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Fighting Irish To give Sharon's back a rest, we took the main road to Cork. We still thought it would be flatter and less windy inland. The road proved to be smooth and we delighted in a slight tailwind. We met a young German couple eating a basket of ripe strawberries at a rest stop overlooking the distant ocean. Their bicycles, complete with red Ortliebs, leaned against a rock wall. They planned on taking the train to Cork from Youghal (pronounced Yawl). They were Bed-and-Breakfasting their way around Ireland, supplementing their distances with the odd hop aboard the train. They assured us it was easy to travel on the train with a bike. I recalled our Spain train disaster. A few kilometers out of Youghal, we stopped to get more water at a gas station and noticed the same German couple pedal past. We caught up to them and they told us their plight. The train station in Youghal had closed, a recent victim of cutbacks. That was the train service I remembered. We took the direct main road to Cork to search for a bike shop. We hoped to find a large cluster to replace Sharon's gears. We arrived in the late afternoon and found a bike shop just before it closed. Would wonders never cease?. They stocked a thread-on cluster with a thirty-two tooth large sprocket (made in Italy no less) and a twenty-four tooth Granny wheel. Along with a new chain, we bought the replacements on the spot (at double the price we would have paid at home), and sat down on the sidewalk to install them. By the time we finished we were greasy, hungry and weary. A poor combination. I wanted to settle into camp pronto to eat and crash for the night. On the way out of Cork, Sharon saw a corner store. She insisted I march over and buy something for her to eat right now to assuage her growling tummy. By the time we left Cork we were in foul moods: the traffic, noise and pollution had taken its toll. And I was still hungry. A cramped hilly road twisted towards Kinsale. Partway up a hill, Sharon spied a forest patch at the side of the road and yelled she was turning around to check it out. By the time I turned around after letting a group of cars zoom past I could just see the back of Sharon going around the corner. She looked back and I hollered and pointed to a house, meaning I was going to zip in there and fill our water jugs, that we needed for cooking tonight. Five minutes later, I was on the road downhill to where I had last seen her. She wasn't waiting on the road, so I thought she must be in the forest already. I went along slowly, calling out, "Hello, Sharon." There was no answer. I went about a kilometer down the road. I pulled into a dirt side road and waited. I thought it wasn't possible she went back farther. I figured I must have missed her in the forest. I turned around and rode back up the hill calling out, "Hello, Sharon!" more vigorously. I arrived at the lane I had last seen her without one shred of evidence of where she had gone. Hmmm. There was a town* a couple of kilometers back. Could she have gone back that far? I went back down, this time calling out in a more questionable tone, "Shaaar-on?" An elderly couple walked towards me on the non-existent shoulder. I asked them. "Have you seen another cyclist?" They hadn't seen anyone. Back at the town*, another road branched to Bandon. By now I was worried. Did she say, "I'm turning around to look at a campen' spot"? Or did she say, "We made a wrong turn and I'm going to Bandon"? Hoo boy. The road to Bandon humped over a bridge. I couldn't see to the other side. It wouldn't be like Sharon to wait where I couldn't see her. Vicky, yes. I went back up the narrow forest road, my calling this time laced with expletives; homebound traffic whizzed past my elbow. Nothing. I thought of the Bicyclist's Rule: If separated, go back to the last place you saw the other person. I returned to the roadway where I had picked up water and waited. A car came out of the drive; I asked them if they saw my wife please tell her I am here. I waited. I watched driver's faces as they passed, for some sign they may have seen Sharon. Often, persons pointed in the direction they had seen another cyclist. Nothing. I waited some more. Time passed slowly. I looked at the roadside ditch and wondered if I would be sleeping there tonight. I had the sleeping bag. Sharon had the tent. Terrific.Tomorrow, I decided, I would phone home and tell them when Sharon called I was at such and such a place. I prayed I wouldn't have to make that call; Sharon's mom worried enough as it was already. I considered making another run down the hill, but decided no. They said: If lost: stay in one spot. I stayed. I waited. I was a good rule follower. A car, coming from the opposite direction, stopped. The elderly matron rolled down her window and asked, "Are you cycling with you wife?" Technically I was, but as the woman probably noticed, not at the moment. I answered, "Yes," anyway. "Well, she's waiting for you in the next town. You'd best go and collect her." "She's ahead in the next town?" I asked incredulously. "Yes, she is." "Thank you," I shouted profusely, as they vanished down the hill. I went in the direction the car had come. In two kilometers I came to a small settlement, and thought she must be here. I cycled slowly through the village, but no Sharon. Maybe this community wasn't considered a town. I continued. All the while, I ranted and raved out loud castigating myself for my stupidity of not asking what the name of the town was or where Sharon was waiting. Brother. Sometimes I was so dumb: I even amazed myself. In a couple more kilometers I arrived in Belgooly, another little settlement. I saw picnic tables, a service station, a church and a pub; all good places for Sharon to wait. I still didn't see her. I had pedaled quite a distance. Was she still ahead? Had I missed her back there? Confusion reigned supreme. I asked a woman outside the pub if she had seen another cyclist. No. I asked, "Is this a town?" "No, it's a village," she corrected. "The next town is Kinsale five miles away." I headed on at a fast pace, as I was running out of daylight. I couldn't believe Sharon had trekked so far. I had gone ten kilometers so far. I rounded a bend and saw a small figure approaching. As Sharon neared I asked her, "Are you missing something?" She told me, "I thought you were ahead, so I kept going. I didn't know you went in to beg water, and I thought you had just kept going when I went back to check out the camp spot. I didn't know if you had heard me say I was going back to check it out or not. I rode fast, trying to catch up to you." "What about the rule?" I asked. She bawled, "It didn't work last time at Pico Veleta." She thought of an answer for everything. Our nerves were frazzled; we straddled our bikes on the road edge and screamed at each other. Eventually, we decided to look for camping because it was nearly dark, and tirade at one another later. Sharon thought she had seen a spot in the woods near here. We went back! But the woods turned out to be either too steep, or too thick, to penetrate. One gate posted a sign: No Hunting Land Poisoned. I went in to look for a flat spot, but it was rocky, slanty and squishy mud from the recent rain. We went as far back as Belgooly. At the edge of the village, on a country road, persons were outside on their expansive lawn. Hoping they would offer to let us set up our tent on their lawn, I asked them, "Are there any spots around here where we could set a small tent for the night?" They directed, "Go back down the hill, turn at the pub and ask a farmer there for a pitch." We passed the soccer field on the way to the farmer's and decided it looked as good as anywhere. We squeezed past the locked gate and found a spot next to the rock wall under a large tree with spreading boughs draping to the ground. By now, too done in to fight anymore, we just wanted to eat and go to sleep. And chalk this up as another lesson learned. Sharon told me she asked a carload of guys if they saw me. "Guy with a beard? Yeah, he's back there." Then they spoofed, "But he's in the ditch about fourteen miles back. He's coming, but he might be awhile. He has Demi Moore on his handlebars." Sharon added, "I only believed they'd seen you when they described your beat-up red panniers."
Sunday SailorsIn the morning we rode to Kinsale--together this time. We found some picnic tables looking over the bay and harbor. Sharon started extracting utensils from her panniers while I went off to see if any food stores were open. I asked her to wait there for me. I found a bakery and returned with steaming hot buns, filled with plump black raisins; just out-of-the-oven soda bread; and strawberry-filled jam doughnuts. The sleepy town gradually awakened on the Sunday morning. Tourists and locals alike made their way onto the streets, fuzzy and bleary eyed; the town began to transform, like a mangy dog shaking itself awake after a fitful night's rest. Gaily painted stores and houses lined the waterfront in a psychedelic rainbow of vivid yellows, blues, reds, greens and shocking-pinks. The harbor, too, slowly began to teem with life. Boats, one by one, pulled leisurely away from their moorings. Freshly painted work boats lined the dock, gleaming in their recent coats of cobalt blue, magenta red and sunflower yellow. Suddenly, flaming red triangles began to pour off the dock. The sailboat rental shop had opened. Soon a hundred identical red-sailed dinghies plied the bay in every direction. The novice sailors made a beeline collision course with boats anchored in the harbor. At the last possible moment the neophyte helmsman would pull hard on the tiller, nearly capsizing the skiff in the process, but successfully avoid a catastrophe. The tiny craft would scurry off in a new direction, towards its next object and potential hazard. The boat's captain scuttled about, moving from side to side as he maneuvered--adding to the likelihood of capsizing. I felt sorry for the yachtsmen who had unwittingly chosen outside moorings last night next to the rental shop; each launched craft nearly rammed their dear hull. Amazingly, during the time we watched, not one of the hundred-odd Sunday sailors tipping and wobbling their way from the pier struck one another. Leaving Kinsale, we cyclists chose to cross the bay by way of a more conventional route--the bridge. We encountered steep inclines as we dipped and climbed our way through rolling green hills. A smile lit up Sharon's face. Just re-gearing her bike had made her back feel better. She was much happier now with her new gearing arrangement. So was I. A group of fourteen loaded cyclists plodded their way up a serious slope as Sharon and I shot past in the opposite direction. They were the first large, fully loaded group we had seen since Bikecentennial in the States. Many other cyclists also passed: two more Germans; a lone Italian; a couple on a tandem; and a whole swack of others we didn't get a chance to chat with. Across the inlet we noted the colorful buildings of Courtmacsherry. An elderly painter set his lawn chair alongside the road and busily painted the scene with watercolors. Charlie told me he lived in England near Cornwallis, but he was a Canadian citizen. In 1940, Churchill campaigned to send the children to Canada, to protect them from the ravages of war. Charlie was on the first boat to cross the Atlantic. A German sub torpedoed the second boat. Six-hundred youngsters drowned. No more boats of children were sent over. Charlie relayed the fishing boats in the Cornwallis harbor were flying Canadian flags showing support for Canada in the Spanish trawler dispute. The friendliness of tourists and locals alike in Ireland was a daily pleasure. In Timoleague we relaxed in a park, eating salad and apples for lunch, with a splendid view of the church ruins and graveyard. A service commenced in the graveyard next to the crumbling church. Some long-time resident had died and was being laid to rest. It looked as if the whole town had come out to see him off; the graveyard was packed shoulder to shoulder with mourners. I hadn't seen a Sunday funeral before. Then they were off--to the Irish wake I presumed. Timoleague flaunted lovely bright-colored window flowerpots. A fellow came out of his house wearing nothing but a smile and a pair of skimpy red swim trunks. In his strong Irish burr he stressed, "T'is the best soommer Irelan' 'as 'ad in a loong while. Too 'ot for me though. Last week it was up'ta twenty-three degrees Celsius. T'is so 'oomid. Bad for business. All people wan' ta eat are salads." He paused, then added, "I'm a bootcha'." We climbed a long steep hill out of Castlefreake. We came across five kids playing by a fence. I took a picture of their beaming freckled faces. They told us they were waiting for their mom to take them swimming at the beach later. We descended to the beach. It was jam-packed. Bumper to bumper, cars sprawled on both sides. Maybe those people hadn't gone to the wake after all. Only a slender single lane remained slithering down the middle of the road. We wove our way through, sneaking in and out amongst the maze of vehicles. In a few kilometers, an unobtrusive sign on the road side pointed off to Standing Stones. We detoured to see them. On our way we passed a decrepit stone manor covered with vines. At the stone site there were seventeen upright stones in a circle. No fence barricaded us from them like Stonehenge. The stones weren't as immense as Stonehenge's megaliths, but we could walk right up to them, touch them, and even go inside the circle; no admission fee or crowd of tourists either. I wondered about the wisdom of stone circles in Ireland though. Didn't those things use the sun to determine planting times, when the sun rose in the right spot or something? If I listened carefully I could almost hear their long ago voices echoing in the still afternoon air: "Hey, no sun. Guess we don't plant again this year. Well, boys, break out the Guinness. What is that now? Third year in a row we didn't have to plant?" Origins of the potato famine no doubt. Glandore, situated on a cliffside with many pubs and restaurants, provided verandah seating enabling patrons to gaze over the sparkling harbor and watch sailboats come in. Scads of persons were doing just that, sitting outside in the sweet evening air, quaffing a pint or two of Guinness. We watched an immense fully rigged five sailed wooden vessel off in the distance coming in to harbor. It made all the other boats look like pale imitations of a real sailboat. A couple of kilometers outside Glandore, heading toward Leap, we found a beautiful camp spot above the mud flats on a small peninsula. We were boiling potatoes for supper, when four tykes came along to fish. Three of them were going into Grade IV (equivalent to our Grade III). The littlest one, five years old, assured us he was going to school too. The sliver of water left from the outgoing tide was now in the middle of the mud flats. It was too far to cast to, but that didn't stop the eager young fishermen from trying. Finally, in a tone of exasperation, one boy turned to his chum, "We need a weight... how about your shirt?" "No way," came the immediate reply. "It's new." Tired of fishing they came over to talk with us. "This is a choice spot," one red-haired lad commented. "Are you camping here?" "Um hmm," we nodded. "Thought so," they approved wisely. The littlest guy noticed our stove burning brightly under the pot and cried out, "Hey, they gots a fire!" "Of course," one of the older boys explained nonchalantly. "They have to eat." "Where are you from?" an inquisitive little guy wanted to know. "Canada." "Oh, maple sugar," another articulated. "My aunt went there to visit and she brought me some home. It was brilliant." We asked them, "When do you get up on the holidays?" The three older boys all chimed in unison, "Early!" A true character, the undaunted five-year-old, quick as a wink proudly replied, "Late!" He was the only one we truly believed. "If it rains, do you cycle and get wet?" another wanted to know. "Yeppir," we nodded solemnly. "Oh. Enjoy," he remarked, in that easy Irish wit. They started young in Ireland. The mighty-mites told us if it wasn't raining in the morning they would come back and see us. Neither Sharon nor I commented as we contemplated that prospect. |
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