 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
| |
|
|
|
|
|
| While bicycle touring in Ireland, on one of our most miserable, soggiest days of cycling ever, we arrived at the Cliffs of Moher. The wind worked itself into a fury, fog obliterated the landscape, cold rain mercilessly pelted exposed flesh. I looked over the Cliffs of Moher viewpoint's railing. There, on a ledge below me, in a raging gale-force bluster, stood a person with an open umbrella. This may well be the last ever sighting of that colourful soul. |
|
|
Book Info
