Ireland 2010
 
 

Day 07

June 16

 
   
  I'm up around 3:30 AM - a long time before good daylight and quietly eat my provision that I had laid by last night. I don't plan on eating another meal until I arrive at Les's place in Scotland, which will be a pretty good time from now. After a quick trip to wash the night from my flesh, I quietly get suited up and make my way down the stairs to the waiting VFR. I do my best not to wake up the house and seem to be successful at it. The moon is still bright and I wonder if there are very many bambis out roaming the fields of Ireland.  
   
  I quietly slip through the streets of Kenmare as I head out on R569. I have carefully written on in my usual route shorthand and have it in view on top of the tank bag. With the daylight comes some of the deluges that Ireland is known for. You don't get to be the Emerald Isle without a lot of rain to support the greenery.  
   
  But slowly the torrents stop and I am greeted by a lovely sunrise. On a ride like this is not the time to find out that your waterproof gear ain't exactly waterproof!  
   
  I quietly slip through the village of Mallow, that hasn't come to life yet. I figure if I get get to the M8 motorway before much of Ireland wakes up, I can make some really good time. Mr. ZUMO has decided to started acting weird and finally dies the death. I fear for his eternal destination since he has been such a rascal to me on this trip. Expecting him to abandon me at the most importune time, I resort to my paper route and will have no one to blame from now on for my misdirection except me.  
   
  Just on the other side of Mallow on highway N73 I run into some of the worst bug smashing I believe I have ever encountered. Not only are the little rascals big, they are juicy and bloody. When I try to wipe them off, they just smear the more. The crude on my glasses gets so thick that I finally have to pull of and clean up before I can safely ride on.  
   
  Finally I near N8/M8 where I hope I can make some really good time.  
   
  But then the heavy fog sets in like a damp, cold blanket. On a run like this, you just have deal with what you've got, not what you'd like to have. I call it 'living with the vulgarities of the road' and this gets pretty bad. My face shield fogs up so I have to raise, only to have my glasses do the same. But I just keep cooking, because the ferry will not wait on me. I've learned to be prepared for whatever weather comes and try to equip myself accordingly.  
   
  I would have preferred to have gotten a little further along before fuel, but it feels right to stop. As I pass through Urlingford, I take time to gas up, adjust my laundry and make sure everything is still hanging on the bike. My plan is that my next fuel stop will be north of Dublin, so my brain calculates that I should be fine from here.  
   
  The farther I head inland the clearer the skies become, and for that I am thankful. Not knowing what lies ahead, I keep the VFR humming right along and eating up as many miles as I can.  
   
  I'm fascinated by the support system on this bridge, and manage to snap a shot as I hurtle along.  
   
 

Dublin comes and goes by quickly as I left Kenmare only 3 1/2 hours ago. As I pass the very airport where Sharyn and I had our little 'adventure', I consider myself fortunate that I don't have to get any closer. Needing fuel and seeing no signs, I just get off and start looking. Fortunately there is a highway garage with two fellers standing there shooting the breeze. I ride over to them and ask

"Is there any petrol stations close by?"

"Yes, go under the bridge, take the first left. Go through town over the railroad tracks and there's a petrol station on the left" one of them tells me.

I thank him and head out the way they described through the village of Dunleer.

 
   
 

There's some construction going on, but the workers wave me on through it and I pull into the station. It reminds me a lot of the various ones I worked in as a teenager. After I fill up, I go inside to pay - which seems strange every time I do it. In the States, you have to pay before you pump. Over here where the gas is two to three times as expensive, you pump then pay. I mention to the man who obviously runs the place -

"I used to work in a place like this back in the States. We had an old manual tire changer that I got plenty of practice using."

He nods his head and I can tell he's been there and done that. We chat a bit, then I've got to move on, so I bid him good-bye and get back after the mile eating.

 
   
  And just about the time I think I'm doing well, I hit a construction zone. This ride is beginning to seem like an obstacle course but I know I should be getting to the ferry soon.  
   
  Soon I'm out of the mess and I fly around Belfast as I leave M1 for M5 then onto M2. I'm looking for the turn off to A8 that will take me to Larne and the ferry terminal.  
   
  A8 is back to a two lane, but there's not much traffic so I'm bearing down on my goal with much haste.  
   
 

I arrive at the gate earlier than I need to so I figure at least I have some breathing time. When I pull up to the gate, I am greeted by a really nice lady. She tells me

"I know you are already booked, but if you like I can put you on the next ferry. It is a fast ferry and gets to Cairnryan in 1 hour."

"Well, ma'am, that would be great if you could do that. I sure appreciate it."

So she gets me fixed up and I make my way to gate. This means I get to leave an hour earlier that I planned plus this ferry makes the crossing in one hour instead of the two hours that my original ferry would take. I thank the Lord for His Goodness and Kindness to sort this out for me.

 
   
  Before long, I'm guided on board and the ship worker directs me to the rail where we tie off the VFR. I think about carrying my tank bag upstairs but I just cable lock it on the bike instead. Hopefully it will be intact when I come back down.  
   
  I climb up to the lounge area and am pleasantly surprised with the large comfortable chairs that greet me. They recline and are nice and wide, so I figure I can put them to good use for the next hour. I settle down in one, and I am out like a light, tired from the challenges of the ride so far and my early start.  
   
  Soon I am awaken by the disembarking announcement and I head downstairs to the bike. Everything is still where I put it, so I loose her from her moorings and head for the bonnie land of Scotland.  
   
  Next to the Alps, Scotland is my favorite place to ride. The roads tend to be in good condition, the scenery is superb, and the people are few but friendly. I can't help but chuckle as I see this sign on my way out of town.  
   
  I've often said if you take the coastline of California, the twisties and hills of Western North Carolina/Eastern Tennessee, throw in some big lakes and castles, you'd have Scotland.  
   
  I'm really enjoying my coastline run except for one small problem. This part of Scotland uses 'average speed' cameras that calculate your average speed as you proceed from one point to another. The only problem is that they don't tell you what the speed limit is so you have to guess. I have to presume that if you are from Scotland you know it, but since I'm not, I just have to guess based on the little traffic around me.  
   
  This scene reminds me of a scene on Highway 1 in California so much that I have to do a double take.  
   
 

Just before I pass through Maybole on A77 I see the CrossRaguel Abbey on my right. It staggers my mind to think the original part of this building was started in 1244 AD and it is still standing.

 
   
  A few minutes later I quietly pass through the village of Maybole, halfway to my next ferry appointment.  
   
  As I approach Adrossan on A78, it appears that the road will take me right into the water. But there's a roundabout just beyond the underpass that saves me from such a wet fate.  
   
  At least the beautiful coastline makes the uncertainty of knowing what the proper speed limit is a bit more enjoyable.  
   
  The views are so relaxing as I make my way northward to my final destination of Dunoon.  
   
  The traffic picks up a little bit as I pass through the seaside town of Largs.  
   
  The firth of Clyde is a constant, welcomed companion with it's beautiful blue waters always to my left.  
   
  Soon I arrive at Gourock and the ferry port where I will cross the firth and into Dunoon. I have just missed the run and will have to wait a while for the next one.  
   
  Since I've got some down time, I call Les to let him know I'm just across the water just in case he wants to beat a hasty retreat out of town. But instead, the lovely Mary answers the phone and assures me that she is looking forward to meeting me. I tell it should not be long, so I hope to see her shortly. My next call is to Sharyn, who I get to talk to in person. She is waiting for an MRI tomorrow so the orthopedic doctor can determine the best method of treatment. She assures me that she is doing fine and that our friends are taking good care of her.  
   
  Soon the ferry returns from Dunoon, so I gear up and get ready for the final passage.  
   
  It's not a big ferry as ferries go, but it will get the job done. After the ride today, I'm ready to hang up my helmet and rest a while.  
   
  It's just a few minutes to Les and Mary's place, the Craigen Hotel and Tearoom, where I am quickly introduced the Lord and Lady of the Manor, Sporran and Daisy. Les and Mary feel very fortunate that they let them stay inside the Hotel with them, especially considering how cold the Scottish winters are.  
   
  It's a lovely place that once served as the home for a local dignitary and I admire the beautiful ornamental pieces in the main dining room.  
   
  And Les, knowing my proclivity for consuming large amounts of ice tea (something you do not see in Great Britain), has prepared several pitchers just for me.  
   
  And Miss Mary just knocks my socks off with the lasagna and other delights that she has prepared for me.  
   
  Les and Mary host their church in the tearoom, so we have a lot in common. Our church has been meeting in our living room for over thirteen years as we negotiate the maze of building a new church building and the codes requirements. I feel like I have come in from a storm, given the events of the past days, and now am in a safe harbor. After I am so stuffed I can barely breathe, then Les takes me for a force march around Dunoon. It's a lovely resort town and a place I want to come back to and spend some more time.  
   
 

One of the most prominent land features of Dunoon is called Castle Hill, and Les promptly leads me to the top. It is the site of a castle that was built during the 12th century and has a fascinating history around it -

"Very little remains of the castle, which would originally have belonged to the Lamont family but became a royal castle with the Earls of Argyll (Campbells) as hereditary keepers, paying a nominal rent of a single red rose to the sovereign, presently Queen Elizabeth. In earlier times, Mary, Queen of Scots, stayed at the castle circa 1563 and granted several charters during her visit. The castle was destroyed during the rebellion in 1685."

 
   
  It's a beautiful view from the top and well worth the heart attack inducing effort it takes to get up there after a great meal.  
   
 

On the lower slopes, Les points out an enigmatic statue of Bonny Mary O' Argyll, reputed to be one of the love interests of the famous Scottish poet Robert Burns. She stands forlornly looking out to see, just below the ruins of the Dunoon Castle.

 
   
  In 1824, James Ewing, Lord Provost of Glasgow bought the site and built the Castle House, a grand early Victorian turreted mansion on the north slope. It was later used as a library, but now has become a museum for Dunoon and it's fascinating history.  
   
  Soon we are back at the hotel where we prop up our feet and have a wonderful time of fellowship.  
   
  However, Mr. Sporran is very leery of this strange talkin' feller from Tennessee and keeps a close eye on me. But Daisy knows an experienced petter when she sees one, and pretty soon she up in my lap, making me earn my supper.  
   
  It is more than Sporran can stand, so he gingerly makes his way over and grants me permission to pet his head. Nothing formal, mind you, just an acknowledgment that I am allowed to do it.  
   
  While we are sitting around talking, we decide that it would be a good thing if I could mail Sharyn's stuff back to her. That would give me a lot more room on the bike and make things a lot easier when I fly back to Nashville. I can stuff one of the suitcases inside another one and then I would only have three suitcases to deal with. Les finds me some boxes that should be suitable and I figure I'll get it all sorted out. The day has been long so I retire early to my quarters. I am so thankful for folks like Les and Mary that have not only taken me into their home, but into their hearts. Before long I drift off into a very peaceful slumber.