Day 23
Today is the first day that I have had any real trouble with the bike (beyond a slightly worrying wobble in the back wheel). The wobbling hadn’t lessened when I started out from the Bradley’s at 10 am.
As the road was approaching Cookstown, it turned into a dual carriageway, with a wide shoulder, which was great for a while. I could ride on it, away from the path (and occasionally horn) of passing cars. The trouble was, there were lots and lots of small stones thrown there by the cars, and I ended back on the lane. This seemed to annoy some drivers, but I was in no mood to care. I was usually staring at a spot a metre and a half in front of the bike concentrating on peddling, peddling, peddling. I didn’t stop as often as I usually do, as each time I did, it was that much harder to get back on and continue after each such stop.
I stopped for a rest in a designated parking place that was not far out of Cookstown. I sat on the curb, taking little notice of the truck drivers and other travellers (in cars) giving me stupid looks. I ate all of the food that Margaret prepared for me. The plan was to eat only half of it, but I was so hungry, the whole lot went. While the bike was on its side, I noticed the rear tire had a split on the side, and a bit of the tube was showing - and pushing itself out to create a bulge.
This would not do. I decided I would have to ride into Cookstown and find a cycle shop to buy a new tyre. In my little bag of (cycling) surprises, I have catered for a few breakdowns, but not a blow out.
Thankfully, as I found out as soon as I left the parking area, Cookstown was very close. I rounded one bend, and passed a couple of houses, and another bend led onto the top of the main street - which runs in a straight line for two kilometres - and the tyre blew.
Thank God it happened there. Not only did the tyre blow when I was in a town (where I could easily get a lift to another town if this one didn’t have a bike shop) but it blew when I was in Cookstown, a regional centre and the biggest town between Coleraine and Armagh!
I found a cycle shop about a kilometre down the road. The guy inside was a friendly sort - he let me use his toilet. He didn’t have any semi-slick tyres, so I bought a new slick tyre, which cost £7. He was fitting the tyre (I started to, but my hands were not working properly as they hurt too much form the cold) when I noticed a pair of waterproof, breathable gloves for £20. Yes, I know a lot of money and I didn’t buy a pair like them in England because I thought a similar price cost too much, but my priorities have changed, somewhat.
Today, more than any other day (because the rain was heavier and the temperature colder) my hands were sore from the cold. It almost got to the unbearable stage; they were bright red when I took them out of the gloves, and extremely painful pins-and-needles raced through them. Worse, when I put the gloves back on after each rest, they didn’t become warm or dry - the gloves were soaked through. So I bought the waterproofs.
For the rest of my ride today (only 30 minutes) there was nothing more than light rain - I was almost disappointed. Unfortunately, my hands didn’t warm up in the new gloves as much as I would have liked them to. After a while, they stopped hurting so much, but there was always a noticeable discomfort. I am hoping that when my hands start off warm tomorrow, they will stay like that.
On the way out of Cookstown, I took out £30 from a cash machine, reasoning that my purchases were an emergency and shouldn’t be taken out of my budget.
The day started off well, but dissolved into rain within about 20 minutes. It stayed raining - usually quite heavily - for about an hour and a half, at which point I was looking for a pub.
On the way, I had passed through Maghera (which was only a mile or two from the Bradley’s). This town is supposed to contain a ruined 13th Century church and an 18 foot base of a round tower, which was built to mark the spot of a 6th Century monastery. However, from the main road I didn’t see any hint of these two things, or even a signpost indicating where they were. Because of the rain and my laziness/general state of unfitness, I couldn’t be bothered exploring, so I rode on.
I passed the town and the church where the memorial service to McBride was (Desertmartin) and carried on to Moneymore.
About fifteen minutes before I entered Moneymore the rain stopped. Perhaps this took away my legitimate excuse for entering a pub, but I didn’t much care. Everything I was wearing was wet, my useless waterproofs not working, as usual.
Moneymore is a Loyalist town, built in 1613 by the Draper’s Company of London. I saw a sign to Draperstown, which presumably has much the same history. The only other interesting thing about this town is that it was the first town in Ulster to have had piped water, from 1615.
Towards the end of the town (which consisted of more than just a main street), I found my first pub. This was a bit surprising, but I guess a lot more pubs were hiding in the side streets. I decided to stop at the bar for a Guinness (£1.90). I parked the bike outside and squeezed my way through the door (these doors weren’t made for backpackers!). I asked the bartender if the bike would be safe and he silently pointed to a TV screen; the bike was visible. Sure, everyone tells me in rural Ireland that people are trustworthy, but I still get nervous leaving the bike unattended outside shops and pubs.
Whilst waiting for the Guinness to settle, I asked the barman if he knew anything about the history of the town, and he instantly became visibly suspicious and said he knew a little bit (I think he thought I was inquiring about the Troubles). I mentioned the Draper’s Company and he lightened up, but didn’t add anything to what I already knew.
The pub had a fire! So I took off my sodden gloves (this was before Cookstown) and raincoat and was able to dry off the outside of the Kathmandu whilst sipping my pint.
I sent off yesterday’s entry to this journal (45p) from the post office just a little further down the road from the pub. Almost opposite the pub was a massive building housing an Orange Lodge.
If I wasn’t so physically exhausted by the time I reached Cookstown I would have spent a bit of time there exploring it. It’s quite a pleasant town. The long main street, which is 40m wide, runs fairly north-south, but in a direct line with Slieve Gallion, a 500m+ mountain - now capped with snow - and is a nice view.
The town has been around a fair time (a church was built here in about AD 800) but it got its name from its most recent ‘founder’, Alan Cook, who established it as a town during the time of the plantation.
A church built in the 17th century lies atop a 9th century church, but I didn’t see it. At least I don’t think I saw it. I saw quite a few churches while walking down the road. Some were obviously Catholic and others weren’t, so I am guessing that these were not. I did see, however, the 18th century Catholic Holy Trinity church, which looked fairly impressive from the outside, with suitably old looking gravestones and a nice lawn to match.
When I passed it, I was trudging uphill in the rain pushing a bike with a flat tyre (let’s not forget the backpack on my back) and wasn’t in the mood to explore.
Today was tough going; my leg muscles were really sore from all the walking in Belfast yesterday and the wind was against me all day.
I should add that despite this, when I am listening to a song like Where The Streets Have No Name on my trusty Walkman, with the rain lashing against me so hard that it hurts and my legs pumping in time to the music, with adrenalin coursing through my body - there is rarely a better feeling. The pain goes away, and I ride for mile after mile, until, finally, the song ends, my legs slow down and the pain comes flooding back. That is when I stop for a rest, knackered, again.
I thought that when I left the coast and headed south two things concerning the wind would occur - one is that it would lessen (which it has) and two is that it would blow from the northwest. This second thing is true in theory but I noticed on the weather last night that the wind would be blowing from the southwest at 25 knots, over the whole country. This certainly proved to be correct along the roads I have been travelling on.
The forecast for tomorrow is worse - stronger winds in the same direction with more rain. Never mind, my hands will (hopefully) be dry and warm.
About half an hour south of Cookstown, the time came to be 3 pm and it was time to start knocking on doors. The very first one I knocked on was filled with Australians (the house, not the door) from Adelaide.
They had arrived yesterday and were staying in their uncle/great-uncle’s house. They brought me inside and gave me coffee and biscuits. The father and two daughters (quite good looking!) were travelling around Ireland and Europe on a prolonged trip - I think they are going to be out of Australia for a whole year. They are going to go backpacking in Europe together. I watched some television (Neighbours!) and had a meal with them later on. The father was a very friendly man and we talked about lots of things, including the political situation up here. He knows next to nothing, which is fair enough. He was very impressed with my reason for coming to Ireland, in particular the method of transport. He was born in Ireland (in this here house) but left with his parents when he was about three. His family are Protestant, but he personally doesn’t care about the political differences, and told me he would try to look for Trinity and would read it at the first opportunity.
There is a demountable outside (with a heater) and I was told I could use that to sleep in.
This places makes bagpipes! The demountable I am in is full of wood shavings and the like. I will ask to be shown around tomorrow morning, as I have never seen how a bagpipe is made.
The family name is Warnock and they have a web site, though I don’t know what the address is. I am told that their brand of bagpipes is world famous, and it shouldn’t be too hard to find them on the Internet. The uncle of the father pulled out an electric bagpipe! It consists of an Aluminium box that tucks under the arm, with a stick on a cord that is held in front of the body with touch pads on it. When the switch (on the box) is on, a continuous sound comes out of a speaker on the box. It sounds like a bagpipe. Whenever any of the touch pads on the stick are touched, the sound changes as if the holes on a normal bagpipe were covered. It really does sound realistic. Amazing. Since I am not a bagpipe fan, however, ten minutes of demonstration was more than enough. Way more.
I have to be out of the demountable by 8 am, as that is when the workers arrive! Tomorrow might be a long ride.
Before I forget, again. I have worked out what the star symbol was on the ceiling of the Bogside pub in Derry and again on the flag at the memorial for McBride. I saw it in West Belfast. It was outside a fenced and barbed wired building, with the Irish flag and the Province of Ulster flag with this sign:
IRSP
Our flag is the Starry Plow. Our class is the Working Class. Our enemy is foreign imperialism and native capitalism.
Beside this, one on each side, was ‘Brits out’ and ‘Disband the RUC’.
I don’t think most citizens of West Belfast fully appreciate what ‘foreign imperialism and native capitalism’ is. They do, however, understand ‘Brits out’.
The IRSP is the Irish Republican Socialist Party. It is much smaller than Sinn Fein, and was not part of the peace process until its late stages. It is linked to the Irish National Liberation Army (INLA) in much the same way that the IRA is linked with Sinn Fein. The INLA didn’t call a cease-fire until the last half of 1998, which is why the IRSP was kept out of the ‘all-party’ talks until then. Interestingly, it was the INLA who murdered that guy in Maze Prison on my birthday in 1997. I have completely forgotten his name, but I do know it started a couple of tit-for-tat murders that threatened to wreck the peace process. Damn … what was his name?
A little further down the street I saw another sign, in big neat yellow lettering on a dark blue background. A lot of work was put into the sign, I think (but then, lots of work have been put into all the wall murals I have seen). The sign read: ‘Disband the RUC’. There were two cold and nervous looking RUC men standing underneath. I hope they were being paid well.
As the road was approaching Cookstown, it turned into a dual carriageway, with a wide shoulder, which was great for a while. I could ride on it, away from the path (and occasionally horn) of passing cars. The trouble was, there were lots and lots of small stones thrown there by the cars, and I ended back on the lane. This seemed to annoy some drivers, but I was in no mood to care. I was usually staring at a spot a metre and a half in front of the bike concentrating on peddling, peddling, peddling. I didn’t stop as often as I usually do, as each time I did, it was that much harder to get back on and continue after each such stop.
I stopped for a rest in a designated parking place that was not far out of Cookstown. I sat on the curb, taking little notice of the truck drivers and other travellers (in cars) giving me stupid looks. I ate all of the food that Margaret prepared for me. The plan was to eat only half of it, but I was so hungry, the whole lot went. While the bike was on its side, I noticed the rear tire had a split on the side, and a bit of the tube was showing - and pushing itself out to create a bulge.
This would not do. I decided I would have to ride into Cookstown and find a cycle shop to buy a new tyre. In my little bag of (cycling) surprises, I have catered for a few breakdowns, but not a blow out.
Thankfully, as I found out as soon as I left the parking area, Cookstown was very close. I rounded one bend, and passed a couple of houses, and another bend led onto the top of the main street - which runs in a straight line for two kilometres - and the tyre blew.
Thank God it happened there. Not only did the tyre blow when I was in a town (where I could easily get a lift to another town if this one didn’t have a bike shop) but it blew when I was in Cookstown, a regional centre and the biggest town between Coleraine and Armagh!
I found a cycle shop about a kilometre down the road. The guy inside was a friendly sort - he let me use his toilet. He didn’t have any semi-slick tyres, so I bought a new slick tyre, which cost £7. He was fitting the tyre (I started to, but my hands were not working properly as they hurt too much form the cold) when I noticed a pair of waterproof, breathable gloves for £20. Yes, I know a lot of money and I didn’t buy a pair like them in England because I thought a similar price cost too much, but my priorities have changed, somewhat.
Today, more than any other day (because the rain was heavier and the temperature colder) my hands were sore from the cold. It almost got to the unbearable stage; they were bright red when I took them out of the gloves, and extremely painful pins-and-needles raced through them. Worse, when I put the gloves back on after each rest, they didn’t become warm or dry - the gloves were soaked through. So I bought the waterproofs.
For the rest of my ride today (only 30 minutes) there was nothing more than light rain - I was almost disappointed. Unfortunately, my hands didn’t warm up in the new gloves as much as I would have liked them to. After a while, they stopped hurting so much, but there was always a noticeable discomfort. I am hoping that when my hands start off warm tomorrow, they will stay like that.
On the way out of Cookstown, I took out £30 from a cash machine, reasoning that my purchases were an emergency and shouldn’t be taken out of my budget.
The day started off well, but dissolved into rain within about 20 minutes. It stayed raining - usually quite heavily - for about an hour and a half, at which point I was looking for a pub.
On the way, I had passed through Maghera (which was only a mile or two from the Bradley’s). This town is supposed to contain a ruined 13th Century church and an 18 foot base of a round tower, which was built to mark the spot of a 6th Century monastery. However, from the main road I didn’t see any hint of these two things, or even a signpost indicating where they were. Because of the rain and my laziness/general state of unfitness, I couldn’t be bothered exploring, so I rode on.
I passed the town and the church where the memorial service to McBride was (Desertmartin) and carried on to Moneymore.
About fifteen minutes before I entered Moneymore the rain stopped. Perhaps this took away my legitimate excuse for entering a pub, but I didn’t much care. Everything I was wearing was wet, my useless waterproofs not working, as usual.
Moneymore is a Loyalist town, built in 1613 by the Draper’s Company of London. I saw a sign to Draperstown, which presumably has much the same history. The only other interesting thing about this town is that it was the first town in Ulster to have had piped water, from 1615.
Towards the end of the town (which consisted of more than just a main street), I found my first pub. This was a bit surprising, but I guess a lot more pubs were hiding in the side streets. I decided to stop at the bar for a Guinness (£1.90). I parked the bike outside and squeezed my way through the door (these doors weren’t made for backpackers!). I asked the bartender if the bike would be safe and he silently pointed to a TV screen; the bike was visible. Sure, everyone tells me in rural Ireland that people are trustworthy, but I still get nervous leaving the bike unattended outside shops and pubs.
Whilst waiting for the Guinness to settle, I asked the barman if he knew anything about the history of the town, and he instantly became visibly suspicious and said he knew a little bit (I think he thought I was inquiring about the Troubles). I mentioned the Draper’s Company and he lightened up, but didn’t add anything to what I already knew.
The pub had a fire! So I took off my sodden gloves (this was before Cookstown) and raincoat and was able to dry off the outside of the Kathmandu whilst sipping my pint.
I sent off yesterday’s entry to this journal (45p) from the post office just a little further down the road from the pub. Almost opposite the pub was a massive building housing an Orange Lodge.
If I wasn’t so physically exhausted by the time I reached Cookstown I would have spent a bit of time there exploring it. It’s quite a pleasant town. The long main street, which is 40m wide, runs fairly north-south, but in a direct line with Slieve Gallion, a 500m+ mountain - now capped with snow - and is a nice view.
The town has been around a fair time (a church was built here in about AD 800) but it got its name from its most recent ‘founder’, Alan Cook, who established it as a town during the time of the plantation.
A church built in the 17th century lies atop a 9th century church, but I didn’t see it. At least I don’t think I saw it. I saw quite a few churches while walking down the road. Some were obviously Catholic and others weren’t, so I am guessing that these were not. I did see, however, the 18th century Catholic Holy Trinity church, which looked fairly impressive from the outside, with suitably old looking gravestones and a nice lawn to match.
When I passed it, I was trudging uphill in the rain pushing a bike with a flat tyre (let’s not forget the backpack on my back) and wasn’t in the mood to explore.
Today was tough going; my leg muscles were really sore from all the walking in Belfast yesterday and the wind was against me all day.
I should add that despite this, when I am listening to a song like Where The Streets Have No Name on my trusty Walkman, with the rain lashing against me so hard that it hurts and my legs pumping in time to the music, with adrenalin coursing through my body - there is rarely a better feeling. The pain goes away, and I ride for mile after mile, until, finally, the song ends, my legs slow down and the pain comes flooding back. That is when I stop for a rest, knackered, again.
I thought that when I left the coast and headed south two things concerning the wind would occur - one is that it would lessen (which it has) and two is that it would blow from the northwest. This second thing is true in theory but I noticed on the weather last night that the wind would be blowing from the southwest at 25 knots, over the whole country. This certainly proved to be correct along the roads I have been travelling on.
The forecast for tomorrow is worse - stronger winds in the same direction with more rain. Never mind, my hands will (hopefully) be dry and warm.
About half an hour south of Cookstown, the time came to be 3 pm and it was time to start knocking on doors. The very first one I knocked on was filled with Australians (the house, not the door) from Adelaide.
They had arrived yesterday and were staying in their uncle/great-uncle’s house. They brought me inside and gave me coffee and biscuits. The father and two daughters (quite good looking!) were travelling around Ireland and Europe on a prolonged trip - I think they are going to be out of Australia for a whole year. They are going to go backpacking in Europe together. I watched some television (Neighbours!) and had a meal with them later on. The father was a very friendly man and we talked about lots of things, including the political situation up here. He knows next to nothing, which is fair enough. He was very impressed with my reason for coming to Ireland, in particular the method of transport. He was born in Ireland (in this here house) but left with his parents when he was about three. His family are Protestant, but he personally doesn’t care about the political differences, and told me he would try to look for Trinity and would read it at the first opportunity.
There is a demountable outside (with a heater) and I was told I could use that to sleep in.
This places makes bagpipes! The demountable I am in is full of wood shavings and the like. I will ask to be shown around tomorrow morning, as I have never seen how a bagpipe is made.
The family name is Warnock and they have a web site, though I don’t know what the address is. I am told that their brand of bagpipes is world famous, and it shouldn’t be too hard to find them on the Internet. The uncle of the father pulled out an electric bagpipe! It consists of an Aluminium box that tucks under the arm, with a stick on a cord that is held in front of the body with touch pads on it. When the switch (on the box) is on, a continuous sound comes out of a speaker on the box. It sounds like a bagpipe. Whenever any of the touch pads on the stick are touched, the sound changes as if the holes on a normal bagpipe were covered. It really does sound realistic. Amazing. Since I am not a bagpipe fan, however, ten minutes of demonstration was more than enough. Way more.
I have to be out of the demountable by 8 am, as that is when the workers arrive! Tomorrow might be a long ride.
Before I forget, again. I have worked out what the star symbol was on the ceiling of the Bogside pub in Derry and again on the flag at the memorial for McBride. I saw it in West Belfast. It was outside a fenced and barbed wired building, with the Irish flag and the Province of Ulster flag with this sign:
IRSP
Our flag is the Starry Plow. Our class is the Working Class. Our enemy is foreign imperialism and native capitalism.
Beside this, one on each side, was ‘Brits out’ and ‘Disband the RUC’.
I don’t think most citizens of West Belfast fully appreciate what ‘foreign imperialism and native capitalism’ is. They do, however, understand ‘Brits out’.
The IRSP is the Irish Republican Socialist Party. It is much smaller than Sinn Fein, and was not part of the peace process until its late stages. It is linked to the Irish National Liberation Army (INLA) in much the same way that the IRA is linked with Sinn Fein. The INLA didn’t call a cease-fire until the last half of 1998, which is why the IRSP was kept out of the ‘all-party’ talks until then. Interestingly, it was the INLA who murdered that guy in Maze Prison on my birthday in 1997. I have completely forgotten his name, but I do know it started a couple of tit-for-tat murders that threatened to wreck the peace process. Damn … what was his name?
A little further down the street I saw another sign, in big neat yellow lettering on a dark blue background. A lot of work was put into the sign, I think (but then, lots of work have been put into all the wall murals I have seen). The sign read: ‘Disband the RUC’. There were two cold and nervous looking RUC men standing underneath. I hope they were being paid well.
posted by Bren Carlill @ 6:54 AM
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