warm and dry, on a nice comfortable bed - which has nothing to do with my thumb; it is simply a wonderful luxury to writing be this while curled up under a duvet. This bed belongs to a son of Billy and Iris who is, I think, studying in Belfast.
Another thing, I just answered a question with 'aye' and not 'yes'.
Three more things: with a name like Billy I didn’t have to ask whether he was a Catholic or Protestant. There is a bottle of Irish Cream in the house called St. Brendan’s. Billy warned me not to use the New Zealand flag as the Union Jack would upset a lot of people, he said the camouflage is fine, so that is a waste of £8.99
I have spent: UK£15 in bike freight, UK£1.60 food, I£30 on train ticket, UK£1.50 water, tooth paste, I£9 on flag, I65p on postcards, I£2.50 on Guinness, I75p stamps, UK60p on water. Is that all?
I am an idiot. I was trying to change my speedometer from miles to kilometres and cleared everything. Up until now I have done 76.86 km.
posted by Bren Carlill @ 5:36 AM
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