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July 17 Monday rain nonstop (Yep, bicycle tours in Ireland can expect rain) Today we rode in the constant rain. And, surprising enough, I didn't melt. Amazing, considering the amount of sugar I've consumed lately. All that tea. During the morning, only a few drops of rain fell in our well protected rhododendron hideaway. Surely, we should have recognized this as an ominous omen. Foolishly, we packed up our bicycle touring tent and gear and headed north into a cold grey drizzle. The only saving grace was the tailwind which prevented driving the rain straight into our faces. Saw lots of soaked touring cyclists ... so, if misery loves company, we had to be in absolute ecstasy. The sidewall on Sharon's Avocet tire gave up the ghost. She flatted. We fixed her tube and put on a new bicycle touring tire while huddling under a service station overhang. Peering out into the drizzle, watching us change the tire, customers would say, "Lovely day." The Cliffs of Moher got a quick glance. The Dutch touring cyclist we had met earlier, didn't even bother to stop. Once we stopped, it didn't take long before we were freezing. We headed into Doolin, Ireland, renowned for its traditional Irish music. We found a B&B downtown, right next to a pub. Doolin is a tiny fishing village - or, rather, was - until the flood of tourists. When we rolled into town, there were three hostels, two campgrounds, numerous B&Bs, and other accommodations. There are lots of French and German tourists walking around town. Our cycling clothes were as wet as if we had gone swimming in them. I knocked on a B&B door, wholly expecting to have it slammed shut in my face. Instead, the old woman who threw open the door urged me, "Bring your bikes inside!" We hesitantly hoisted our fully loaded touring bicycles through the doorway and leaned them against a wall in the hallway. The matronly owner clucked about how sodden we were and that surely we would catch our death of pneumonia if we stayed out in that weather one moment longer. We were frozen -- possibly our worst day of bicycle touring ever. We wanted a hot shower to warm up. The old woman showed us our room and assured us there was plenty of hot water. Sharon and I made a mad dash for the bathroom and tugged off our drenched apparel. Getting into the tub, I discovered that the shower hose was cracked and water wouldn't come out of the shower nozzle. Rather than pulling on my wet clothes and slogging downstairs to complain (what could she do anyway? All the hardware stores had closed long ago), I decided to plug the drain hole instead and have a bath. With the tub a mere couple of inches full, I ran out of orange rust-coloured hot water. There is definitely a difference in what they call a lot of hot water in Ireland, and what they call a lot of hot water in North America. I laughed. Sharon began to cry. It's been a cruel day. All this for only $50. We haven't been this wet, cold, and miserable in a long long time. While I was in the tub, new people arrived. A German woman kept hammering rudely on the bathroom door at one minute intervals. Sharon hadn't even gotten in to the tub yet when she first hammered on the door. I took my drenched cycling clothes downstairs. The B&B woman kindly spun them in her clothes washer to wring them out. Like a good Canadian, I didn't complain about running out of hot water or that the shower hose was busted, even though Sharon said I should. I pulled on Sharon's rain pants. She had been riding in cycling shorts all day. We walked out of the cozy B&B and into the howling wind and rain to the pub next door. It was packed. The waitress said it wasn't busy. Trying to do bicycle tours off the beaten path, we don't know what tourist traps are like. Yikes. It was like a mad house in there. Sharon had seafood chowder and said it was more like broth. She fished around the bowl with her spoon, but didn't have any luck scooping up any seafood. Maybe she was using the wrong bait? Guess the folks in Doolin don't have fishermen anymore. They're all playing the fiddle, entertaining tourists in pubs, instead. I had the chicken special and I can honestly say it was the only dry thing I've had all day. Man, that bird was so dry, for a while there I figured it still had its feathers attached. I washed it down with a shared pint of cold Guinness. Definitely the best part of our meal by a long shot. The Guinness was our first in Ireland, but definitely not our last! Black as a cat and creamy smooth. That will give me strength to climb the hills on my overloaded touring bicycle. We enjoyed listening to the haunting ballads and soft music. A fella, playing a skin drum with a modified bone, was the most entertaining, really getting into his part. "Make way, musicians coming through," he said upon his grand arrival, pushing through the throngs of paying patrons. I think he was just there for the Guinness. Sharon says the rainy Irish weather detracted from her enjoyment of the scenery today. "Hell," I responded, "I couldn't even see the scenery." |
