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Sheep Thrills At dusk, after more grueling rolling hills, we approached a deserted heritage center near Cranagh that had gold panning in the stream. We ate at a picnic table with a rustic warped plank roof, which we discovered didn't keep out rain. We set up on a triangle of grass, in an alcove behind the building. The rain pummeled down, down, down. Masses of small jet black birds entertained us with an evening flight display. Flocks from surrounding treetops joined in and soon thousands of dinky birds swooped and whirled delicately through the sky in a kaleidoscope of ever-changing patterns. Their intricate synchronous maneuvers attesting their immense aerial mastery. In the morning, the wind gusted mightily, shaking and flapping the tent while rain pelted down. Sharon and I were glad we had come to Ireland in the summer when the weather was agreeable. We were constantly cold and damp. Ironically, listening to VOA, we learned the United States was having a heat wave. I felt like we were missing summer. Twenty-one consecutive days of rain had dispirited us. Outside twenty-four hours a day, the facets of weather played an increased role on our affective behaviors. A little sun, we were happy; drizzly rain, we were cranky. Patches of blue broke through in the afternoon. We heard cars arrive in the Heritage Center's parking lot. We dismantled the tent and slunk around the corner of the heritage centre. Women, arriving for work at one-forty-five, greeted us cheerily, shaking their heads, as if to say, "I can't believe you have all that crap on your bike!" The wind was at our backs and after climbing an initial hump we zoomed down. The downhills in Northern Ireland were unquestionably smoother than in the southern Irish Republic. We drifted full-tilt without worrying about jarring potholes. Partway down the hill, a tractor sat on the edge of the road. Sharon flew by. The old farmer leaped off his tractor and sprinted fifty feet down the road. I wondered what he was doing. As I neared, I glimpsed another tractor barreling along the laneway. I was too close to stop. It had been completely hidden on the other side of the high hedge. The old feller flailed his arms above his head for the other tractor to stop. I whizzed by, like a runaway freight train, at over forty miles an hour. Tall purple foxgloves danced next to the roadside. We crested a hill, and another fast downhill section loomed. Sheep grazing on the road, startled as we passed; unlike the droves we had met on the Ring of Kerry. Those had carried on business as usual, nary a glance at the passing cyclists. These went berserk, dashing off, fortunately, in directions away from us. Somehow I doubted, even with all that fluffy wool, a sheep impact would be soft at forty miles per hour. Sharon called it: Sheep thrills. Recalling our idyllic Ulster Trail riverside camping, visions of the same kept me going. We rode and rode until, after dark, we came to the Ballyboley forest hiking trail denoted on our map. The spot turned out to be a midge-infested nursery and had us swatting with one hand and scratching with the other. Sharon complained, "They don't know how to plant trees here. They just make artificial breeding grounds for bugs." We jumped into the tent and spent the next half-hour squashing midges that had infiltrated with our hasty entry. |
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