Day 5
I am in Carndonagh, stuck here for the next three and a half hours. I'll consider it a day of rest.
Yesterday, I woke at 10:15 and had a leisurely breakfast with Iris. She gave me the name and address of some people near Culdaff who own a dairy farm. They go to the same church (Methodist) as the Doherty's and might be able to offer me work, or a place to sleep, she said. It was suggested I make my way there, via Carndonagh and then I could make a day trip up to Malin Head and back.
I packed my bag well and slowly set off. I was wearing the same jeans and shirt as I have been wearing since I came. Once again, I was able to dry them out over the radiator in my bedroom last night.
The stove in the kitchen is a solid fuel stove, made of steel, I think, with the front and sides coated in the enamel paint that old bathtubs are painted with. The stovetop looks to be made of cast iron, quite black and very broad - about a metre wide and long. There are a number of removable plates. The way to get them out is using a key type thing - that hangs above the stove - which fits into a slot at the edge of the plate. To heat the fire up, a plate has to be lifted up, and then wood, coal or any burnable rubbish is put inside. The plates that can be lifted up are thinner than the rest of the stovetop, so here is where pots or kettles are placed. However, the whole top is fairly warm so dinner plates can be kept on the side to keep a meal warm. As far as I could tell, Iris kept the stove hot at all times. There was always a kettle on it and this was usually near boiling. Whenever she wanted a cup of tea - or I, coffee - she could pour the water straight away. The radiators in the bathroom and back entrance (where all the coats and shoes are kept) feed off this stove. The fireplace in the living room heats the radiators in the bedrooms. I think this is really tricky. Maybe this is a fairly common practise, but growing up in Darwin has caused me to be fairly ignorant on all matters regarding fireplaces and heating in general.
I left at about 12:00, rode back down to Quigley’s and took the road up to Carndonagh. This road, according to the map, runs between two sets of hills and follows a river. The map shows contours and seemed to be fairly flat however, I'll admit I didn't study the map too keenly. The road from Quigley’s Point went uphill for 4 km. I was knackered when I finally reached the top - and had about 100m of a downhill slope before another hill came. The stretch from Quigley’s Point was always steep. Sometimes the gradient lessened to the point where it was almost flat, but it never quite got there. There was always some type of upward slope. Unbelievable.
From talking to people like Benjie, I have come to be familiar with some biking terms. An example is the term 'false slope'. This refers to a stretch of road that has a very small uphill gradient. While riding along it, the road seems flat, however after a couple of kilometres of this, the cyclist is knackered because he or she has been going uphill for that long in a fairly high gear. (I guess). Here in Ireland, I have come to realise that there is an opposite term to this, a 'false dip'. This occurs when the mind is so used to riding uphill that even when a downhill slope arrives, it appears to be a hill. Only when the bike continues to roll without pedalling does the mind finally realise that this is indeed a downhill slope. I experienced this yesterday and, to a lesser, extent, today.
Actually, it was Benjie that inspired me to ride around Ireland, instead of walking. Of course, Benjie was Israel's champion road racer for two years running and has represented that country in 'the Worlds' on various occasions. When he told me how much easier riding would be, I should have thought just a tad more about it...
After about seven or eight kilometres, the road levelled out and followed a fast running stream for a quite a few kilometres. This was the most beautiful location I have been in so far, and its scenes like this that are put on postcards. The stream (brook?) wound its way through fields in a very meandering pattern. The water was about one metre below the level of the grass, and the banks were very steep, so a miniature canyon was formed. At various places every hundred or so metres, the walls of the bank were broken down, where sheep have trodden to get a drink.
The grass around the stream and in the fields was a rich green. Any trees around were quite shady, and I could imagine the sheep would shelter under them during a sunny day in summer or (more likely) a rainstorm during any time of year. The streambed was of rocks, and I could see from the road that the water was clear and clean. I was tempted to go and refill my water bottle from it, but I decided against it. On more than one occasion, the stream went under the road. I crossed many old looking stone bridges on my ride today. I actually quite enjoyed the ride today, if it wasn’t for the wind. Sheep were everywhere, I didn’t see any cows until I got nearer to Carndonagh, but they were always in numbers under ten. I didn’t see any herds stretching from here to the other side of the field like I got used to in Israel (except in Israel, they weren’t stretched across a grassy field, but rather cramped in a brown pen).
The beauty of it all is indescribable. Amazing. The whole thing was picture perfect, made better by the weather, no doubt. The forecast was dry, sunny and seven degrees. Dry was correct, sunny was greatly optimistic and seven degrees was probably a bit hopeful. The day was freezing and the wind! The wind in Inishowen (and the rest of the British Isles) comes from the Gulf Stream. It has had the whole journey from the east coast of Canada and Greenland to the shores of Ireland to drop its nice warm temperature and become freezing! It plunges down onto Ireland from the northwest.
The difference is, Inishowen is the northwest corner of the British Isles and as such, the wind is a wee bit cold. Also, riding northward between two sets of hills made me ride into a freezing wind tunnel. Wow. At least it was dry. I took it slowly. I was knackered. Because I was able to set myself up nicely in the morning, I rigged up the walkman in the Kathmandu pocket, the headphone cord running under it and the headphones under the beanie (when it was on), and under the rain coat hood when it was raining. Don’t let the term 'dry' fool you. It did rain - a lot - but it was never heavy and it wasn’t constant. It was the first time that I have used the Walkman since coming to Ireland and I deemed it a success. I was afraid that when the speakers got wet the whole thing would break but that didn’t happen.
I arrived in Carndonagh at about 2 pm (10 km/h average) and found a post office to send off the previous instalments of this journal. It was closed until 2:30. No worries. I went into a supermarket to buy a film (the penguin camera got wet and I wasted the last three photos - hopefully the rest will turn out) but all they had was the tricky new kind of film that Benjie had in his camera.
Carndonagh has an ancient cross of St. Patrick, from the 7th Century. I went and saw it, just outside the Protestant Church! This involved riding down a very steep hill, which I regretted when I had to go back up it. The cross wasn’t that impressive. It was obviously very old, and the sign nearby told me all about the very faded carvings on the front and back of the cross. It was one of those things that I can say I have seen, but I simply wasn’t impressed with it.
It has made me realise that I really didn’t come to Ireland to be a tourist. I am not here to see all the sites that all the tourist guides tell us to see. I am here to meet the people and see the places in the book. I guess you could call it a pilgrimage. The people here can relate to that, I think. At least the Catholic ones can!
Further on from the High Cross was a crossroads and just beyond that was a dairy (I knew this as the lady in the supermarket told me that there was a dairy up this road when I was asking about work, etc) I went in and asked the guy there for work. Surprise, surprise, he didn’t have any work available, but he let me have a look around. He didn’t seem very interested about my two and a half year stint on the dairy in Israel. It wasn’t an impressive dairy. Compared to the type of dairy I am used to (ie. clean and modern and fairly large), this dairy was dirty and old and small. The machines weren’t automatic, and although it was a two sided herringbone structure, there was only one row of machines, which had to be used on both sides. It would have taken some time to milk, I thought, but the guy says he has only 30 cows, so I guess it wouldn’t take that long at all. A woman came out of the house and looked at me suspiciously but I just waved back and left, taking the bike and the backpack with me, of course. I would love to throw that damn pack away.
By this time it was getting very overcast and extra cold. I went back to the post office, sent the letter and rode out of Carndonagh, heading north. I was looking for a farm to pitch my tent (or get a room!). I rode for quite a while. I didn’t want to knock on any door that was close to the town, as I thought that the farmers in the country would be nicer (and have fields to pitch the tent in). I knocked on a few doors, but no one was home, and the other places seemed like townies that had got a house in the country.
After only a short time, I arrived at Malin and went into the town’s grocery shop asking about a B+B. They suggested a woman who would put me up for a bit. I said I would do some odd jobs in exchange for a cheaper price and the women behind the counter seemed to think that that was very good of me. I knocked on the appropriate door, but there was no answer. Instead of going back to the shop, I continued up the road, which wasn’t the main one and found myself on a very steep hill in the middle of farmland very quickly. I guess I should have taken a smaller road out of Carndonagh instead of the main one. It was about 15:40 by this stage (I didn’t leave Carndonagh until 3 pm).
I passed this old white washed small stone house with a thatched roof mostly green with moss, it had a barn in the back that looked much the same. It was quite a postcard looking house. I expected pigs and chickens to run out of the door when I knocked on it, a la Trinity. Instead a little old lady told me to go further up the hill (this road was nothing but hill). She was quite nice and a little deaf. She said that she would let me pitch my tent in her lands, only they weren’t her lands, she merely stayed in that house. I didn’t mind this so much as I wanted someone to take pity on me and offer me a meal and a nice comfortable bed, like the Doherty's did. I knocked on the next farmhouse door and was greeted by a gruff old man.
'Hello, I'm an Australian cycling round the North here, and I was hoping you might have a place I could pitch my tent for the evening?
'Aye, that field o'er there, you'll find a wee gate jus' down the road'.
'Thank you very much, etc. etc.'
I walked away and thought: 'bugger'.
So much for nice farming folk putting me up for the night. I went to the field, through the appropriate gate - which took me about five minutes to open as I couldn’t work the latch - and had a glorious view of sheep field upon sheep field stretching down to the bay that Carndonagh sits on (I think it is called Trawbreaga Bay). It was really an amazing site. They field was facing west, so the setting sun cast a wonderful shade of light onto it. It was sloping gently down for a couple of miles, and I could see the bay twinkling in the dying light. Lough Swilly starts further south. As far as I know, the bay opens out onto the Atlantic Ocean, though I will have to inspect the map further on that.
It was spitting very lightly, but nothing to worry about. I pitched the tent in a sheltered corner between a horse float and the hedge that bordered the road. I could hear the cars very close, but I figured that the more shelter I get from the wind, the better off I am. It was very easy to pitch the tent. The tent pegs went easily into the soil (I hadn’t brought a mallet with me because I thought that this would be the case) and the lack of wind (at that point) made it a pleasure to put up. If only I didn’t have to sleep in it!
To pitch the tent, I took off my raincoat. When I finished, I put the bag in and was sorting out the stuff when I heard some rain drops on the tent. I stood up to put my raincoat on and saw that the swirling mist/rain that I am getting used to was all around. My Kathmandu had gotten wet and that was stupid. Another lesson learnt.
The farmer had come down (I was only about fifty metres from the house) to see if I was alright. I wanted to ask him three things: to put the bike in shelter, to get some water and to buy some food from the house (it was 4 pm and I didn’t want to ride to town and back again).
I approached him and mentioned the weather, he agreed saying it was a silly time of year to be camping out. He then suggested I could sleep in the float if that was drier. I said the tent would be fine but I would put the bike in there. I asked about water and he picked an irrigation hose off the ground and said 'its the same as up at the house, its the same as the house!’ I decided not to ask him about the food.
So, no room, no bed, no bath and no hot dinner.
I was settled and in the tent by 4:30. It was getting too dark to write, so I used the torch (which is really the bike’s front light) to find where I was and where I had been on the map, then I sent a message to Jane on the phone, played snake (with gloves on) and got 144 points. Only one game, though. There is only so much snake you can play. Jane leant me a mobile phone while I was away. As I wrote the other day, just before I left we saw The Blair Witch Project and she was petrified that I would be the victim of some awful criminal, or that I would get very lost, etc. She said that the phone was just for emergencies. However, messages aren’t expensive to send (I hope).
I am learning to do all sorts of things with gloves on. To put up and take down the tent, to tie my shoes, to get dressed and undressed, etc.
I then settled down, in my sleeping bag, for a good walkman session with Jerusalem Arise and then a good prayer session. After half a song, the sound warbled that unmistakable sound of either flat batteries or a chewed tape. I opened the walkman; the tape was fine. No batteries. It was 5 pm, it was dark and I was stuck in a tent until 9 am with no food and no entertainment. And I was cold. Boy, was I cold. I prayed that God would hold the tent, the rain, the sheep and the cold all in their proper places. I tried to pray in tongues but it wasn’t really working. I remarked to myself that it is hard to lead a one-man worship session.
I was wearing my gloves, my beanie, my rugby shirt, the dairy trousers and two pairs of socks (dry socks). My feet were so cold they hurt. Not just a slight hurt, but a painful hurt. I was worried about them. It took me an hour to work up to the energy and courage to get out of my sleeping bag (it was cold outside it) and rub my feet and put another pair of socks on. I can’t say if it made a difference. I wrapped my towel around my feet and finally made it to a decent sleep.
The phone’s alarm went at 9 am and I moved at about 9:20. I got dressed, brushed my teeth, rolled my sleeping bag, put the bike back together (it had to come apart to fit through the side of the float) and took down the tent. It was cold but sunny without the wind. A glorious morning. I was stuffing the tent into its bag when the farmer came for the float (he had told me he would be here at 10 am, and was. I rode back into Malin in search of a laundrette. I have decided not to get changed into the wet clothes again, so am in my other white shirt and dairy trousers. No laundrette in Malin. I bought a loaf of bread, four bananas and went outside to a stretch of grass and ate two bananas and four slices of bread.
At the southern edge of Malin, on the Carndonagh - Malin road, the road goes over an old looking stone bridge. This is the oldest bridge in Ireland that is used as a public roadway. I don’t know when it was built, nor do I remember where I found out this juicy piece of information; it is simply one of those things that we all store up in our memories for use in Trivial Pursuit and writing journals; the Malin Bridge is the oldest public bridge in Ireland. Now we all know.
I rode here into Carndonagh and found a laundrette at 11:15. I deposited the jeans, shirt and the sock bag (with both clean and dirty underwear inside) for £4.50!! I went to a cafe at 11:30 and ordered a 50p instant coffee with the aim to stay there as long as possible. It is now 1:04 and I have spent another £1 on coffee and a scone. The clothes will be ready by 3 pm (I hope) and my plan is to then ride out of here in the direction of Culdaff in search of a (friendly) farm and a place to spend the night. I could have used today to ride up to Malin Head and back, but decided to have today as a day of rest. My unfit little body is still knackered from the exertions of the past few days. I will go now and post the previous five pages and spend the next little while exploring the town and then have another hour or so at another cafe.
Later...
Alright. I am in Carndonagh. I left the cafe and went straight to the post office (so as to get there before lunch). Also, I found the local tourist office. It had nothing except a few posters and a lot of pamphlets. I picked some up, though I haven’t read them yet. The two ladies there, who obviously have other roles weren’t the most forthcoming in information. I asked about jobs in the area and they were as pessimistic as everyone else I have met was. This is not the best time of year for farm work. Very quiet, you know. You should have come in Spring or Summer, you know, etc. etc.
I left there and went wandering, wheeling the bike. Two pubs I passed were closed, which I thought was a bit strange. I came across the Concrake Restaurant. The door was open and two ladies there said the whole no work, Spring/Summer thing. I went out, heading towards the pub across the road when the door opened and one of the women came out and said she would give me a couple of hours work cleaning out a shed in exchange for a meal. I agreed. They took me in, gave me (another) cup of coffee and we talked for about an hour. They kept offering me things to eat, but I said 'no'. I knew that - as hungry as I was - if I had one little biscuit, then I would continue to eat them all and embarrass myself. Nice ladies, very republican! I mentioned my time in Israel and they talked about 'how those Zionists in Israel wee good at grabbing other peoples' land. I ignored this. ‘…they must have learnt it from the British! F_n' Brits', etc.
I told them I would do their work, but I needed a place to pitch my tent before dark and all that. They mentioned a field just down the road and to the right. I went there. The field fronted onto a side road. I found a man on this road, and asked him who owned the field. He told me that I wouldn’t be allowed to sleep there, but he pointed down to the end of the road, where there was a building site. I went down there and pulled out the tent when the same man came and told me they had a storeroom I could stay in, if I wanted to. I agreed. It had a carpet! I dumped my bag and changed my shoes. While I was doing this, he was speaking about his family and how one of his sons had just come back from a time in Australia. He said that after I had finished the afternoon's work, I would be welcome to go up to the house for a shower and a coffee. He was a very nice man. I was also glad that I finally had a chance to use my boots. Up until now, I had an idea to throw them away, as they are fairly heavy in my backpack..
I went back to the restaurant (two minutes ride) and got to work. They wanted me to clean up two garages that had filled up with junk and dirt. One was half filled with peat! It took about one and a half to two hours. About an hour or so into the work, one of the women came out with a phone number. Another woman (Annette Harkin) was able to give me accommodation and work. I rang her and she asked me if I was able to paint! 'Not professionally', I said, 'but I'll give it a go.' I told her that I would be there in about an hour or so, after I finished what I was doing. The two original ladies gave me £5 for my effort. The ladies gave me very clear directions about how to get there. I thanked them and went back to the house with my backpack. I told the man my story and he wasn’t offended in the slightest.
It was very easy to find the Harkin house. It is directly across from the supermarket I went to yesterday. They are a bunch of characters. Annette, Moira, Ferguson (who lives in another house but seems to spend all of his time at this one), another sister and a son of Annette who doesn’t talk much. My job is to paint the outside of the house. It is a big job. The house is two stories, and a long wall runs along the length of the property. It is a big property. There is the main house, another (detached) smaller house, a flat, connected to the main house, but upstairs and (I think) a house out the back. Annette, Moira and the boy live in the house. The sub-house has the other sister. The flat is empty, except for lots and lots of junk. They offered me the flat, but I would rather stay in the spare room inside the house. Although it has no heater, it is closer to the food. The flat has a fireplace! But it is self-contained, and I can imagine either having to buy food or sneak into the house every time I wanted to eat. I spent the evening reading The Irish Times, helping myself to food and writing this. I had a shower. Mmm.
In this house, everyone fends for themselves. I can help myself to food, but should make sure that there are no special plans for any particular item of food in the fridge. I will make sure I take advantage of this. Usually, I am too polite to just help myself to food, even if I have been invited to do so, but this time I think I will overcome that.
I was talking about Trinity, and the ladies remember Leon Uris coming to Donegal with his wife to research the book! Also, I asked what I should do if it rained, since I couldn’t paint in the rain. What else could I do? ‘Nae’, they said, ‘go to the pub for a pint!’ I said that I had heard that the closer you get to Dublin, the better the Guinness gets. That's wrong, according to Ferguson. The pub up the road is the best it gets. I'll try it tomorrow.
I picked up the washing for £4.50; I guess the afternoons work paid for it.
I am in the living room, with the fire and TV. The weather girl says it will be 2ºC tonight and 4ºC tomorrow! And wet. And windy. Bloody hell. I am glad I wont be riding tomorrow. The weather only gets worse, they all say. Silly time of year to come. The farm work is finished. Perhaps I should have come in Spring or Summer...
Yesterday, I woke at 10:15 and had a leisurely breakfast with Iris. She gave me the name and address of some people near Culdaff who own a dairy farm. They go to the same church (Methodist) as the Doherty's and might be able to offer me work, or a place to sleep, she said. It was suggested I make my way there, via Carndonagh and then I could make a day trip up to Malin Head and back.
I packed my bag well and slowly set off. I was wearing the same jeans and shirt as I have been wearing since I came. Once again, I was able to dry them out over the radiator in my bedroom last night.
The stove in the kitchen is a solid fuel stove, made of steel, I think, with the front and sides coated in the enamel paint that old bathtubs are painted with. The stovetop looks to be made of cast iron, quite black and very broad - about a metre wide and long. There are a number of removable plates. The way to get them out is using a key type thing - that hangs above the stove - which fits into a slot at the edge of the plate. To heat the fire up, a plate has to be lifted up, and then wood, coal or any burnable rubbish is put inside. The plates that can be lifted up are thinner than the rest of the stovetop, so here is where pots or kettles are placed. However, the whole top is fairly warm so dinner plates can be kept on the side to keep a meal warm. As far as I could tell, Iris kept the stove hot at all times. There was always a kettle on it and this was usually near boiling. Whenever she wanted a cup of tea - or I, coffee - she could pour the water straight away. The radiators in the bathroom and back entrance (where all the coats and shoes are kept) feed off this stove. The fireplace in the living room heats the radiators in the bedrooms. I think this is really tricky. Maybe this is a fairly common practise, but growing up in Darwin has caused me to be fairly ignorant on all matters regarding fireplaces and heating in general.
I left at about 12:00, rode back down to Quigley’s and took the road up to Carndonagh. This road, according to the map, runs between two sets of hills and follows a river. The map shows contours and seemed to be fairly flat however, I'll admit I didn't study the map too keenly. The road from Quigley’s Point went uphill for 4 km. I was knackered when I finally reached the top - and had about 100m of a downhill slope before another hill came. The stretch from Quigley’s Point was always steep. Sometimes the gradient lessened to the point where it was almost flat, but it never quite got there. There was always some type of upward slope. Unbelievable.
From talking to people like Benjie, I have come to be familiar with some biking terms. An example is the term 'false slope'. This refers to a stretch of road that has a very small uphill gradient. While riding along it, the road seems flat, however after a couple of kilometres of this, the cyclist is knackered because he or she has been going uphill for that long in a fairly high gear. (I guess). Here in Ireland, I have come to realise that there is an opposite term to this, a 'false dip'. This occurs when the mind is so used to riding uphill that even when a downhill slope arrives, it appears to be a hill. Only when the bike continues to roll without pedalling does the mind finally realise that this is indeed a downhill slope. I experienced this yesterday and, to a lesser, extent, today.
Actually, it was Benjie that inspired me to ride around Ireland, instead of walking. Of course, Benjie was Israel's champion road racer for two years running and has represented that country in 'the Worlds' on various occasions. When he told me how much easier riding would be, I should have thought just a tad more about it...
After about seven or eight kilometres, the road levelled out and followed a fast running stream for a quite a few kilometres. This was the most beautiful location I have been in so far, and its scenes like this that are put on postcards. The stream (brook?) wound its way through fields in a very meandering pattern. The water was about one metre below the level of the grass, and the banks were very steep, so a miniature canyon was formed. At various places every hundred or so metres, the walls of the bank were broken down, where sheep have trodden to get a drink.
The grass around the stream and in the fields was a rich green. Any trees around were quite shady, and I could imagine the sheep would shelter under them during a sunny day in summer or (more likely) a rainstorm during any time of year. The streambed was of rocks, and I could see from the road that the water was clear and clean. I was tempted to go and refill my water bottle from it, but I decided against it. On more than one occasion, the stream went under the road. I crossed many old looking stone bridges on my ride today. I actually quite enjoyed the ride today, if it wasn’t for the wind. Sheep were everywhere, I didn’t see any cows until I got nearer to Carndonagh, but they were always in numbers under ten. I didn’t see any herds stretching from here to the other side of the field like I got used to in Israel (except in Israel, they weren’t stretched across a grassy field, but rather cramped in a brown pen).
The beauty of it all is indescribable. Amazing. The whole thing was picture perfect, made better by the weather, no doubt. The forecast was dry, sunny and seven degrees. Dry was correct, sunny was greatly optimistic and seven degrees was probably a bit hopeful. The day was freezing and the wind! The wind in Inishowen (and the rest of the British Isles) comes from the Gulf Stream. It has had the whole journey from the east coast of Canada and Greenland to the shores of Ireland to drop its nice warm temperature and become freezing! It plunges down onto Ireland from the northwest.
The difference is, Inishowen is the northwest corner of the British Isles and as such, the wind is a wee bit cold. Also, riding northward between two sets of hills made me ride into a freezing wind tunnel. Wow. At least it was dry. I took it slowly. I was knackered. Because I was able to set myself up nicely in the morning, I rigged up the walkman in the Kathmandu pocket, the headphone cord running under it and the headphones under the beanie (when it was on), and under the rain coat hood when it was raining. Don’t let the term 'dry' fool you. It did rain - a lot - but it was never heavy and it wasn’t constant. It was the first time that I have used the Walkman since coming to Ireland and I deemed it a success. I was afraid that when the speakers got wet the whole thing would break but that didn’t happen.
I arrived in Carndonagh at about 2 pm (10 km/h average) and found a post office to send off the previous instalments of this journal. It was closed until 2:30. No worries. I went into a supermarket to buy a film (the penguin camera got wet and I wasted the last three photos - hopefully the rest will turn out) but all they had was the tricky new kind of film that Benjie had in his camera.
Carndonagh has an ancient cross of St. Patrick, from the 7th Century. I went and saw it, just outside the Protestant Church! This involved riding down a very steep hill, which I regretted when I had to go back up it. The cross wasn’t that impressive. It was obviously very old, and the sign nearby told me all about the very faded carvings on the front and back of the cross. It was one of those things that I can say I have seen, but I simply wasn’t impressed with it.
It has made me realise that I really didn’t come to Ireland to be a tourist. I am not here to see all the sites that all the tourist guides tell us to see. I am here to meet the people and see the places in the book. I guess you could call it a pilgrimage. The people here can relate to that, I think. At least the Catholic ones can!
Further on from the High Cross was a crossroads and just beyond that was a dairy (I knew this as the lady in the supermarket told me that there was a dairy up this road when I was asking about work, etc) I went in and asked the guy there for work. Surprise, surprise, he didn’t have any work available, but he let me have a look around. He didn’t seem very interested about my two and a half year stint on the dairy in Israel. It wasn’t an impressive dairy. Compared to the type of dairy I am used to (ie. clean and modern and fairly large), this dairy was dirty and old and small. The machines weren’t automatic, and although it was a two sided herringbone structure, there was only one row of machines, which had to be used on both sides. It would have taken some time to milk, I thought, but the guy says he has only 30 cows, so I guess it wouldn’t take that long at all. A woman came out of the house and looked at me suspiciously but I just waved back and left, taking the bike and the backpack with me, of course. I would love to throw that damn pack away.
By this time it was getting very overcast and extra cold. I went back to the post office, sent the letter and rode out of Carndonagh, heading north. I was looking for a farm to pitch my tent (or get a room!). I rode for quite a while. I didn’t want to knock on any door that was close to the town, as I thought that the farmers in the country would be nicer (and have fields to pitch the tent in). I knocked on a few doors, but no one was home, and the other places seemed like townies that had got a house in the country.
After only a short time, I arrived at Malin and went into the town’s grocery shop asking about a B+B. They suggested a woman who would put me up for a bit. I said I would do some odd jobs in exchange for a cheaper price and the women behind the counter seemed to think that that was very good of me. I knocked on the appropriate door, but there was no answer. Instead of going back to the shop, I continued up the road, which wasn’t the main one and found myself on a very steep hill in the middle of farmland very quickly. I guess I should have taken a smaller road out of Carndonagh instead of the main one. It was about 15:40 by this stage (I didn’t leave Carndonagh until 3 pm).
I passed this old white washed small stone house with a thatched roof mostly green with moss, it had a barn in the back that looked much the same. It was quite a postcard looking house. I expected pigs and chickens to run out of the door when I knocked on it, a la Trinity. Instead a little old lady told me to go further up the hill (this road was nothing but hill). She was quite nice and a little deaf. She said that she would let me pitch my tent in her lands, only they weren’t her lands, she merely stayed in that house. I didn’t mind this so much as I wanted someone to take pity on me and offer me a meal and a nice comfortable bed, like the Doherty's did. I knocked on the next farmhouse door and was greeted by a gruff old man.
'Hello, I'm an Australian cycling round the North here, and I was hoping you might have a place I could pitch my tent for the evening?
'Aye, that field o'er there, you'll find a wee gate jus' down the road'.
'Thank you very much, etc. etc.'
I walked away and thought: 'bugger'.
So much for nice farming folk putting me up for the night. I went to the field, through the appropriate gate - which took me about five minutes to open as I couldn’t work the latch - and had a glorious view of sheep field upon sheep field stretching down to the bay that Carndonagh sits on (I think it is called Trawbreaga Bay). It was really an amazing site. They field was facing west, so the setting sun cast a wonderful shade of light onto it. It was sloping gently down for a couple of miles, and I could see the bay twinkling in the dying light. Lough Swilly starts further south. As far as I know, the bay opens out onto the Atlantic Ocean, though I will have to inspect the map further on that.
It was spitting very lightly, but nothing to worry about. I pitched the tent in a sheltered corner between a horse float and the hedge that bordered the road. I could hear the cars very close, but I figured that the more shelter I get from the wind, the better off I am. It was very easy to pitch the tent. The tent pegs went easily into the soil (I hadn’t brought a mallet with me because I thought that this would be the case) and the lack of wind (at that point) made it a pleasure to put up. If only I didn’t have to sleep in it!
To pitch the tent, I took off my raincoat. When I finished, I put the bag in and was sorting out the stuff when I heard some rain drops on the tent. I stood up to put my raincoat on and saw that the swirling mist/rain that I am getting used to was all around. My Kathmandu had gotten wet and that was stupid. Another lesson learnt.
The farmer had come down (I was only about fifty metres from the house) to see if I was alright. I wanted to ask him three things: to put the bike in shelter, to get some water and to buy some food from the house (it was 4 pm and I didn’t want to ride to town and back again).
I approached him and mentioned the weather, he agreed saying it was a silly time of year to be camping out. He then suggested I could sleep in the float if that was drier. I said the tent would be fine but I would put the bike in there. I asked about water and he picked an irrigation hose off the ground and said 'its the same as up at the house, its the same as the house!’ I decided not to ask him about the food.
So, no room, no bed, no bath and no hot dinner.
I was settled and in the tent by 4:30. It was getting too dark to write, so I used the torch (which is really the bike’s front light) to find where I was and where I had been on the map, then I sent a message to Jane on the phone, played snake (with gloves on) and got 144 points. Only one game, though. There is only so much snake you can play. Jane leant me a mobile phone while I was away. As I wrote the other day, just before I left we saw The Blair Witch Project and she was petrified that I would be the victim of some awful criminal, or that I would get very lost, etc. She said that the phone was just for emergencies. However, messages aren’t expensive to send (I hope).
I am learning to do all sorts of things with gloves on. To put up and take down the tent, to tie my shoes, to get dressed and undressed, etc.
I then settled down, in my sleeping bag, for a good walkman session with Jerusalem Arise and then a good prayer session. After half a song, the sound warbled that unmistakable sound of either flat batteries or a chewed tape. I opened the walkman; the tape was fine. No batteries. It was 5 pm, it was dark and I was stuck in a tent until 9 am with no food and no entertainment. And I was cold. Boy, was I cold. I prayed that God would hold the tent, the rain, the sheep and the cold all in their proper places. I tried to pray in tongues but it wasn’t really working. I remarked to myself that it is hard to lead a one-man worship session.
I was wearing my gloves, my beanie, my rugby shirt, the dairy trousers and two pairs of socks (dry socks). My feet were so cold they hurt. Not just a slight hurt, but a painful hurt. I was worried about them. It took me an hour to work up to the energy and courage to get out of my sleeping bag (it was cold outside it) and rub my feet and put another pair of socks on. I can’t say if it made a difference. I wrapped my towel around my feet and finally made it to a decent sleep.
The phone’s alarm went at 9 am and I moved at about 9:20. I got dressed, brushed my teeth, rolled my sleeping bag, put the bike back together (it had to come apart to fit through the side of the float) and took down the tent. It was cold but sunny without the wind. A glorious morning. I was stuffing the tent into its bag when the farmer came for the float (he had told me he would be here at 10 am, and was. I rode back into Malin in search of a laundrette. I have decided not to get changed into the wet clothes again, so am in my other white shirt and dairy trousers. No laundrette in Malin. I bought a loaf of bread, four bananas and went outside to a stretch of grass and ate two bananas and four slices of bread.
At the southern edge of Malin, on the Carndonagh - Malin road, the road goes over an old looking stone bridge. This is the oldest bridge in Ireland that is used as a public roadway. I don’t know when it was built, nor do I remember where I found out this juicy piece of information; it is simply one of those things that we all store up in our memories for use in Trivial Pursuit and writing journals; the Malin Bridge is the oldest public bridge in Ireland. Now we all know.
I rode here into Carndonagh and found a laundrette at 11:15. I deposited the jeans, shirt and the sock bag (with both clean and dirty underwear inside) for £4.50!! I went to a cafe at 11:30 and ordered a 50p instant coffee with the aim to stay there as long as possible. It is now 1:04 and I have spent another £1 on coffee and a scone. The clothes will be ready by 3 pm (I hope) and my plan is to then ride out of here in the direction of Culdaff in search of a (friendly) farm and a place to spend the night. I could have used today to ride up to Malin Head and back, but decided to have today as a day of rest. My unfit little body is still knackered from the exertions of the past few days. I will go now and post the previous five pages and spend the next little while exploring the town and then have another hour or so at another cafe.
Later...
Alright. I am in Carndonagh. I left the cafe and went straight to the post office (so as to get there before lunch). Also, I found the local tourist office. It had nothing except a few posters and a lot of pamphlets. I picked some up, though I haven’t read them yet. The two ladies there, who obviously have other roles weren’t the most forthcoming in information. I asked about jobs in the area and they were as pessimistic as everyone else I have met was. This is not the best time of year for farm work. Very quiet, you know. You should have come in Spring or Summer, you know, etc. etc.
I left there and went wandering, wheeling the bike. Two pubs I passed were closed, which I thought was a bit strange. I came across the Concrake Restaurant. The door was open and two ladies there said the whole no work, Spring/Summer thing. I went out, heading towards the pub across the road when the door opened and one of the women came out and said she would give me a couple of hours work cleaning out a shed in exchange for a meal. I agreed. They took me in, gave me (another) cup of coffee and we talked for about an hour. They kept offering me things to eat, but I said 'no'. I knew that - as hungry as I was - if I had one little biscuit, then I would continue to eat them all and embarrass myself. Nice ladies, very republican! I mentioned my time in Israel and they talked about 'how those Zionists in Israel wee good at grabbing other peoples' land. I ignored this. ‘…they must have learnt it from the British! F_n' Brits', etc.
I told them I would do their work, but I needed a place to pitch my tent before dark and all that. They mentioned a field just down the road and to the right. I went there. The field fronted onto a side road. I found a man on this road, and asked him who owned the field. He told me that I wouldn’t be allowed to sleep there, but he pointed down to the end of the road, where there was a building site. I went down there and pulled out the tent when the same man came and told me they had a storeroom I could stay in, if I wanted to. I agreed. It had a carpet! I dumped my bag and changed my shoes. While I was doing this, he was speaking about his family and how one of his sons had just come back from a time in Australia. He said that after I had finished the afternoon's work, I would be welcome to go up to the house for a shower and a coffee. He was a very nice man. I was also glad that I finally had a chance to use my boots. Up until now, I had an idea to throw them away, as they are fairly heavy in my backpack..
I went back to the restaurant (two minutes ride) and got to work. They wanted me to clean up two garages that had filled up with junk and dirt. One was half filled with peat! It took about one and a half to two hours. About an hour or so into the work, one of the women came out with a phone number. Another woman (Annette Harkin) was able to give me accommodation and work. I rang her and she asked me if I was able to paint! 'Not professionally', I said, 'but I'll give it a go.' I told her that I would be there in about an hour or so, after I finished what I was doing. The two original ladies gave me £5 for my effort. The ladies gave me very clear directions about how to get there. I thanked them and went back to the house with my backpack. I told the man my story and he wasn’t offended in the slightest.
It was very easy to find the Harkin house. It is directly across from the supermarket I went to yesterday. They are a bunch of characters. Annette, Moira, Ferguson (who lives in another house but seems to spend all of his time at this one), another sister and a son of Annette who doesn’t talk much. My job is to paint the outside of the house. It is a big job. The house is two stories, and a long wall runs along the length of the property. It is a big property. There is the main house, another (detached) smaller house, a flat, connected to the main house, but upstairs and (I think) a house out the back. Annette, Moira and the boy live in the house. The sub-house has the other sister. The flat is empty, except for lots and lots of junk. They offered me the flat, but I would rather stay in the spare room inside the house. Although it has no heater, it is closer to the food. The flat has a fireplace! But it is self-contained, and I can imagine either having to buy food or sneak into the house every time I wanted to eat. I spent the evening reading The Irish Times, helping myself to food and writing this. I had a shower. Mmm.
In this house, everyone fends for themselves. I can help myself to food, but should make sure that there are no special plans for any particular item of food in the fridge. I will make sure I take advantage of this. Usually, I am too polite to just help myself to food, even if I have been invited to do so, but this time I think I will overcome that.
I was talking about Trinity, and the ladies remember Leon Uris coming to Donegal with his wife to research the book! Also, I asked what I should do if it rained, since I couldn’t paint in the rain. What else could I do? ‘Nae’, they said, ‘go to the pub for a pint!’ I said that I had heard that the closer you get to Dublin, the better the Guinness gets. That's wrong, according to Ferguson. The pub up the road is the best it gets. I'll try it tomorrow.
I picked up the washing for £4.50; I guess the afternoons work paid for it.
I am in the living room, with the fire and TV. The weather girl says it will be 2ºC tonight and 4ºC tomorrow! And wet. And windy. Bloody hell. I am glad I wont be riding tomorrow. The weather only gets worse, they all say. Silly time of year to come. The farm work is finished. Perhaps I should have come in Spring or Summer...
posted by Bren Carlill @ 9:11 AM
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