Europe 2013: Finally On the RoadAugust 12, 2013
Once I got the bike all sorted out at Motofeirme, I headed out. Of course, it's never that easy, and so I didn't actually leave on Saturday until 2 pm. There was a lot of to and fro getting bags in order, packing stuff, dealing with last minute emails and research before the wifi went away, and taking our picture with Barry, the Other Australian. He had just bought a Yamaha Tenere, and was running around doing what I'd done the day before with my bike. Finally, though, I got on the bike, and took my first wobbly steps with the massive load strapped to the back. Martin had recommended that I stay that night at the Black Valley Hostel near Killarney. I looked up their website, and plotted out a route that took me along the coast, away from the main roads. I had vaguely in mind that I wanted to visit Mizen Head, which (as I guessed, and later confirmed) is the southwest-most point in Ireland. The bike was a bit ponderous with its load, but not enough to be problematic. It had, surprisingly, no real bad habits, and once I sorted out how to secure my load I was happily rolling along. The Irish roads, both on that day and subsequent days, proved to be narrow, twisty, and bordered by stone walls or hedges (which apparently contain stone walls at their leafy heart). With the exception of today's run on the motorway, I have simply not been bored or disengaged while riding in Ireland. It's a wonderful change. The roads in the US are very safe, with wide lanes, shallow curves, and generous sightlines. This is arguably good, but it also makes them boring. Boring, boring, boring. It's one of the things that I noticed in New Zealand nearly a decade ago as well: the roads are narrow and twisty and interesting. If you are bored or half asleep, you're going to get in trouble quickly. There's a constant sense of engagement in the process which is utterly lacking in my experience of (mostly West Coast) US driving. I imagine it's also quite tiring when all you want to do is get from point A to point B as efficiently as possible, of course. I aimed the bike generally westward, and set off. I was aiming for Mizen Head first. Quite early on, I decided to turn off the GPS's routing function. I didn't want to be directed where to go, since I didn't have a destination I had to be at. I didn't like the dictation of where to go, and I'd realized riding around Cork and Kinsale that I was keeping my head down, seeing the GPS and the road, rather than keeping my eyes out to the greater world, including the signs that more than adequately described where I needed to go. I kept seeing these breathtaking views, and having to pull off to the side of the road to take a picture. It actually slowed me down pretty considerably at first. You literally can't go over a rise in Ireland without seeing a new beautiful sight. Rolling hills, fields bordered by hedges or low stone walls, beautiful white houses with immaculate yards (seriously, I have not yet seen an Irish house that wasn't either new-looking or actually an old stone ruin). There are fields full of cows, or sheep, or horses. I eventually had to stop stopping for pictures, simply because I needed to make forward progress before it got too late. I stopped in a town called Schull, the name of which I was a touch disappointed by -- on my Michelin map, it's spelled Skull, and I was looking forward to getting a picture of myself with the sign saying Skull on it. Undaunted by Michelin's inability to spell, I got a picture with the sign anyway. One thing that's interesting is that all the signs in Ireland, and I mean all the signs, have both English and Gaelic on them. I'm probably ruining my Scots Gaelic with all this Irish, but it's pretty cool to see. I hope Scotland is doing something similar (although it's clear that Ireland has been doing this for decades). I now know the Irish Gaelic for a variety of traffic signs, and it's fun to sound out the Gaelic for the different town names -- most have both Irish and English, and some have only Irish. Cork, for instance, is Corrcaidh (which sounds out as "COR-key," at least in Scots Gaelic). I finally made it to Mizen Head, after a couple of missed turns (I got really good at finding the next driveway and executing a thing like a U-turn that wasn't actually a U-turn -- the roads are generally too narrow to turn a bike around in; ponder a motorcycle's turning radius, and think about that one for a minute). Unbeknownst to me, Mizen Head is also a signaling station, presumably for ships at sea, so my first sight of it was giant antennas. There was a visitor's center, which was closed by the time I got there at 6. There was also a gigantic ship's propeller, recovered from the wreck of a steam ship that sank nearby in the early 1900s -- 9 tons of brass, with nuts bigger than my fist. I turned myself around, and headed back along the road through Schull (or "an Scoil" in Gaelic), and on towards Killdare. The road I took went over Cara Pass, where it got cold, and beautiful, and twisty-roaded like I hadn't seen before. I was having to take half the corners and switchbacks at 30 km/h (around 20 MPH), they were so tight. This is on N71, which is a national secondary road. I can't imagine how the giant lorries get through that road (although perhaps they just don't drive it). I passed through Killdare, and to Beaufort, where the hostel's website said its address was. This turned out to be one of those postal fallacies. In actual fact, I was at the north end of the Gap of Dunloe, a fantastically beautiful valley with steep slopes, a couple of amazing lakes, and a single-lane, 20-30 km/h road. I had been eyeing gas stations as I went, unsure of exactly what kind of fuel efficiency I was going to get (my first fill-up had come out to 14.1 km/l, or about 200 km on the trip odometer before I needed to start looking for fuel, with 250 as more or less the "falls over dead" point). My trip odometer was just rolling past 220 as I turned toward Beaufort, but the village was quite close to the main road, and only a km or two from the last fuel station I'd passed. By the time I figured out just what I was up against, it was too late to turn back. I even confirmed it, and the GPS said my nearest fuel station was forward. Finally, after what felt like an hour of harrowing, potholed, narrow, dung-covered twisty road, I got to a fork in the road. There was no indication which one was correct. I was frustrated, and tired, and it had been dark before I even started down this road. I was pretty sure that wherever the hostel was, I wasn't going to find it, so I finally decided to just head for the petrol station and figure something out once I'd stopped worrying about the engine dying for the silliest reason ever. Thus, I turned left at the fork, and prepared for another 12 km (according to the readout on the GPS) of narrow, winding road. 200 meters later, the hostel appeared out of the pitch blackness of the valley. Huh. So, I parked and checked myself in.
The hostel turned out to be in the finest tradition of marginal hostels everywhere, and I wound up on a narrow, drooping bunkbed in a room with 10 other gents, the first of whom I met implored me in German to turn the light on if I wanted, when I first walked in. The kitchen was sized for 20 backpackers at once, and was the scene of my first experience with wheaten bread, which resembles pumpernickel, but with a distinctive and delicious flavor largely unlike pumpernickel. I had some slices of Dubliner white cheddar (the medium-priced of the sliced cheeses), and a tomato, and made up my dinner at nearly 11 pm that night.
The following morning, after a sleep noticeably less comfortable than I'd had on my sleeping pad at Motofeirme, I got myself up and planned out my day using the hostel's very slow (but present, and thus invaluable) wifi. I didn't want a long day like the day before, so I set my sights close: Adare, just outside of Limerick. The way out from the hostel, unlike the way in, was stunningly beautiful, and in the daylight, not daunting at all. Unfortunately, when I started the bike at the hostel, the fuel light was blinking, which it had not been on the way in. I suspected that this was because the bike was pointed uphill from the moment it was parked, although I wasn't willing to waste time and gas pointing downhill to find out. I stopped after a switchback or two to check through the user's manual, since I realized that I didn't know what "blinking fuel light" actually meant. Ah, there we go: 3.5 liters of fuel, and if it goes solid, there are 1.5 liters left. Well, that was encouraging, at least. I dialled up the next town (Killorglin), and it was only 23 km away -- less than 2 liters of fuel based on the one data point I had, and the tank likely had at least 3.5. Cutting it close, but it would be feasible. As I rode out the Gap of Dunloe (as I had strongly suspected I would do), I stopped about every five minutes to take another set of pictures. First it was at the head of the valley, then at a lovely set of stone bridges, then again at one lake, and another lake. I also grabbed some shots of the horses and carts which were making their way (generating the dung), laden with tourists, up the narrow road. There were even some animals which were either very wooly goats, or comparatively intelligent-looking sheep which fell prey to the lens.
When I finally got to the gas station in Killorglin, it was to discover that I needed 14 liters of fuel (the tank holds 16). Good timing. Once I was out of the Gap, the order of the day was keeping the revs as low as possible. Turns out the SV650 will in fact roll acceptably at 2000 RPM (which is pretty much idle speed), if you're not too concerned about accelerating. The mileage on that tank was 19 km/l. A subsequent tank was 18. Looks like I can more likely expect in the 17-18 range (which puts me at 272 km with an empty tank). With that, the day resolved into a comparatively unremarkable one (once you've accepted that I'm riding a new motorcycle through a country I've only spent about three days in so far). I made a few random stops off my route from Killorglin to Tralee, Tarbert, and finally to Adare, near Limerick. There I stopped into my first real campground. It was So. Much. Better. than the other places I've slept so far. The Adare Caravan and Camping site, in case you find yourself in Ireland, near Limerick, and want a place to set up your tent. A small facility, with 25 spots for caravans and tents, it was quiet, windy and had lovely, level grass. It was the complete opposite of camping at Motofeirme (although to be fair, Motofeirme is not about providing camping facilities). I set up my tent on the lovely, close-cropped grass (with a liberal sprinkling of clover, as if to say, "Yes, you really are setting up a tent in Ireland, buddy"). I laid out my sleeping pad and sleeping bag. I inflated my little pillow. It was all so lovely, and, so inviting... It was only about 6 pm, but a nap just sounded really nice... I woke up a few hours later, thinking I may not have quite beaten jetlag yet. I have to say, though, other than the first morning waking up at 4 am, I don't feel like I'm suffering from jetlag at all. I really think staying up until 10:30 the first night was the trick. I'm amazed. To think, I'm years older than the last time I tried to beat 8 hours' worth of jetlag (my 2010 trip to Germany, where I felt it for several days). I'm impressed. The real trick, of course, was having something absolutely engaging to work on which helped me work through any tired patches on the first day. I actually think my experience working in theater, where I will occasionally find myself up and doin physical work well after midnight probably helped. As I was doing my busywork (keeping track of daily mileage, drawing out my route on my big Europe map as a conversation piece for after the trip, planning the next day to the extent possible), I realized that I had not gone very far to get to Adare: a mere 174 km. If I roll absolutely every day of the trip (which will definitely not be happening, since I'm stopping with friends starting in Wales), I'd have to travel about 160 km every day to cover the distance I need to go. So, 174 was looking pretty skimpy; I was thinking I should be doing more like 250-350 a day in order to have the leisure to stop a day or two here and there. So, for my next day (today, as I write this), I determined to do much more distance. Ireland had only ever figured as a several-day part of the trip, and at this rate, I was likely to take more than a week. I set my sights a bit more aggressively, and aimed for Sligo (which my German-as-foreign-language brain sounds out as "slee-go," but which is actually pronounced "slai-go"). It involved a stretch of motorway (aka, freeway, aka, superslab), but it seemed like a worthwhile compromise to make more distance. Of course, I discovered that it is, in fact, possible to be bored on Irish roads, but no real surprise there. It rained off and on through today's ride. Fortunately it was mostly dry, but I got my first day of rain on the trip. With any luck, this will be an exception rather than a rule. Even though today was to be a distance day (I keep wanting to write "mileage," which doesn't make as much sense when you're thinking in kilometers), I still found a few cool stops. There was a partially-standing monastery (built in the 13th century); there was a tiny pebble beach on Lough Conn; there was probably more that I'll remember after I review photos. Even despite the superslab and the rain, it was a very pleasant day, although by the time I was approaching Sligo and the campsite on Rosses Point my butt was definitely ready to stop. The Greenlands Caravan and Camping Park is beautifully sited right on the point or Rosses Point, although it is also jam packed full of screaming children, so I'm calling it a mixed result. I am even now sitting in the little common room with a blaring television on the Disney channel and about a dozen kids watching as I sit at the little desk with the rent-a-computers. In fact, I think I've had enough, and it's time to head out and take some more pictures and see the greater area, particularly those parts of it which do not contain screaming children. Return to the Europe 2013 page Created by Ian Johnston. Questions? Please mail me at reaper at obairlann dot net. | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
