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Friendly Dogs
We packed up, just in time to get poured on. We made it as far as Blennerville, stopped for breakfast and got baptized again. My pants soaked; they clung to me like wet papier-mache. I was miserable. We scrapped breakfast and rode on. At length, we found a school, with a shelter, and made tea, ate lunch and read while watching wave after wave of downpours come and go. For several hours soggy cyclists passed as we sat high and dry in our roofed abode. Late in the afternoon the sun came out; feeling smugly superior, off we rode. From Tarbert to Killimer we caught the evening ferry across a two-mile stretch of sea. I took a picture of a rusty long abandoned bike leaning against a weather worn fence post; behind the bike the green field and brooding Atlantic contrasted sharply. A farmer, below in the field, put electric wire across the half-a-football-sized field so his cows couldn't wander down for a swim in the ocean. He moseyed out of the field and grabbed the dilapidated bike, hopping aboard. His dog welcomed Sharon with a hind-legged salute, marking her pannier for future reference. The farmer laughed, then remarked easily, "Even the dogs are friendly in Ireland. Just like the people." Sharon shot back, "Well, I hope you don't take a leak on my pannier too." The farmer asked me if I trained before I left to do this bike trip. I assured him I had. "I put my bike into the shower and pedaled away with my shower cap on." He asked, "Are the farms in Canada as big as mine." "Some are," I told him, suppressing a smile. I didn't have the heart to tell him Sharon's Mom and Dad's farmyard was bigger than his field. Near Kilrush we found a large wooded picnic area. Two horses and a colt grazed nearby. As soon as we unpacked our food, they trotted over. I shooed them away, without a bite to eat. The colt didn't think much of my hospitality and went off kicking up his heels bucking and farting to beat the band. Must be quite the exertion to flail heels that high. |
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