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Slea Head "Hole, right. Hole, left. Hole, centre," I called back to Sharon as we stumbled along the potholed road. Ireland, reputed to have the most roads per capita, didn't maintain them so well. I felt as if I were riding the lunar vehicle, bucking along a simulated moonscape with all those craters in the road. We were underway by seven--an early start for us. We passed through Inch (they hadn't gone metric yet) and continued along the coast to Dingle. As we stopped to use the public washrooms in Dingle the monster tour buses began to arrive in town, disgorging their contents. The quiet deserted streets began to fill with tourists. We headed out on Slea Head Drive. The Drive provided great views of the translucent bay and scrubby islands off the tip of the peninsula. There was far less traffic over this one-lane mountain road than the Ring of Kerry. Only one bus passed us on the outer perimeter of the peninsula--a group of French tourists musically shouting "Bon Jour!" and applauding. Completing the loop, back in Dingle there were multitudes of backpackers, cyclists and tourists congesting the streets. We picked up supplies for egg salad sandwiches and got out of Dingle. We headed for Conors Pass. Partway up, at a good vantage spot, we stopped for lunch (our lunch was at two o'clock). Naturally, as we settled down to eat, liquid sunshine replaced clear skies. Undeterred, we pulled the tent fly over our heads, fashioned in a huge umbrella, and continued our egg-salad picnic. Eventually, the rain subsided and we reemerged to complete Conors Pass. At the peak, our long climb rewarded us with awesome views: Picturesque Dingle harbor glistened on one side of the divide; lakes, Trallee Bay and the gray North Atlantic on the other. My hands became numb from braking all the way down. The road, sprinkled with liberal quantities of ball-bearing gravel, was bendy and narrow with deep potholes. The little mason guardrail would have served only to cut me off at the knees before launching me, like a dead albatross, into the abyss. At the bottom of the pass I got a flat. Flat number? I had lost count. Sharon changed it while I walked to a nearby house for water. In a few minutes I returned with water and an apple each as a gift from the woman at the house. On the evening of July 15, we tried to make some miles. In the cold air we felt we must hurry if we were to cover the Irish countryside before snowfall. At dusk we searched for a river. The constant lack of showers wore on Sharon and she told me she had to have water tonight. I desperately looked for a spot. Sharon had become unbearably grumpy on the subject. Near Trallee, a couple was out gardening. They directed us to a perfect camp spot next to their church--and, miraculously, beside a river. Sharon bathed in the river and washed her clothes. She said she felt semi-human again. |
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