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Ortliebs At the ferry terminal in Fishgard we found out we couldn't take our bikes at the day excursion fare of £11 return, even though there was no extra charge to take bicycles on the ferry. We had to buy a one-way at £22. Why did that make sense to the ferry operators? Sharon must have been feeling homely by the time we left. Two men, on separate occasions in the space of an hour, mistook us for two lads. One fellow asked, "Do either of you lads know how to use the phone?" Ah ha, so we weren't the only ones who experienced difficulties in that department. Another chap queried, "How long have you two lads been on the road?" By that time, I was sure Sharon was thinking: Too long. We left Fishgard at three o'clock and expected to arrive in Rosslare, Ireland three-and-a-half hours later. As we boarded the ferry, a muscular red-haired worker directed us to a wall to lean our bikes against. "You don'na 'ave to lock 'em," he piped. "They'll be aw'right." "I bet you guys just want to ride them around," I kidded. Quick as a flash, he shot back, "Oh no, we don'na do that ana'more. We used to, but we kept fallin' off. And the deck is hard!" He stomped his heavy work boot resoundingly on the ferry's metal deck-plate. I could tell I was going to like the Irish. An old marm in the sitting lounge commented on the state of cleanliness affairs. "This ferry is filthy. Filthy!" she repeated to everyone within earshot. She should see the Italian ones. This was a floating five-star hotel in comparison. Two German cyclists were also on board. They planned on heading to the northwest corner of the island. They flaunted bright red panniers. They bragged Ortliebs were German manufactured and waterproof; perfect for cycling in Ireland. The panniers appeared made of shiny plastic material. On a road with a wide shoulder and a perfect surface we cycled from the ferry terminal towards Wexford. We had forgotten how pleasant it was to ride on a flat road. It harkened back to Canadian prairie days. Before reaching Wexford we took a small side road south. We aimed to camp in a forest. A gate with a round metal bar across a gravel road appeared. Sharon helped hoist my bike over the gate's three-foot high arm. Behind a clump of bushes, pestered by a thick cloud of gnawing noseeums, we donned our mesh bug hats and quickly set up the tent. We abandoned all hopes of cooking supper outside and instead settled for eating cereal and sandwiches inside the safety of our screened abode. The noseeums were the worse we had ever seen--worse even than in the Adirondacks in northeastern New York state. We hoped this didn't indicate what was in store for our Irish visit. Gak! What a welcoming party. Ferocious wee beasties! |
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