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Knackers The farmer's tractor roused us in the morning. After breakfast at our rock beach we set off into a brisk headwind. At Autherstown we took the £1 seven minute ferry crossing to East Passage, near Waterford. The ferry saved us forty kilometers of riding by not having to go around to the bridge. This crossing was affectionately known as "from Hook to Crooke." Waterford is world famous for its beautiful crystal. I was more enamored the town had installed an Instant Teller. I was looking forward to eating on this portion of the trip. The Irish pound was almost equivalent to the English pound at $2.35 Canadian per Irish pound. The machine even allowed me to take money using my Mastercard, now that I recollected my PIN number. Brutish little things, when one forgot them. The "hills" proved to be arduous undertakings. Caution signs depicted cars going uphill at nearly 90 degrees. To make matters more challenging, there was a boisterous side wind. Rows of hedges lining the road protected us somewhat, but I skittered sideways every time I passed a farmer's gate where the wind whistled through the opening unobstructed. After slugging away for several hours we reached Tramore--a tourist town and summer haven for school children. Tramore was a resort town: complete with miles of sandy beach, huge camping areas and a monstrous sprawling carnival. I must, however, include a caveat: the beaches were frigid sandblasting expanses when we were there, although the purple-lipped shivering children didn't seem to mind at all. The carnival had virtual reality games, a mini-fair with a roller coaster, an immense indoor waterpark named Splash World, and a manmade lake filled with paddle boats for rent. With difficulty, we found a sheltered spot to eat a sandy salad. For lack of any resting place, we leaned our bikes against one another. I stretched out in the sun and snoozed like an old cat. Two boys, about ten years old, with the usual freckles and fair hair wandered by. They stopped to ask questions while poking and prodding our bikes, eventually toppling them over. I decided to survey them too, so I could put their responses in my postcard back to the kids at school. "What do you guys like to do?" "Oh, on holidays we like to go rock climbing; at home we play soccer," they answered. Their accent and manner of speech were so comical; it was all I could do to keep from bursting out laughing. Evidently, they found the same. They wanted me to say certain words over. "Can you say 'you guys' again?" one asked, explaining, "I really like your American accent." A hot topic with the younger kids at school used to be their favorite food. I asked the boys, "What's your favorite food?" "We like lots of different things," they answered. Not satisfied, I pressed further. One lad disclosed, in his charming Irish accent, "Stew is lovely." And as an afterthought he added, "And lasagna's gorgeous," They described the Ring of Kerry as "brilliant." "We live in Dublin and we're here on holidays." "Do you like living in Dublin?" Sharon asked. "Oh, it's all right. But it has a lot of knackers." "What are 'knackers'?" I asked. "Travelers. But not like you. Smelly ones, with old dirty clothes." "I'll be a knacker tomorrow," I joshed them. For Sharon, leaving Tramore was a back wrenching experience. The road was precipitous and painful. For several more hours of riding we bucked the windy coast, finally cutting inland to avoid the tempest. We crossed wee Tay River. The river looked inviting; but high up on the bridge, we couldn't see a way down to it. We turned onto a side road to see if we could get closer. Four kids caught up to us, cycling home from the corner store. One youngster held his can of 7-Up toward me, "Do you want a drink?" That constantly amazed me about Ireland: Everyone was so darn friendly. They all smiled and waved as we passed. Folks even greeted us first. The kids were courteous too. They always welcomed us with a sprightly "Hi!" We no longer felt like space aliens. In a kilometer we stood on a bridge near the river, but we still couldn't get to the water. The old stone bridge spanned only ten feet above the water, but rock walls and prickly brambles prevented us from even daring to attempt to reach the inviting small green patches alongside the riverbank. I had an urgent need to pee, but for some reason didn't whip it out. Moments later, I heard voices, a hundred feet above on the multi-arched railway bridge. Two voyeuristic adolescent boys giggled like a pair of teenaged school girls. They gaped through a pair of high-powered binoculars, peering at something down river they obviously shouldn't have been. Judging from the excitement registering in their falsetto voices, it must have been Mrs Tweedlebum's curvaceous daughter nude sunbathing. Ah, the passionate summer days of youth. They were still ogling and panting when we rode off in search of overnight accommodation. An abandoned house with broken windows and an overgrown weedy yard presented possibilities. I entered the yard besieged by mobs of bulky house flies. We beat a hasty retreat back to a farmer's field, snuggled between rows of trees. Expansive sunshine lit the field with a fine view of blue Drum mountains to the north. After eating two bowls of chili and pasta shells I took the pot to finish the smidgen of leftovers and set the pot on my pants. To my dismay, a large glob of water-stained soot inconveniently transferred itself onto my green pants from the pot's bottom. I sulked. Sullied by the damn pot. Previously, I had always put a bag under it; but carelessly, this time did not. Sharon wanted to know what the big ta-doo was about, as I generally didn't seem too particular about my appearance. It was true: my trouser legs, rolled up double presenting ridiculous baggy cuffs and two safety pins slashed through belt loops gathered the waist to keep my pants from falling down. I told Sharon that wasn't the point. I felt good when my clothes were clean and I felt like a grub when they showed large smudge marks. Sharon called me a knacker. |
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