Day 20
Another amazing day. Wow. I have had such a variety of experiences today.
Both the senior Alcock’s were eager to start their day early, so I was woken at about 7 am and out the door by 8:30. The weather wasn’t exactly warm, to put it mildly. It started out very cold, with a small bit of ice from last night’s hail lying about the place.
The Alcock’s said goodbye and wished me well. No packed lunches, unfortunately! They pointed me in the direction of Coleraine, since I told them last night of my plan to go through the North in the direction of Dublin. They advised me not to ride into Coleraine, however, as it would take too much time to negotiate the town. There is a loop road around the town, and a big roundabout on the other side. If I followed the road until the roundabout, I could find the correct signs there.
My back wheel is starting to wobble a bit. It has been growing worse over the last couple of rides and has been starting to rub against the brake pad, but today it was bad enough to throw the bike into a wobble. On the road towards Coleraine, I stopped, took off the backpack and tried to correct the tyre. I unhooked the brakes and loosened the quick release nut and did my best to put it a straight position. This is very hard - nae, impossible - to do with gloves on. I reluctantly took the gloves off, but was unable to use my fingers properly, as any feeling I had in them tended to be of the painful variety. Added to this was the fact that adjusting a bike on the side of the road is very difficult. Fixing a tyre is bad enough, but trying to make it accurately straight without the use of the frame-thingy that I have seen in bike shops is impossible. I decided to go onto Coleraine and try to find a bike shop.
Coleraine is quite a nice town. There is nothing to distinguish it from any other town, I guess, but it is the only town I have been to in Ireland. Derry and Dublin are cities, and places like Muff, Carn and even Buncrana seem like communal centres for farms, rather than towns in their own right. Sure, Coleraine is just another town, but it is still very Irish, even if it tries to be as British as it can (Loyalist heartland). I idly rode up one street and then another, looking around, for interest as well as a bike shop. Even though it was still midmorning, the dark tinge to the air that winter gives keeps the lights on. The Christmas decorations are out in force everywhere, and Coleraine was no exception.
I rode past a square where the IRA set off a bomb.
Mary had driven me through Coleraine, both on our ‘tour’ the other day and also to pick me up from the train station both times we had agreed to meet there. On one of those occasions she pointed out this square. We had been having a conversation about Katyusha rocket attacks in Israel, and how (on the first such attack) I had telephoned Mum to let her know that I was OK (she hadn’t heard that there had been an attack). Mary had said that she would love it if her son was like me in that respect, because when the bomb exploded in Coleraine, she had no idea where Alex was. He had changed his plans for the evening without telling her, so she was up ‘half the night’ worrying whether he was one of the victims.
Trying to ride in a town with a backpack as awkward as the one I have is extremely difficult. I found this when I was riding into Derry the other day, but it was worse this morning, as I was turning into and out of fairly small streets. At least in Derry I was on main streets, so traffic was limited by traffic lights. After gliding down an impossibly steep street (which I regretted later on, as I struggled back up), I shot past a bike shop and decided to stop. From the door to the counter, was a narrow path, bounded on both sides by the wheels of new bikes. I still had the backpack on as I tried to wheel the bike towards the counter. It took ages, and the idiot at the counter didn’t bother to help me. I described my problem and he said it was probably something to do with a loose ball bearing, but he doesn't do repairs on Saturdays. He gave the wheel a quick spin and told me not to worry. If I continued riding I wouldn’t do any damage, and to come back next week. ‘Will I make it to Dublin?’ ‘Probably’, was the answer I wasn’t quite looking for. I got out of the shop by walking backward, attempting to wheel the bike backward at the same time. Luckily there was someone at the door, who held it open for me.
I saw a sign to Londonderry and took it (I had to go on that road for a couple of miles until the turn off to Cookstown). As I was leaving Coleraine, the hail started. It was quite heavy, though the hailstones themselves were fairly small. There wasn’t much wind and they were falling almost straight, not quite the horizontal hailing I experienced at the Giant’s Causeway.
I rode along the road for about fifteen minutes, being battered by the bloody hail until I got to the roundabout mentioned by Mary. It was big and had lots of traffic. It took me about five minutes before I got the courage to venture onto it. In the end I had to go all the way around - past five exits - before the sign to Londonderry appeared again. At the start I thought I was heading straight back into Coleraine, but it turned out that this was false. I skirted the town and found myself in the country again.After only a mile or two there was a road and a sign pointing the way to Cookstown and Armagh.
The ride was quite pleasant. Although the road was wide and well kept, there weren’t too many cars. From small tree-lined fields close to the town, the land opened up into broad fields, dotted with sheep sheltering under the occasional tree. The farmhouses tended to be a long way from the road, and there was usually only one or two visible at one time. The further I got inland the colder it got. I was once again sore from the bloody cold. The plus side to this was that the hail from last night and today wasn't melting and the fields were fairly white with ice. It really looked like it had snowed yesterday and last night.
There was also a stretch of ice on the side of the road about a foot across that was quite fun to ride through. This stretch of ice was caused by the cars’ tyres - as the cars went along the road, they would move all the ice out of the path of their tyres. There was a stretch of ice on each side of the road, in the middle of each lane and in the middle of the road.It didn’t take long for that stretch of ice to become a hated object, however. For a while it was fun to ride through - the ice would stick to the tiles and splash up on my raincoat and face - but I stopped doing this when I almost came off the bike when the rear tyre slid about a foot to the right (towards the traffic). What is worse, is that all the cars would obligingly swerve into the middle of road as they passed me. As they did so, their left tyres would cross the ice in the middle of the lane and it would splash up at me. Every single bloody car that passed me would shower me with cold, dirty ice. It wasn’t the fun, gentle splashing that my bike tyres would send up to hit me nicely on the chest or chin, but a bloody great shower that would rain down on my head and side, and trickle down the back of my neck and get inside my hood (when it was on
a wee bit the hail slowed and even stopped for five minutes or so, but then it started again. That bloody hail. Occasionally it would deteriorate into sleet, and then back into hail. Today was never warm enough for simple, sweet, lovely rain. Just sleet and the bloody hail.
After riding for an hour and a half I was knackered, absolutely knackered. I was soaked through to the outside of my Kathmandu, to my legs and feet due to the lousy quality of my ‘waterproofs’ and my feet were hurting from the cold, as per usual. Later, when I took off my shoes and socks, my feet and toes were bright red - not very healthy.
So I was cold, wet and knackered when I entered Garvagh and I wanted a coffee, no matter what the expense.
Garvagh is no more than a widening of the road. Upon entering the town, the road splits and a traffic island separates the two lanes (which are now four lanes). There is an occasional road to the left or the right but all the main shops seem to be on the main street. Like Muff and the rest of them, I think that Garvagh services the farms around it and does no more. I rode slowly up the road, looking for a cafe.I thought (before I came to Ireland) that I would have to be careful what I say politics-wise due to the fact I wouldn’t know if I was talking to a Loyalist or a Nationalist. This isn’t quite so. I entered Garvagh and saw many Union Jacks fluttering proudly against the hail, and the curbs were painted red, white and blue. I rode along and was approaching the end of the town before realising there was no cafes. No worries. I stopped in at the next pub - the fourth and last pub in a stretch of about a quarter of a mile.
The Canning Arms was just another pub, like all the pubs I have seen in the last two weeks, more or less. It was small, dark and smoky. Wooden stools and benches rest on a wooden floor. Middle aged men look ten years older than they are - a worn look etched into their faces, the caps on their heads at a jaunty angle and their eternal pints within easy reach. It is the picture created by Uris which I have visualised every time I have read Trinity and which I have seen in every pub I have been to in rural Ireland.
All of them gave me a curious look when I walked in with the backpack, dripping from head to toe and asking if I can leave the bike outside safely. More than one of them assured me that it would be safe, and beckoned me to sit. I asked if she serves coffee, which earned me a couple of laughs. She said no at first, but one of the patrons said ‘Go on, Mary, give the lad a coffee’. She made me a cup of instant and gave it to me, refusing payment.I got talking to two or three of them, eager to hear what I am doing and why I’m doing it (the last I didn’t answer truthfully, due to the republican nature of Trinity). At the end of the coffee the weather hadn’t improved, so I decide to have a pint. No, I can’t afford it but I don’t care, I was still cold but I could sense some feeling going back into my toes and I didn’t want to face the icy wind again. The pub was warm, and I was having a great time, talking to these guys about my life and about theirs. The youngest was not much older than me, but most of them were in their forties at least.The pint cost £1.85 and I realised halfway through I should be drinking whiskey; it warms me up. The Guinness was cold and, of course, I had begun to shiver again.‘The Famous Ernie Smith’ was talking to me and decided that I should sing an Australian song for the bar. I tried to convince him that I would normally be happy to sing, but not until I had at least three of four pints. I’m not sure that he got this. One of my favourite lines from the movie Michael Collins goes: ‘That’s the trouble with the Irish; they sing at the drop of a hat, but making them talk...’ (I have forgotten what the rest of the line is). He quietened every body in the bar and I found myself singing Waltzing Matilda. It was quite a surreal experience.
The pint was finished at 1:45 and I was about to go when Mary (the bar lady) told me that someone down the bar had bought me a pint. Since it was already half poured, I could hardly say no and I ended up leaving - in dry weather - at 2:30, after singing Advance Australia Fair and receiving a free lighter with ‘Canning Arms, Simply The Best’ written on it.
They had asked me where I was planning to sleep the night. I told them the usual bit about knocking on doors, etc. Mary offered me her place, but said I would have to stay until she went home - about midnight. Sure it was tempting (and I think the men in the pub would have stayed on until closing), but I think that to stay in that pub for another eight hours I would have spent all my money on Guinness and gotten very drunk. And to think - as I write this in warm luxury - I would still be there.
I told them I would ride as far as Swatragh before I started knocking on doors. No, they all said. I don’t want to go to Swatragh. I thought straight away that Swatragh must be a Nationalist town and gave little credence to what they were saying. But they kept on with it. Swatragh is a rough town, they said. Ride straight through and don’t start knocking on doors until I get to the next town.I was a bit wobbly on the bike to start off with. My legs didn’t seem to work properly - not because of the Guinness, but because they had been warm and still in the pub, and were suddenly being forced to work again. I guess that this is where stretching would have come in handy. Julie had kept on telling me how important stretching is and I had never done any of any significance.
The dry weather didn’t last five minutes, of course. The resulting hail degenerated into sleet and then turned into snow! Yes, snow! It was fantastic to ride through the countryside while it was snowing. It was never heavy, and the fields were more green than white, but snow it was and I was quite happy. I rode quite fast so as to get warm.I think I rode about twenty miles today.
At three o'clock I started knocking on doors. I had just passed through Swatragh, but was a long way from the next town. It wasn’t until I had actually knocked on the first door did I remember how severely the patrons of the Canning Arms had warned me not to do this (bloody Guinness!).
The first door was answered by an old woman who looked out through a wire door suspiciously and immediately said no to my plea for a barn to sleep in. She closed the wooden door before I had turned around to leave. I guess the whole thing with the North and strangers knocking on doors before shooting the householder in the face would have added to her suspicion; but I think I look fairly innocent. It didn’t add to my comfort, though.
The second and third doors weren’t answered but I am sure that I saw and heard movement in the third. I was getting worried and ready to ride for another hour when I reached the fourth house that looked like it might give me accommodation. It had a business attached to it. It was a garage, I think. Nobody answered the door, but some men came out from behind the garage and were about to head off when they saw me. I went over to introduce myself and they all marvelled that I would sleep in a barn. ‘Why not a bed?’ they all laughed. One of them, Mickey, said he would take me in for the night.
I put the bike in a van and we drove off. We ended up outside a magnificent big house. It seemed like a mansion! It was off the main road and down more than a couple of lanes.
I put the bike in a shed out the back and went in. The housewife was very hospitable and made me take off my wet things to go in the wash (including the Kathmandu). She showed me my room - luxurious. On the way up the stairs I saw the Virgin Mary and then, a bit further up, Jesus and the Sacred Heart. No worries. Then, a surprise, a painting of Robert Emmet’s trial and a copy of his speech from the dock.
Robert Emmet is pretty much my favourite character in Irish history, along with Michael Collins. While I wouldn’t go as far as saying that the man is my hero, for his passion and love of country, he comes pretty close.Robert Emmet was involved in the failed 1798 United Irishmen movement and uprising, led by Wolfe Tone. He evaded capture, and set about the planning of another uprising. It took five years, before an aborted, tiny uprising (not his fault) took place ahead of schedule. The ultimate failure of his plans lie both in the inability of the Irish to organise anything, and the lying French, who promised battalions to invade Ireland (the second time in five years this promise was made) and didn’t send them. Robert’s brother, Thomas had been sent to France to organise a deal, some sort of alliance with France on behalf of a country that didn’t yet exist.
The uprising that took place was finished in a night, and Emmet was captured shortly after, charged with being an emissary of France, for which he was found guilty and publicly beheaded.Much like they would during the Easter Rising, 103 years later, the residents took little notice of the uprising in their midst. It was only because of Emmet’s incredible speech from the dock that he became famous. I have read the entire speech before, and what is written up on the picture in the hallway is (I think) the last little bit. I will copy it down here.
"I have but one request to ask at my departure from this world - it is the charity of silence! Let no man write my epitaph: for as no man who knows my motives dare now vindicate them, let not prejudice or ignorance asperse them. Let them be repose in obscurity and peace, and my tomb remain uninscribed, until other times, and other men, can do justice to my character; when my country takes her place among the nations of the earth, then, and not till then, let my epitaph be written."
I am in a very republican house.
They fed me soup and bread and offered to have me for two nights (which I accepted). They refused all offers of work. I felt bad about this, but not for long. I am realising what every one has told me about the Irish - that they are a very hospitable people. When Alex first asked me what I wanted from Ireland, I had told him. He answered that all these dreams I had were going to come true and more - and it really is. The Doherty’s in Whitecastle, and the Bradley’s here in Swatragh are just two examples. Sure, Maire and Christoff at Malin Head are another example.
I went to mass at 7 pm with them in a beautiful church just outside Swatragh.
After mass a visitor came and talked a bit. His name was Brendan, and he was interested in me, and what I was doing in Ireland. He was amazed that I took an interest in the Troubles and my views and general knowledge of what has happened. He invited me to a ceremony commemorating a patriot’s death. This 'patriot' was killed a couple of years ago by the UDR (Ulster Defence Regiment - the British Army in Ulster).
When he left I was told that Brendan used to be a ‘POW’.
Mickey and Brendan said that they were going to go to a quiz night at the local Gaelic Football hall and invited me along. One of the local players has had a bad accident and needs surgery and recovery money, so they were doing this for him.Brendan returned to the house about an hour later with another man. After a quick coffee and a couple of chocolate biscuits around the kitchen table, we drove off down more country lanes, until we came to a Gaelic Football pitch and parked in the car park next to a hall.We came second! By one point! And I have to say I knew a couple of answers that the others didn’t including (my proudest moment!) Bono’s real name.
A woman on our team was the widow of a man shot by loyalist paramilitaries. He had just been released from prison at the start of the Troubles and was targeted and killed (I was told this afterwards).
At the end of the evening I was introduced to a number of people and I was able to say what I was doing. Mickey and Brendan are really impressed about my £4 budget and everyone I was introduced to heard about it, as this was how I was introduced. I got into a conversation with a bearded man for about five minutes or so. He kept asking questions about me. About Ireland (and Trinity), but also about Australia, my time in Israel and the rest. When everyone was leaving, just before he walked out the door, he turned to me, shook me hand and gave me £10! God bless him! Wow. I was so shocked I didn’t really thank him properly, I think. I am still shocked.
Because I have budgeted so well in the last couple of days, and also been blessed by the £20 and the £10 I took from the ATM, my absolute maximum of £5.50 per day has increased to £7.70! Fantastic.Tomorrow will be an educational day. If I had a bit more money and was staying in hostels or B+Bs, I wouldn’t have had the chance to be invited to a patriot’s memorial service. There is certainly an advantage to not knowing if and where I will be sleeping each evening.Since I am not riding tomorrow, I hope it snows and hails a lot. However when we walked out of the trivia night, the sky was completely cloudless - the stars looked very bright.
We slid all the way to the car as the water from today’s various weather conditions had frozen into smooth ice.
Both the senior Alcock’s were eager to start their day early, so I was woken at about 7 am and out the door by 8:30. The weather wasn’t exactly warm, to put it mildly. It started out very cold, with a small bit of ice from last night’s hail lying about the place.
The Alcock’s said goodbye and wished me well. No packed lunches, unfortunately! They pointed me in the direction of Coleraine, since I told them last night of my plan to go through the North in the direction of Dublin. They advised me not to ride into Coleraine, however, as it would take too much time to negotiate the town. There is a loop road around the town, and a big roundabout on the other side. If I followed the road until the roundabout, I could find the correct signs there.
My back wheel is starting to wobble a bit. It has been growing worse over the last couple of rides and has been starting to rub against the brake pad, but today it was bad enough to throw the bike into a wobble. On the road towards Coleraine, I stopped, took off the backpack and tried to correct the tyre. I unhooked the brakes and loosened the quick release nut and did my best to put it a straight position. This is very hard - nae, impossible - to do with gloves on. I reluctantly took the gloves off, but was unable to use my fingers properly, as any feeling I had in them tended to be of the painful variety. Added to this was the fact that adjusting a bike on the side of the road is very difficult. Fixing a tyre is bad enough, but trying to make it accurately straight without the use of the frame-thingy that I have seen in bike shops is impossible. I decided to go onto Coleraine and try to find a bike shop.
Coleraine is quite a nice town. There is nothing to distinguish it from any other town, I guess, but it is the only town I have been to in Ireland. Derry and Dublin are cities, and places like Muff, Carn and even Buncrana seem like communal centres for farms, rather than towns in their own right. Sure, Coleraine is just another town, but it is still very Irish, even if it tries to be as British as it can (Loyalist heartland). I idly rode up one street and then another, looking around, for interest as well as a bike shop. Even though it was still midmorning, the dark tinge to the air that winter gives keeps the lights on. The Christmas decorations are out in force everywhere, and Coleraine was no exception.
I rode past a square where the IRA set off a bomb.
Mary had driven me through Coleraine, both on our ‘tour’ the other day and also to pick me up from the train station both times we had agreed to meet there. On one of those occasions she pointed out this square. We had been having a conversation about Katyusha rocket attacks in Israel, and how (on the first such attack) I had telephoned Mum to let her know that I was OK (she hadn’t heard that there had been an attack). Mary had said that she would love it if her son was like me in that respect, because when the bomb exploded in Coleraine, she had no idea where Alex was. He had changed his plans for the evening without telling her, so she was up ‘half the night’ worrying whether he was one of the victims.
Trying to ride in a town with a backpack as awkward as the one I have is extremely difficult. I found this when I was riding into Derry the other day, but it was worse this morning, as I was turning into and out of fairly small streets. At least in Derry I was on main streets, so traffic was limited by traffic lights. After gliding down an impossibly steep street (which I regretted later on, as I struggled back up), I shot past a bike shop and decided to stop. From the door to the counter, was a narrow path, bounded on both sides by the wheels of new bikes. I still had the backpack on as I tried to wheel the bike towards the counter. It took ages, and the idiot at the counter didn’t bother to help me. I described my problem and he said it was probably something to do with a loose ball bearing, but he doesn't do repairs on Saturdays. He gave the wheel a quick spin and told me not to worry. If I continued riding I wouldn’t do any damage, and to come back next week. ‘Will I make it to Dublin?’ ‘Probably’, was the answer I wasn’t quite looking for. I got out of the shop by walking backward, attempting to wheel the bike backward at the same time. Luckily there was someone at the door, who held it open for me.
I saw a sign to Londonderry and took it (I had to go on that road for a couple of miles until the turn off to Cookstown). As I was leaving Coleraine, the hail started. It was quite heavy, though the hailstones themselves were fairly small. There wasn’t much wind and they were falling almost straight, not quite the horizontal hailing I experienced at the Giant’s Causeway.
I rode along the road for about fifteen minutes, being battered by the bloody hail until I got to the roundabout mentioned by Mary. It was big and had lots of traffic. It took me about five minutes before I got the courage to venture onto it. In the end I had to go all the way around - past five exits - before the sign to Londonderry appeared again. At the start I thought I was heading straight back into Coleraine, but it turned out that this was false. I skirted the town and found myself in the country again.After only a mile or two there was a road and a sign pointing the way to Cookstown and Armagh.
The ride was quite pleasant. Although the road was wide and well kept, there weren’t too many cars. From small tree-lined fields close to the town, the land opened up into broad fields, dotted with sheep sheltering under the occasional tree. The farmhouses tended to be a long way from the road, and there was usually only one or two visible at one time. The further I got inland the colder it got. I was once again sore from the bloody cold. The plus side to this was that the hail from last night and today wasn't melting and the fields were fairly white with ice. It really looked like it had snowed yesterday and last night.
There was also a stretch of ice on the side of the road about a foot across that was quite fun to ride through. This stretch of ice was caused by the cars’ tyres - as the cars went along the road, they would move all the ice out of the path of their tyres. There was a stretch of ice on each side of the road, in the middle of each lane and in the middle of the road.It didn’t take long for that stretch of ice to become a hated object, however. For a while it was fun to ride through - the ice would stick to the tiles and splash up on my raincoat and face - but I stopped doing this when I almost came off the bike when the rear tyre slid about a foot to the right (towards the traffic). What is worse, is that all the cars would obligingly swerve into the middle of road as they passed me. As they did so, their left tyres would cross the ice in the middle of the lane and it would splash up at me. Every single bloody car that passed me would shower me with cold, dirty ice. It wasn’t the fun, gentle splashing that my bike tyres would send up to hit me nicely on the chest or chin, but a bloody great shower that would rain down on my head and side, and trickle down the back of my neck and get inside my hood (when it was on
a wee bit the hail slowed and even stopped for five minutes or so, but then it started again. That bloody hail. Occasionally it would deteriorate into sleet, and then back into hail. Today was never warm enough for simple, sweet, lovely rain. Just sleet and the bloody hail.
After riding for an hour and a half I was knackered, absolutely knackered. I was soaked through to the outside of my Kathmandu, to my legs and feet due to the lousy quality of my ‘waterproofs’ and my feet were hurting from the cold, as per usual. Later, when I took off my shoes and socks, my feet and toes were bright red - not very healthy.
So I was cold, wet and knackered when I entered Garvagh and I wanted a coffee, no matter what the expense.
Garvagh is no more than a widening of the road. Upon entering the town, the road splits and a traffic island separates the two lanes (which are now four lanes). There is an occasional road to the left or the right but all the main shops seem to be on the main street. Like Muff and the rest of them, I think that Garvagh services the farms around it and does no more. I rode slowly up the road, looking for a cafe.I thought (before I came to Ireland) that I would have to be careful what I say politics-wise due to the fact I wouldn’t know if I was talking to a Loyalist or a Nationalist. This isn’t quite so. I entered Garvagh and saw many Union Jacks fluttering proudly against the hail, and the curbs were painted red, white and blue. I rode along and was approaching the end of the town before realising there was no cafes. No worries. I stopped in at the next pub - the fourth and last pub in a stretch of about a quarter of a mile.
The Canning Arms was just another pub, like all the pubs I have seen in the last two weeks, more or less. It was small, dark and smoky. Wooden stools and benches rest on a wooden floor. Middle aged men look ten years older than they are - a worn look etched into their faces, the caps on their heads at a jaunty angle and their eternal pints within easy reach. It is the picture created by Uris which I have visualised every time I have read Trinity and which I have seen in every pub I have been to in rural Ireland.
All of them gave me a curious look when I walked in with the backpack, dripping from head to toe and asking if I can leave the bike outside safely. More than one of them assured me that it would be safe, and beckoned me to sit. I asked if she serves coffee, which earned me a couple of laughs. She said no at first, but one of the patrons said ‘Go on, Mary, give the lad a coffee’. She made me a cup of instant and gave it to me, refusing payment.I got talking to two or three of them, eager to hear what I am doing and why I’m doing it (the last I didn’t answer truthfully, due to the republican nature of Trinity). At the end of the coffee the weather hadn’t improved, so I decide to have a pint. No, I can’t afford it but I don’t care, I was still cold but I could sense some feeling going back into my toes and I didn’t want to face the icy wind again. The pub was warm, and I was having a great time, talking to these guys about my life and about theirs. The youngest was not much older than me, but most of them were in their forties at least.The pint cost £1.85 and I realised halfway through I should be drinking whiskey; it warms me up. The Guinness was cold and, of course, I had begun to shiver again.‘The Famous Ernie Smith’ was talking to me and decided that I should sing an Australian song for the bar. I tried to convince him that I would normally be happy to sing, but not until I had at least three of four pints. I’m not sure that he got this. One of my favourite lines from the movie Michael Collins goes: ‘That’s the trouble with the Irish; they sing at the drop of a hat, but making them talk...’ (I have forgotten what the rest of the line is). He quietened every body in the bar and I found myself singing Waltzing Matilda. It was quite a surreal experience.
The pint was finished at 1:45 and I was about to go when Mary (the bar lady) told me that someone down the bar had bought me a pint. Since it was already half poured, I could hardly say no and I ended up leaving - in dry weather - at 2:30, after singing Advance Australia Fair and receiving a free lighter with ‘Canning Arms, Simply The Best’ written on it.
They had asked me where I was planning to sleep the night. I told them the usual bit about knocking on doors, etc. Mary offered me her place, but said I would have to stay until she went home - about midnight. Sure it was tempting (and I think the men in the pub would have stayed on until closing), but I think that to stay in that pub for another eight hours I would have spent all my money on Guinness and gotten very drunk. And to think - as I write this in warm luxury - I would still be there.
I told them I would ride as far as Swatragh before I started knocking on doors. No, they all said. I don’t want to go to Swatragh. I thought straight away that Swatragh must be a Nationalist town and gave little credence to what they were saying. But they kept on with it. Swatragh is a rough town, they said. Ride straight through and don’t start knocking on doors until I get to the next town.I was a bit wobbly on the bike to start off with. My legs didn’t seem to work properly - not because of the Guinness, but because they had been warm and still in the pub, and were suddenly being forced to work again. I guess that this is where stretching would have come in handy. Julie had kept on telling me how important stretching is and I had never done any of any significance.
The dry weather didn’t last five minutes, of course. The resulting hail degenerated into sleet and then turned into snow! Yes, snow! It was fantastic to ride through the countryside while it was snowing. It was never heavy, and the fields were more green than white, but snow it was and I was quite happy. I rode quite fast so as to get warm.I think I rode about twenty miles today.
At three o'clock I started knocking on doors. I had just passed through Swatragh, but was a long way from the next town. It wasn’t until I had actually knocked on the first door did I remember how severely the patrons of the Canning Arms had warned me not to do this (bloody Guinness!).
The first door was answered by an old woman who looked out through a wire door suspiciously and immediately said no to my plea for a barn to sleep in. She closed the wooden door before I had turned around to leave. I guess the whole thing with the North and strangers knocking on doors before shooting the householder in the face would have added to her suspicion; but I think I look fairly innocent. It didn’t add to my comfort, though.
The second and third doors weren’t answered but I am sure that I saw and heard movement in the third. I was getting worried and ready to ride for another hour when I reached the fourth house that looked like it might give me accommodation. It had a business attached to it. It was a garage, I think. Nobody answered the door, but some men came out from behind the garage and were about to head off when they saw me. I went over to introduce myself and they all marvelled that I would sleep in a barn. ‘Why not a bed?’ they all laughed. One of them, Mickey, said he would take me in for the night.
I put the bike in a van and we drove off. We ended up outside a magnificent big house. It seemed like a mansion! It was off the main road and down more than a couple of lanes.
I put the bike in a shed out the back and went in. The housewife was very hospitable and made me take off my wet things to go in the wash (including the Kathmandu). She showed me my room - luxurious. On the way up the stairs I saw the Virgin Mary and then, a bit further up, Jesus and the Sacred Heart. No worries. Then, a surprise, a painting of Robert Emmet’s trial and a copy of his speech from the dock.
Robert Emmet is pretty much my favourite character in Irish history, along with Michael Collins. While I wouldn’t go as far as saying that the man is my hero, for his passion and love of country, he comes pretty close.Robert Emmet was involved in the failed 1798 United Irishmen movement and uprising, led by Wolfe Tone. He evaded capture, and set about the planning of another uprising. It took five years, before an aborted, tiny uprising (not his fault) took place ahead of schedule. The ultimate failure of his plans lie both in the inability of the Irish to organise anything, and the lying French, who promised battalions to invade Ireland (the second time in five years this promise was made) and didn’t send them. Robert’s brother, Thomas had been sent to France to organise a deal, some sort of alliance with France on behalf of a country that didn’t yet exist.
The uprising that took place was finished in a night, and Emmet was captured shortly after, charged with being an emissary of France, for which he was found guilty and publicly beheaded.Much like they would during the Easter Rising, 103 years later, the residents took little notice of the uprising in their midst. It was only because of Emmet’s incredible speech from the dock that he became famous. I have read the entire speech before, and what is written up on the picture in the hallway is (I think) the last little bit. I will copy it down here.
"I have but one request to ask at my departure from this world - it is the charity of silence! Let no man write my epitaph: for as no man who knows my motives dare now vindicate them, let not prejudice or ignorance asperse them. Let them be repose in obscurity and peace, and my tomb remain uninscribed, until other times, and other men, can do justice to my character; when my country takes her place among the nations of the earth, then, and not till then, let my epitaph be written."
I am in a very republican house.
They fed me soup and bread and offered to have me for two nights (which I accepted). They refused all offers of work. I felt bad about this, but not for long. I am realising what every one has told me about the Irish - that they are a very hospitable people. When Alex first asked me what I wanted from Ireland, I had told him. He answered that all these dreams I had were going to come true and more - and it really is. The Doherty’s in Whitecastle, and the Bradley’s here in Swatragh are just two examples. Sure, Maire and Christoff at Malin Head are another example.
I went to mass at 7 pm with them in a beautiful church just outside Swatragh.
After mass a visitor came and talked a bit. His name was Brendan, and he was interested in me, and what I was doing in Ireland. He was amazed that I took an interest in the Troubles and my views and general knowledge of what has happened. He invited me to a ceremony commemorating a patriot’s death. This 'patriot' was killed a couple of years ago by the UDR (Ulster Defence Regiment - the British Army in Ulster).
When he left I was told that Brendan used to be a ‘POW’.
Mickey and Brendan said that they were going to go to a quiz night at the local Gaelic Football hall and invited me along. One of the local players has had a bad accident and needs surgery and recovery money, so they were doing this for him.Brendan returned to the house about an hour later with another man. After a quick coffee and a couple of chocolate biscuits around the kitchen table, we drove off down more country lanes, until we came to a Gaelic Football pitch and parked in the car park next to a hall.We came second! By one point! And I have to say I knew a couple of answers that the others didn’t including (my proudest moment!) Bono’s real name.
A woman on our team was the widow of a man shot by loyalist paramilitaries. He had just been released from prison at the start of the Troubles and was targeted and killed (I was told this afterwards).
At the end of the evening I was introduced to a number of people and I was able to say what I was doing. Mickey and Brendan are really impressed about my £4 budget and everyone I was introduced to heard about it, as this was how I was introduced. I got into a conversation with a bearded man for about five minutes or so. He kept asking questions about me. About Ireland (and Trinity), but also about Australia, my time in Israel and the rest. When everyone was leaving, just before he walked out the door, he turned to me, shook me hand and gave me £10! God bless him! Wow. I was so shocked I didn’t really thank him properly, I think. I am still shocked.
Because I have budgeted so well in the last couple of days, and also been blessed by the £20 and the £10 I took from the ATM, my absolute maximum of £5.50 per day has increased to £7.70! Fantastic.Tomorrow will be an educational day. If I had a bit more money and was staying in hostels or B+Bs, I wouldn’t have had the chance to be invited to a patriot’s memorial service. There is certainly an advantage to not knowing if and where I will be sleeping each evening.Since I am not riding tomorrow, I hope it snows and hails a lot. However when we walked out of the trivia night, the sky was completely cloudless - the stars looked very bright.
We slid all the way to the car as the water from today’s various weather conditions had frozen into smooth ice.
posted by Bren Carlill @ 6:51 AM
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