The Aran Islands

WE eventually found some great music last night in Doolin, County Clare. This tiny village (actually there are three tiny villages making upmwhat is popularily known as Doolin) is well known as a centre for traditional music and we were looking forwrad to hearing some of it.

We had a superb meal in McGanns pub, then went back to the Rainbow Hostel for a while before heading out again about 9.30pm, the bewitching hour for musicians turning up at the various bars.

Imagine our surprise when we found ourselves swamped by German and American tourists, bussed in from Lisdoonvarna where, apparently, there is no live music on a Wednesday night. It appears the owners of McGanns and McDermott’s pubs in Doolin actually put on the transport to bring more people to their tiny pubs.

It was crazy. You couldn’t see the musicians for people standing in front of them taking cellphone photos and you couldn’t hear the music for the loud and incessant chatter. The musicians seemed nonplussed. I guess they’re used to it.

We weren’t though, so we walked along the road a bit to another pub where a ballad singer was crooning popular folk songs. He was quite good, but we were hoping for something a little more lively. We were about to call it a night and face defeat in the very home of Irish traditional music when the barmen told us to hang around for a while.

“Jimmy finishes in a few minutes,” he told us, “then the trad musicians take over.”

Sure as his word within a few minutes the bould Jimmy had vacated the hot chair and three young musicians took his place playing bouzouki, melodeon and, to my utter delight, uillean pipes.

What followed was a magical session of rollicking jigs and reels, airs and laments, a wonderful exhibition of traditional musicianship. Hamish and I eventually had to drag ourselves away, knackered after another long cycling day and in my case, too much Guinness. Hamish was gurgling-full of coca cola!

This morning dawned wet and windy and cold, but we didn’t have to cycle anywhere, other than a couple of kilometres down to the ferry. Frank the Ferryman met us and announced, with a grin, that we would be travelling to Innismore on board the MV Happy Hooker! He went on to inform us that a hooker was a type of Galway trawler…

It was a surprisingly busy crossing – the ferry was full of Italian photographers. And it was a rough crossing, buffeted and battered by a strong northerly wind. People around us gradually turned grey and we knew it was only a matter of time before someone threw up.

It was an American lady. She ran for the toilet but someone was in it, so she then had to run for the open area in the stern. The problem was the boat was rolling around rather savagely and it was difficult tom stand never mind run, but she made it before puking overboard.

It was good to reach Innismore and find our B/B right on the quayside. We dumped our bags, had a bowl of seafood chowder and took to our bikes.

We headed for Dun Aengus. We were both keen to visit this two thousand year old, late bronze age fort and we weren’t disappointed. Three partly circular walls protect an inner area which was thought to be a ritual religious site. No-one seems to be sure who built the defensive fort – it may have been the Firbolgs from Europe, but it is certainly an impressive setting. The semi circular walls end abruptly at the edge of vertical cliffs and it says a lot for the Irish health and safety people that they have avoided building protective fences along the cliff edge. Having said that, it’s wise to keep well away from the abyss, especially when there is a mischevious wind blowing as there was today.

We both liked the atmosphere of Innismore. Partly Hebridean but rougher, the hundreds of kilometres of drystane walls that form an enormous web over the island don’t take anything away from a sense of raw wildness, a place shaped and scoured by ceaseless winds and Atlantic gales.

Much of the hinterland is a vast limestone pavement, with wild flowers growing in the spaces in between the rocks. Trees are few, and stagger over at an incredible angle, shaped by the forces of raw nature.

I was surprised at how many people are still living here, wrestling euros from visitors where once they wrestled a living from the hard earth. There are even three secondary schools in the islands, one on each of the three largest islands, so the future may not be too bad for the Aran islands. There is certainly a much greater sense of prosperity than on any of the Scottish Hebridean islands.

Time now for a wee wander before dinner, then maybe a Guinness, then an early night. Tomorrow we catch an early ferry to Rossaveen in Country Galway, before another 50 mile bike ride to Westport in Country Mayo, one of my favourite towns in Ireland, home of the great Matt Molloys bar. We’ll certainly catch some good music there.

Aran islands to Westport

What a day. Only 47 miles but every single one of them into the teeth of a strong north wind. We both feel knackered tonight, and maybe even too tired to visit the celebrated Matt Molloys pub here in Westport.

An excellent ferry crossing brought us across to Rossaveel in Connemara from Innismore this morning and we were actually cycling by 9.15. And what a wonderful landscape it was to be cycling through. The distant Twelve Bens of Connemara looked sumptious in the early morning sun and closer at hand the Mam Turks looked much shapelier and more ridged than I remember from previous visits.

But there is something about this rolling, water splattered landscape that I find stimulating. Maybe its the accompanying song of the skylark, maybe its the scent of turf smoke when you pass a cottage, maybe it’s the big domed skies, or maybe it’s the hawthorn lined field margins. We’ve lost so many of our traditional hedgerows…

Fortunately today was’t a hilly ride but the wind really was ferocious. It’s like a silent enemy – you can’t see it, you can’t really hear it and you can’t smell it but it’s there, by God you know it’s there, pushing you back, cajoling you, fighting you and probably laughing at you to.

You either have a good ride or a windy ride – rarely both.

To add to our problems Hamish had a puncture, and it took us three inner tubes before it was fixed. I guess we both probably need to take lessons in fixing punctures. All this happened outside the pub at Leenaun, the pub where the film The Field, with Richard Harris, was filmed in 1989. Some old worthies took an interest in what we were up to but were soon bored with our pathetic efforts at trying to lever tyres off the wheel.

Eventually we got it fixed, filled the new tube and tyre with compressed air from one of these little cannisters you can buy (first time I’ve used one and I was really impressed)’ had a coffee in the pub and caught the dreadful news on the telly about UKIP electoral successes. At least that news should auger well for the Scottish Independence Referendum…

We only had 20-odd miles tomride to Westport this afternoon and we both enjoyed it, despite the wind. Good distant views of Croagh Patrick, and its seriously eroded footpath. The last time I was in Ireland Gina and I climbed this Holy Hill and I later mentioned to a lady in a Borde Failte office that the footpath to the summit is now so bad its becoming dangerous. She looked me in the eye and, in all seriousness, said, “But what do you expect? You climb Croagh Patrick as a penance after all…”

We found an excellent B/B in Westport then popped out for a pizza at Torrinos. Came back to write this blog and now we have to make the real serious decision of the day. Do we take an early night and rest our ould shattered bodies, or do we search out some music at Matt Mollys? I’ll tell you tomorrow what we decided.

Westport to Beltra (south of Sligo)

Well, despite feeling old and knackered after a long day fighting the wind we decided against an early night. I felt Hamish needed a Matt Malloy experience, so we left our comfy B/B and wandered down into town in the rain and wind.

As it happened we needn’t have bothered. Matt Malloys, as is normal, was packed to the gunnels, so after ordering a Guinness (and a Cola for Hamish) we fought our way through to the back room where a youth was knocking seven shades of shit out of a guitar and screaming like a demented banshee. We gave it all of ten seconds before deciding it didn’t quite qualify as traditional music of the year and returned to our digs. There was a brief highlight in spotting the man himself, the Chieftain’s MMalloy, deep in conversation at the bar and I was very tempted to suggest he got his flute out but Hamish quite correctly felt my plea could be misinterpreted.

It was a nice B/B but herself obviously left himself to cook the breakfast. It was a full Irish, and it was big, but it was also a tad on the greasy side and the generous helping of three sausages were obviously Tesco budget variety. The result – trying to cycle 60 miles into the wind with several pounds of lard lying in our gut.

To be honest, it wasn’t a bad ride, other than the very frequent belches. We had a quick visit to the Westport Bike Shop where Hamish bought some new inner tubes and the guys kindly checked our tyre pressures. we didn’t want any repeats of yesterday.

We left Westport up the ubiquitous leaving-an-Irish town hill and followed a fairly busy road to Castlebar where we turned on to a quieter, and lovely, road to Ballina. It was also a windy road. We were back to fighting a head on northerly and the open landscapes meant we were the only moving targets for the Celtic Weather Gods to target. It was bloody tough.

Ballina couldn’t come quick enough, and we had a brief respite over a bowl of soup and a coffee and a long one way conversation with an old gent who wanted to tell us his life story and who blamed his wife for all the misdeamenors of the world. It was the kind of chat you’d only hear in Ireland and we just loved it.

Things improved in the afternoon. The road from Ballina went north, still into the teeth of the gale, before turning due east and a bit of respite. We haven’t been breaking any land speed records but we have been averaging about 11-12 mph. Today that came down to 10 mph, but most of that average came this afternoon between Ballina and the B/B we had booked at Beltra, just south of Sligo.

We got there about 4.30, tired, thirsty, hungry and windblown. Carol, the landlady showed us our room and Hamish asked where we could eat. She recommended the next village which she said was 4k away. We knew from the map it was at least 6 miles away.

The thought of an extra 12 miles cycling just didn’t appeal, so we decided just to make do with bits and pieces of food we had in our panniers, plus a good raid on the room’s hospitality tray, except that there wasn’t one. No tea or coffee in the room, and no food in the bar. Could be a hungry night…

After a shower we adjourned to the bar where we made a real dent in the pubs supply of crisps and peanuts. Guinness, the perennial food and drink, helped the hunger pangs. Partly satisfied we went back to the room to watch the Champions League final on the telly, very much looking forward to the full Irish breakfast that this morning we swore we’d never touch again. Ho-hum…