Ireland and Britain: The end of the road

Even before I landed in Rosslare harbor, Ireland seemed bent on impressing me. The glowing rays of the sun shining through the gaps in the clouds had the amazing ability to make anything that they touched appear positively angelic. Thus I found myself mentally describing a rusty cargo ship as “beautiful” for the first time. Then it was taken to a whole new level once I got on the island. As I started riding (on the left side of the road…weirdos), the heavy fog made for a deliciously enigmatic view of the world that I cycled past. Things appeared exaggerated, distorted, or nonexistent until I got close enough to tell what they weren't. And then the heavens opened up in a torrential downpour, complete with roaring thunder and lightning that showed me what Ireland was capable of. It was the sort of weather that deserved its own soundtrack; something that combines the epic scope of a Wagnerian opera with the raw power of rock or heavy metal. I complied by singing at the top of my lungs the only thing I know of that can provide such a perfect marriage of sound: Blind Guardian. But within five minutes, the rain stopped, the fog and clouds receded, and the brilliant blue sky revealed Ireland’s famed greenery in all its glory. And it did not disappoint. The sheep-dotted rolling green hills, mossy rock walls, and wave-pounded sea cliffs made for easily the best landscape I have seen on this trip so far. Actually, probably the best I have seen ever. Having seemingly run through its arsenal of weather, Ireland appeared satisfied that I was impressed and kept the blue sky in place for the rest of my day of riding, which ended in the town of Arklow. I had made about 80 km in the half day since my ferry landed, leaving me about the same distance to cover to get to Dublin the next day. This was accomplished without incident until I got to the outskirts of the city, where I fell victim to one of the most common (but heretofore avoided) accidents to happen to cyclists: getting doored.

It was Bruce Springsteen’s fault. Indirectly, at least. See, he had just played a show in Dublin and was spending the night there in the 4 Seasons. I knew none of this at the time, but a family in a small SUV sitting in line at a stoplight did, and the mother and daughter were eager to meet The Boss. So eager that they decided to jump out of the car without first looking to see if there was a wild red-headed cyclist bearing down upon them. As it happened, one was, and the carelessly-opened door struck me squarely in the right thigh, bringing my momentum to a fully unexpected and equally sudden stop and sending me flopping gracelessly onto the sidewalk. Their erstwhile eagerness to meet Bruce was suddenly replaced by an even greater eagerness to apologize and see if I was all right. I mostly was; luckily (I suppose) the door had only hit me and so had not damaged my bike or their car. My leg pained mightily, but it soon receded to a dull throb while we talked. I found out about their reason for causing our unplanned meeting, and the father shook my hand an excessive amount of times and told me he was a firefighter. They eventually left, and I hopped nimbly back on my bike and took off down the street. Well, not exactly. My leg had refrained from contributing to the conversation while we were standing on the sidewalk, but it immediately became frightfully vocal as soon as I tried to contort it back into cycling position. But we were almost there, so I put up with its whining for the couple of remaining kilometers to the hostel. This hostel, by the way, wins the award for best accommodation deal. Nine euros per night with free wi-fi and all you can eat breakfast included. Most campgrounds charge more than that, and many hostels aren’t as well-equipped or fun. Why other hostels in cheaper cities can’t manage to be as awesome as this one escapes me. Anyway, I got settled (bike safely in the basement too; this place really was the best), and limped off to explore Dublin. And by “explore” I mean “find food in”. I soon did at a delicious soup place. When I finished my meal, I had one of many experiences that has convinced me that Irish people are exceedingly awesome. But to highlight this experience, I will first relate its antithesis in America. 

Location- Pizza Hut near Tillamook, Oregon. Time- 1:33 pm, 3 minutes after their lunch buffet ended. The buffet table was still mostly covered with still-hot pizzas and still-crisp salads. Having learned that I was too late for the buffet, I inquired what was to be done with the leftover food. The server informed me that it would all be thrown away. I was horrified, and pleaded with him to let me eat it instead, even if I had to pay full price for it. But this minion of the soulless corporate machine could not be swayed, and I ate a fresh pizza while watching its perfectly edible friends get dumped unceremoniously into the garbage. Okay, back to the soup place in Dublin. As I was searching out exact change to pay the lady (so that I could get rid of some coins), she put four delicious-looking muffins in a bag and told me I could have them because they were going to get thrown out anyway. I was so happy I almost dropped my carefully-counted coins and hugged her. Take note, Pizza Hut. That’s how you do customer service.

I spent the rest of my time in Dublin taking an exceptional (and free!) walking tour of the city and hanging out with some awesome French guys. Then I took a ferry across to Holyhead in Great Britain. I specify Great Britain because Holyhead is not, as I thought, in England, but in Wales. My map shows no difference between the two, so I had to find this out embarrassingly from an irate Welsh girl. I hurried on my way, and after most of the day’s ride, I escaped and was finally and happily in England. Not that Wales wasn’t nice. The countryside was beautiful, green, rocky, and entirely full of sheep. But they have to have the weirdest written language I have ever seen. They seem to be obsessed with consonants. Some words are a good fifteen letters long with nary a vowel to be seen. Unless “w” is a vowel in Welsh, which I think it must be, otherwise it would be impossible to pronounce these jumbles of letters. The only example I can remember right now is the word for bus: bws. Anyway, back to England. I camped two nights along the way to Bath, where I obstinately took a shower and spent the night in a hostel (after seeing The Dark Knight Rises!). Before I tell you where I spent the next night, there are two pieces of background knowledge I must impart.

#1: There is a website called warmshowers.org, which is a couchsurfing network exclusively for touring cyclists. I have been attempting to use this site to find a place to stay in every big city that I have stayed in since Rome, but thus far unsuccessfully. People either didn’t respond to my messages or didn’t have space for me.

#2: Along this whole trip, I have been reading a book called Good Vibrations: Crossing Europe on a Bike Called Reggie. It was written by an English teacher named Andrew Sykes about his first big bicycle tour from London to Brindisi, Italy (also, incidentally, this book is how I found out about the above website).

Since I knew from the book that Andrew lived in Reading, and Reading is just about a day’s ride from Bath, I contacted him through warmshowers.org in hopes that I could stay with him. Success! I met him at the train station, and from there he was the perfect host. He gave my bike and me comfortable accommodation in his apartment, fed me a delicious dinner, showed me the sights of Reading, and lent me an excellent bicycle map to help me on my way to London the next day. We had a great time discussing our similar and different experiences with cycle touring, and discovered that we had actually stayed in the same campground in Pisa. I was a little disappointed that this was the only time I could use the warmshowers site on my whole trip, but very happy that my only experience with it was so positive. After breakfast the next morning, I left Andrew and began my last day of riding! It took me most of the day to make it through the urban mess of London to my hostel. Had I taken the time to reflect on arrival at my last European city, I might have felt a bittersweet jumble of emotions. I might have longed for the pleasant, liberating solitude of the open road, the thrill of undiscovered places ahead of me, the comforting click of my gears, and the happy chaos of not knowing where I would spend the night. I might have celebrated the end of long, hot roads, a constantly sore bum, and the loneliness of solitary travel. I might have felt these things, but time for reflection was not to be had as I immediately thrust myself into the now-familiar routine of settling into a new city. I would be in London for 6 nights before my flight home, the longest amount of time I have spent in any place along this whole trip. This is probably for the best as there is so much to see here: a plethora of architectural wonders, countless cultural curiosities, and, of course, wonderfully, THE OLYMPICS! I will probably not see any events live, but I couldn’t be happier to be in the middle of the best thing ever. But I’ll tell you about my time in London in my next post.

Oh by the way, if you are starved for pictures, I did buy a disposable camera, so be content that there are pictures being taken, even if you won't be able to see them until they get developed (hopefully stores in 'Merica can still deal with that caveman technology).