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Lady Bantry It rained during the night. Looking out the tent flap in the morning I saw a massive horde of teeny noseeums just waiting for an opportunity to sample my flesh. Several were on the door-netting trying to pry the screen apart with their tiny peckers. I mean those guys were vicious. We decided to make a move. Sharon reasoned if we took too many days off now, we would freeze in cold weather later when we crossed the Alps. Besides, I read if it rained in the morning in Ireland (which it had), it was a guarantee of a sunny afternoon. With military imprecision we broke camp. We made the fatal mistake of waiting until the wind abated before making our move. Even with my fully enclosed bug hat, I still felt like bug bait. We spent several tormenting minutes trying to load our bikes. Then fled the noseeum infested forest. The weather and the scenery proved idyllic for cycling. There were dashing views of Bantry Bay and the seashore. Coasting down to the harbor town of Bantry, we welcomed the water and cooling breeze. From Bantry to Glengariff we passed dozens of southbound touring cyclists. We stopped for cheese sandwiches at a swimming dock and watched dozens more cyclists going the same direction as us. Watching everyone busily pump by, Sharon wisecracked, "We're not knackers, we're slackers." We were eating, while everyone else was pedaling. They didn't know what they were missing. I waved to them as they pedaled by. I saw a bottle of Orange pop floating in the bay. The waves brought it tantalizingly close. When I thought I could reach it, I went down to the bank and standing with one foot on a partially submerged rock, I leaned out with a stick in one hand to pull the bottle into reach. Sharon warned I would fall in. She of little faith. I soon swigged Orange pop. Delicious, but it could have been a tad colder. Just out of Glengariff we pulled into a park. A sign reading: Lady Bantry's Lookout, proved too good a name for Sharon to pass up. She had to follow the path. She jogged the flatter sections and walked the steep slippery parts. The trail emerged atop a hill with a stunning view of surrounding mountains, forests and town of Glengariff. In the distance Sharon could see both Glengariff's harbor and Bantry Bay. Lady Bantry certainly had an extraordinary lookout. Reluctantly, Sharon turned and jogged back down the trail. She said she felt guilty abandoning the bikes and me while indulging her own curiosity. From her satisfied smug look, somehow I doubted her sincerity. From Glengariff we followed route N71, climbing the gradual grade over the Caha mountains. The panoramic ocean views were superb, plus acres of rock, tufts of grass and grazing sheep. I wondered: Why didn't sheep shrink when it rains? We went through a rock tunnel dripping with black cold water. Fortunately, it was a straight through affair and we could see the light at the other end, the opening framing the hills on the other side. Eire was living up to its reputation of being the Emerald Isle. We even saw some infamous green-backed sheep. Their backs spray painted green; consequently blending in well with their surroundings. Camouflage sheep, a new predator resistance concept. The valley was far below us. Houses dotted the landscape. I could see a mountain lake reflecting light in its basin high up on the opposite hillside. A treacherously steep road led to the houses. We began a long descent toward Killabunane and partway down detected a little used track. An abandoned house, constructed entirely of rock, met us at the end of the overgrown path. We set up in the grassy front yard with a commanding view of the valley. The wind died down and the noseeums wound up. I wondered if we had packed them with us this morning. There were millions of the things. I now understood what they meant when they said the bugs in some areas could drive a person stir crazy. Once inside the tent we spent at least an hour squishing the tiny bugs against the tent walls. I couldn't imagine anyone sleeping outdoors without a tent. As it was, Sharon's forehead, neck and skull were full of bites and lumps of various sizes. All were equally itchy. Those parts of her body now matched her battered legs. Scratches from bushes and thorns adorned both legs, as well as swollen red patches marking the past feeding grounds of mosquitoes. There was no life like bike touring. Back to nature. Sharon had started looking enviously at the unmarked legs of the Bed-and-Breakfast cyclists we met, and conceded B&B's were beginning to look rather attractive. Inside the tent, I slept with bug netting over my head. |
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