Spaisteoireacht-ing Dingle
Beside me sits my thumbed copy of Dervla Murphy's Full Tilt, the published diary of her solo bike trip from Ireland to India in 1965. As well as inspiring ideas for future travels it also reminds me that my own more local bike backing adventure deserves recording, at least for posterity. Around Dingle Peninsula in seven days. This adventure was prompted and suggested by a dear Australian friend who would visit me for a week. It was architected by yours truly. Hearing from another friend that we should 'definitely' visit the Rose of Tralee festival 'for the craic', the idea was set in motion (or should I say 'gear'?!). I set about researching cycling potential in Kerry and, more importantly, bike hire. I got as far as finding the bike rental out fitter (they would also rent panniers--very importantly) and decided to outsource the research of bike routes into more capable hands. Thankfully my cycling fanatic father had many contacts and I soon had two emails in my inbox from a self-proclaimed Kerry cycling enthusiast and complete expert entitled 'chapter one' and 'chapter two'. These detailed the route to take, the towns to stop, the pubs to visit and the time we will have. He was not wrong. We followed these emails to the punctuation points. Perhaps we should have afforded the same careful attention to the weather forecast but as all Irish people know, this is never to be trusted anyway. We were also grateful as these emails were the only things assuring us that we were not 'insane' as many others had kindly pointed out. As a psychiatrists daughter, I don't take kindly to this word.
Reaching Tralee's 'Gas and Nursery supplies' we received our two steeds and spent a proceeding thirty minutes trying to force our ferocious over packing into two panniers. Many bungee cords later we emerged from the shop with our bicycles now resembling silver pack horses. The laughter of the shop owners rung in our ears. It was clear they expected us to return to the shop in a few hours, defeated. Nonetheless, what we lacked in professionalism we made up for in panache and in high spirits we set off along the canal out of Tralee town in glorious sun and without a care in the world. Our stopping point for that evening was the town of Fahamore on the Maharees peninsula. We had been recommended Spillane's pub for food. Arriving as the sun began to go down, it was obvious that food could not be had until tent had been pitched. Upon discovering that a campsite would set us back 22 euro, a defiance set in. This was not acceptable. Signs on every dune warning against wild camping suggested that our quest for a free spot may be difficult. Izel however holds excellent bargaining power and, ringing Spillanes, asked if we could pitch our "tiny" tent "out the back" in exchange for buying a few drinks and a meal each. We thought it was a slim chance but they conceded and we jumped for joy upon hanging up the phone. A small patch of grass with a grey sheltering wall provided camping heaven--the pub locale helped and I was pleased to discover that our new tent pitched in record time. The sun set on our first day of spinning as we discussed the following days tactics over Guinness in the warmth of the pub.
Waking the next morning to gale force winds it was soon clear why some had us labeled as 'quite mad' for our exploits. The kindness of strangers was something to be exploited on this day. A holiday maker who had spotted us struggling to pack under the shelter of the pub's smoking area offered us cups of tea. Gratefully we also leapt upon the offer of breakfast and were soon tucking into tomato and ham omelettes, sipping coffee and chatting like old friends to our host Geraldine, a primary school teacher from Cork. Geraldine saw us off, bellies full, into the grey and still atrociously windy day. Progress was clearly to be slow. When the wind blew hard enough we were pushed backwards on our bicycles. It felt like a game of Snakes and Ladders taken literally. For the next two or three hours we switched between walking and attempting to cycle against the insistent wind. A map that was in my raincoat pocket soon turned into pulp fit for papier-mache. Finally we reached stop A of that days itinerary, the village of Cloghane. Here we found the closest pub and set about hanging our wet gear by the open fire and generally providing guests with amusement at two sopping girls who had just arrived by bike and were determined to camp again that night. As the fire began to warm and dry our clothes, the atmosphere also got warmer and quite soon we were engaged in lively conversation with our English neighbors who introduced us to their tiny pocket toys--a frog called Freddo and a monkey called Mick who reportedly travel everywhere with them.
As the hours ticked by we reluctantly decided that if we were to reach our proposed camping destination that evening, now was the time to go. Sadly declining the offer of "next rounds on me girls" we collected our nearly dry garments from the fireside and headed to our bikes. Politely asking the pub cat to kindly "get off" my bike, we pedaled into a much drier evening. Only a few Kilometers on was the small village of Brandon. Dismissing one abandoned house with pitching potential as 'the stuff of horror films' we decided to investigate further. In the end, our tent was pitched in the garden of a friendly family who spied us setting up in the vacant holiday cottage beside them. Expecting cross fire for our blatant disregard for private property, the friendly fellow patiently explained that it was their cousin's holiday cottage and that we really ought to camp in their land instead. "We're cooking linguine for supper, will you have some?" That night we had hot showers, dinner with the family and the next morning a full Irish breakfast, coffee and a cinnamon roll each. In classic Irish fashion, I learnt that the couples' daughter was someone I knew through university and our parents had met before. It's a small world as they say, but it's an even smaller country.
Day three saw us continuing along to the dramatic edge and the bracken topped cliffs of Brandon Point. From here, the only way was back where we had come the previous day.
And then on. Tonight we would reach Dingle and to do that, cycle the formidable Conors Pass. Once again, the weather was not on our side and the so called 'beautiful' view seen from the pass was obscured completely by thick grey fog. With misty rain spitting in our faces and a road getting slowly narrower, we began the ascent of a steady and monotonous uphill climb. Brains were switched off and calf muscles were turned very much on. At the summit we left our bicycles and began to climb the rocky path which led up from the car park to loftier adventures. We were following the trail of a stream and the scent of a lake. Peddlers lake had become something of a legend for us ever since being told about it in hushed tones by a woman in Spillane's pub on the first evening. This lake was formed from the last ice age, with a little bit of magic involved. The path suddenly stopped climbing and we looked ahead to find that the fog had rendered any distinction between ground and sky completely invisible. Someone had taken a large eraser across the horizon line. Noticing ripples in the mist ahead, our whereabouts were confirmed: It was the end of the earth, we were convinced and the lake of lost souls. Being two lost souls ourselves, we stripped off and went for a dip.
The cycle down the pass and into the fleshpots of Dingle proved risky. A cruel gust of wind could have easily proved strong enough to blow us into the oncoming traffic. Luckily no such cruel gusts did arrive and we whizzed into the town's welcoming cosiness, grateful to be able to see again now out of the grips of Conor's ghostly whiteness. It felt like a test which we had passed- just. That night we pitched our tent at Rainbow Hostel & Camping, this gave us the luxury of a shower and use of a kitchen. Spying on other travelers also taking advantage of the cooking facilities we spotted a young couple huddled over the sink and inspecting long strands of seaweed. They had been on a foraging course that day we discovered, this was 'sea spaghetti' and they would cook it with mussels gathered from the rocks. Securing a sneaky taste later that night and emboldened by their success, we decided that we too could forage and cook our meal. On the Great Blasket island...
The Blasket Island, finally left uninhabited in 1953 (but re inhabited by a ferocious army of midges) has a bounty of old ruined cottages in the former village. These ruins provide optimum sheltered camping spots: a perfect way to breathe new life into skeletons of former houses and histories. Our chosen spot was up a grassy path from the main pier with views onto the rest of the village, soon with other tents popping up. An additional stony pile provided our 'ensuite toilet'. This was glamping. With our tent set up we took to the rocks and pools to find our dinner. Incredibly the black barnacled rocks surrounding the island's pier had an abundance of fresh mussels and long strands of brown sea spaghetti. We also had an aubergine, foraged from Lidl's fruit and veg racks. With only one pot and camping stove we began 'batch cooking': Izel chopping on a nearby rock while I bent over the small flame and prodded at the shell fish.
The end result was cold and coated in a large amount of chilli and garlic powder but hugely edible. I will admit however, if prodded, that the rice pudding tin was the saving grace of the nights meal. On this island we also discovered a new word, in Irish. It is pictured below.
Returning from the island, very bitten, we began to cycle back to Dingle. The next day we must return to Tralee and the journey was long. What transpired was a series of amusingly dumb errors resulting in cycling the same section of road four times. It began when we retraced our steps in order to see the Blasket Island's interpretive centre and returning. At this point, the view was dramatic, the sun high and the sea blue. We wanted a photograph of our bikes. Resting our camera on the gate post of a house, we posed. Soon, the owner of the house emerged, offering to take the photograph for us. A long conversation ensued resulting in a tour of his herb garden, a cup of mint tea and him assuredly pointing out that the date was in fact one day before what we had thought. We had gained a day! The photograph was never taken. With this knowledge and a cup of mint tea in each of our bellies, we cycled back along that same road for the fourth time. We would not return to Dingle that night but continue to explore the rest of Slea head as planned. That night we wild camped on the dunes beside Wine Strand arriving just before sun set. Extricating ourselves from Ian's house had been difficult. He too was a touring cyclist and had cycled around Ireland and through Africa on his beloved bicycle!
Waking to beautiful sunlight at the strand, we both went for a swim and washed our hair in the briny. Our towel had been wet and unusable since day one so we drip dried and then packed up our tent to Gloria Gaynor and Shania Twain urging us forward. Our cycle that day took us away from the coast and into glorious countryside of irregular fields surrounded by stony walls. The Gallarus Oratory, an early Christian church of which frustratingly little is known about outside of the fact that the masons 'were very skilled builders' (shocker) stopped us both in our tracks. After this we began to wonder what other gems were hidden away in these humpty dumpty fields stretching all around us. Random piles of stones began to take on new forms: an old dwelling? a fairy fort? a pre christian pizza oven?
Quite soon the road wound back to the coast and we found ourselves looking down into the narrow creek which St. Brandon had set sail from in 535 AD. As the story goes, seven years later he landed in America. Centuries before Columbus ever sailed the ocean blue. Feeling like we were slightly pressed for time to get all the way to America and back to Tralee by the next day we made do with an icy swim.
Back on our bikes all roads led to Dingle and, on a highly relevant side note, their delicious battered Mars bars. On a boggy river bank between the R559 and Dingle's whiskey Distillery we made our camp, a cheeky stone's throw away from the hostel. Given the proximity we left our beers to chill in the fridge and our phones to charge while we snuck in and used their showers. We left gleefully undetected and spent the night watching the sun set from our front row, free of charge bed.
53 kilometers were sped the next day on our return to Tralee. Longer than any distance covered until that point but significantly easier. For the first time we found the wind on our backs and the roads sloping gloriously downhill for lingering easy stretches. Despite the speed in which we covered ground, we did not reach our starting point until the early evening. Lengthy pit stops had been made at Anascaul, the home of Antarctic explorer Tom Crean and Inch Beach (not a surf beach according to Izel, a true Australian).
Returning our bikes unscratched and our Panniers...scratched.. to the bike hire, we felt a little smug. Insane perhaps but successful in our insanity. Asking the staff in Gas and nursery supplies for advice on where to 'wild camp' in Tralee town and getting none except for a vague "perhaps you could try out the road towards the Aqua dome, that's all I'll say girls".
What we found was a perfect patch of waste ground behind an ugly concrete fence opposite the Aqua dome. This swimming pool was also where we took our showers, enjoying the confused faces of staff when we explained that we were staying "across the road". We emerged feeling like princesses and hopped over the fence to accommodation which no longer, thankfully, suited our appearances.
That night we gate crashed a Rose of Tralee after party with wrist bands provided by a friend. This was the same friend whom I had met seven months earlier in Thailand and had then cycled around the temples of Angkor Wat with in Cambodia. Thank you Adam. Here I saw him for the first time since these days, wearing a Tuxedo and in the role of Rose of Tralee escort. Friends from far places reunited in a much closer place. That night, travelling did not seem such a distant thing. The joys of it had been relocated to home, proving that distance and air miles is not such an essential ingredient in the happy traveller's recipe book.
Reaching Tralee's 'Gas and Nursery supplies' we received our two steeds and spent a proceeding thirty minutes trying to force our ferocious over packing into two panniers. Many bungee cords later we emerged from the shop with our bicycles now resembling silver pack horses. The laughter of the shop owners rung in our ears. It was clear they expected us to return to the shop in a few hours, defeated. Nonetheless, what we lacked in professionalism we made up for in panache and in high spirits we set off along the canal out of Tralee town in glorious sun and without a care in the world. Our stopping point for that evening was the town of Fahamore on the Maharees peninsula. We had been recommended Spillane's pub for food. Arriving as the sun began to go down, it was obvious that food could not be had until tent had been pitched. Upon discovering that a campsite would set us back 22 euro, a defiance set in. This was not acceptable. Signs on every dune warning against wild camping suggested that our quest for a free spot may be difficult. Izel however holds excellent bargaining power and, ringing Spillanes, asked if we could pitch our "tiny" tent "out the back" in exchange for buying a few drinks and a meal each. We thought it was a slim chance but they conceded and we jumped for joy upon hanging up the phone. A small patch of grass with a grey sheltering wall provided camping heaven--the pub locale helped and I was pleased to discover that our new tent pitched in record time. The sun set on our first day of spinning as we discussed the following days tactics over Guinness in the warmth of the pub.
Waking the next morning to gale force winds it was soon clear why some had us labeled as 'quite mad' for our exploits. The kindness of strangers was something to be exploited on this day. A holiday maker who had spotted us struggling to pack under the shelter of the pub's smoking area offered us cups of tea. Gratefully we also leapt upon the offer of breakfast and were soon tucking into tomato and ham omelettes, sipping coffee and chatting like old friends to our host Geraldine, a primary school teacher from Cork. Geraldine saw us off, bellies full, into the grey and still atrociously windy day. Progress was clearly to be slow. When the wind blew hard enough we were pushed backwards on our bicycles. It felt like a game of Snakes and Ladders taken literally. For the next two or three hours we switched between walking and attempting to cycle against the insistent wind. A map that was in my raincoat pocket soon turned into pulp fit for papier-mache. Finally we reached stop A of that days itinerary, the village of Cloghane. Here we found the closest pub and set about hanging our wet gear by the open fire and generally providing guests with amusement at two sopping girls who had just arrived by bike and were determined to camp again that night. As the fire began to warm and dry our clothes, the atmosphere also got warmer and quite soon we were engaged in lively conversation with our English neighbors who introduced us to their tiny pocket toys--a frog called Freddo and a monkey called Mick who reportedly travel everywhere with them.
As the hours ticked by we reluctantly decided that if we were to reach our proposed camping destination that evening, now was the time to go. Sadly declining the offer of "next rounds on me girls" we collected our nearly dry garments from the fireside and headed to our bikes. Politely asking the pub cat to kindly "get off" my bike, we pedaled into a much drier evening. Only a few Kilometers on was the small village of Brandon. Dismissing one abandoned house with pitching potential as 'the stuff of horror films' we decided to investigate further. In the end, our tent was pitched in the garden of a friendly family who spied us setting up in the vacant holiday cottage beside them. Expecting cross fire for our blatant disregard for private property, the friendly fellow patiently explained that it was their cousin's holiday cottage and that we really ought to camp in their land instead. "We're cooking linguine for supper, will you have some?" That night we had hot showers, dinner with the family and the next morning a full Irish breakfast, coffee and a cinnamon roll each. In classic Irish fashion, I learnt that the couples' daughter was someone I knew through university and our parents had met before. It's a small world as they say, but it's an even smaller country.
Day three saw us continuing along to the dramatic edge and the bracken topped cliffs of Brandon Point. From here, the only way was back where we had come the previous day.
The cycle down the pass and into the fleshpots of Dingle proved risky. A cruel gust of wind could have easily proved strong enough to blow us into the oncoming traffic. Luckily no such cruel gusts did arrive and we whizzed into the town's welcoming cosiness, grateful to be able to see again now out of the grips of Conor's ghostly whiteness. It felt like a test which we had passed- just. That night we pitched our tent at Rainbow Hostel & Camping, this gave us the luxury of a shower and use of a kitchen. Spying on other travelers also taking advantage of the cooking facilities we spotted a young couple huddled over the sink and inspecting long strands of seaweed. They had been on a foraging course that day we discovered, this was 'sea spaghetti' and they would cook it with mussels gathered from the rocks. Securing a sneaky taste later that night and emboldened by their success, we decided that we too could forage and cook our meal. On the Great Blasket island...
The Blasket Island, finally left uninhabited in 1953 (but re inhabited by a ferocious army of midges) has a bounty of old ruined cottages in the former village. These ruins provide optimum sheltered camping spots: a perfect way to breathe new life into skeletons of former houses and histories. Our chosen spot was up a grassy path from the main pier with views onto the rest of the village, soon with other tents popping up. An additional stony pile provided our 'ensuite toilet'. This was glamping. With our tent set up we took to the rocks and pools to find our dinner. Incredibly the black barnacled rocks surrounding the island's pier had an abundance of fresh mussels and long strands of brown sea spaghetti. We also had an aubergine, foraged from Lidl's fruit and veg racks. With only one pot and camping stove we began 'batch cooking': Izel chopping on a nearby rock while I bent over the small flame and prodded at the shell fish.
Returning from the island, very bitten, we began to cycle back to Dingle. The next day we must return to Tralee and the journey was long. What transpired was a series of amusingly dumb errors resulting in cycling the same section of road four times. It began when we retraced our steps in order to see the Blasket Island's interpretive centre and returning. At this point, the view was dramatic, the sun high and the sea blue. We wanted a photograph of our bikes. Resting our camera on the gate post of a house, we posed. Soon, the owner of the house emerged, offering to take the photograph for us. A long conversation ensued resulting in a tour of his herb garden, a cup of mint tea and him assuredly pointing out that the date was in fact one day before what we had thought. We had gained a day! The photograph was never taken. With this knowledge and a cup of mint tea in each of our bellies, we cycled back along that same road for the fourth time. We would not return to Dingle that night but continue to explore the rest of Slea head as planned. That night we wild camped on the dunes beside Wine Strand arriving just before sun set. Extricating ourselves from Ian's house had been difficult. He too was a touring cyclist and had cycled around Ireland and through Africa on his beloved bicycle!
Waking to beautiful sunlight at the strand, we both went for a swim and washed our hair in the briny. Our towel had been wet and unusable since day one so we drip dried and then packed up our tent to Gloria Gaynor and Shania Twain urging us forward. Our cycle that day took us away from the coast and into glorious countryside of irregular fields surrounded by stony walls. The Gallarus Oratory, an early Christian church of which frustratingly little is known about outside of the fact that the masons 'were very skilled builders' (shocker) stopped us both in our tracks. After this we began to wonder what other gems were hidden away in these humpty dumpty fields stretching all around us. Random piles of stones began to take on new forms: an old dwelling? a fairy fort? a pre christian pizza oven?
Quite soon the road wound back to the coast and we found ourselves looking down into the narrow creek which St. Brandon had set sail from in 535 AD. As the story goes, seven years later he landed in America. Centuries before Columbus ever sailed the ocean blue. Feeling like we were slightly pressed for time to get all the way to America and back to Tralee by the next day we made do with an icy swim.
53 kilometers were sped the next day on our return to Tralee. Longer than any distance covered until that point but significantly easier. For the first time we found the wind on our backs and the roads sloping gloriously downhill for lingering easy stretches. Despite the speed in which we covered ground, we did not reach our starting point until the early evening. Lengthy pit stops had been made at Anascaul, the home of Antarctic explorer Tom Crean and Inch Beach (not a surf beach according to Izel, a true Australian).
Returning our bikes unscratched and our Panniers...scratched.. to the bike hire, we felt a little smug. Insane perhaps but successful in our insanity. Asking the staff in Gas and nursery supplies for advice on where to 'wild camp' in Tralee town and getting none except for a vague "perhaps you could try out the road towards the Aqua dome, that's all I'll say girls".
What we found was a perfect patch of waste ground behind an ugly concrete fence opposite the Aqua dome. This swimming pool was also where we took our showers, enjoying the confused faces of staff when we explained that we were staying "across the road". We emerged feeling like princesses and hopped over the fence to accommodation which no longer, thankfully, suited our appearances.
That night we gate crashed a Rose of Tralee after party with wrist bands provided by a friend. This was the same friend whom I had met seven months earlier in Thailand and had then cycled around the temples of Angkor Wat with in Cambodia. Thank you Adam. Here I saw him for the first time since these days, wearing a Tuxedo and in the role of Rose of Tralee escort. Friends from far places reunited in a much closer place. That night, travelling did not seem such a distant thing. The joys of it had been relocated to home, proving that distance and air miles is not such an essential ingredient in the happy traveller's recipe book.
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| Our bikes, christened 'Silver blackberry' and 'Space Woman' |
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| Australian and Tipperary Roses? |
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