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Gooseberries During the night a violent thunderstorm applauded overhead and rain pummeled us in rounds. A one-inch remnant of tarp overhung the uphill section of our fly. Soaked rain pants accosted Sharon in the morning, after sponging up water from that corner of the tent all night long. I thought we knew better by now; but in the dark, anything could happen--and usually did.We awakened to the rain forecast by our four tiny weathermen. The sky looked dismal. The wind howled. We packed up and went to eat around the corner of the sandbar in a more sheltered hummock. We looked at the map and saw a forest about thirty kilometers away. Once we departed the point it wasn't as windy. In Skibbereen we stopped for groceries. Other cyclists saw us and came over. Chris and Julie were from Seattle and were touring Ireland for six weeks. They were just going for a spot of afternoon tea and invited us to join them. Chris was a carpenter; Julie a social worker. They traveled a lot, but this was their first trip by bike. They deemed their most memorial travels were to Poland, Vietnam and Asia. They headed for Baltimore to take the ferry to Clear Island. Sharon and I considered taking the ferry over with them. But the short jaunt cost $40 and the island was small, so free camping might be impossible. The map showed only four kilometers of road on the island. I bought a cholesterol overload at the grocery store, stocking up on rashers and large duck eggs. I bought home-preserved jam--right on the shelf alongside the mass produced stuff--with a neatly hand-written label reading: "Gooseberry 95." Might as well support the locals I figured. It had plastic wrap over the mouth of the jar secured with an elastic band. I shook my head--no way would non-sealed products be sold in a large grocery store back home. A sugar-loaded chocolate Swiss roll looked more like a Squish roll when I dug it out of my panniers at the end of the day. But, hey, it packed anywhere. Out of Skibbereen route N71 went on an extended climb. I glowed profusely in the humid air, straining toward the upper reaches of the man-planted forest. This section of road--marked "scenic" on our Michelin map--all I could see were spruce trees. With only five percent of land remaining forested in Ireland maybe a tree was considered scenic. Picnic tables at the summit provided a refuge for a cloud of zealous noseeums. At the end of supper Sharon remarked they had all gone away; I disagreed: I had killed them all. Reinforcements abruptly emerged. We swatted as we hurriedly pitched our tent on a sloping hillside in the forest. I ensured to shove the orange tarp completely under the fly. Once soaked, twice dry was my new motto. |
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