The great English violinist Emanuel Hurwitz (1919-2006) once said to me during a lesson: “I think I can tell everything I need to know about a violinist by the time they’ve finished tuning”. I feel a similar way about campgrounds: I think I can tell everything I need to know about them once I’ve seen the shower block. IOAC got top marks in that department, and proved the point by being a wonderful place to spend the night.

I thought I’d try heading south before going west, to explore the inland area around Lady’s Island Lake. I spoke with three members of camp staff at the office, including the boss, who told me that it was possible to take a bike right to the bottom of the big saline lake of Our Lady, in fact she remembered doing the whole circuit of it as part of a Pilgrimage route when she was a little girl. She looked a bit non-plussed.

‘Are they fond memories?’ I asked. She pulled a face. ‘Well, they’re memories, you know? It just felt like a terrible long way at the time!’

This was a ridiculously full day, and very little of it planned, in keeping with the spirit of the trip. The only plan was to try and wheel or ride my bike across the sandbar than ran under Lady’s Island Lake, saving me a big loop around the lake. When I stopped at the shrine of Our Lady…

…I saw a notice board that gave me pause for thought.

The phrase that caught my eye was “Each year the sandbar is cut and water from the lake…is drained into the sea.” What if the cutting of the sandbar had already happened? When I got there it looked beautiful, windswept, a bit drizzly, but sure enough, there was no way across the sandbar due to a raging torrent of lake water pouring into the sea. Having struggled to push the bike along the sandy path close enough to the sea to discover the problem, I had to turn around and go all the way back the way I came, then up and over the lake.

I stopped briefly at the stunning Tacumshane thatched windmill, thought to be the only unaltered windmill in the whole of Ireland.

The rain reminded me of the rain on Vancouver Island, which I think they called ‘falling fog’. It didn’t exactly pour, but you still get pretty wet. I stopped when the rain did, and met some new wet friends.

I was now in need of coffee and a second breakfast, so headed for lovely Kilmore Quay, where their Seafood Festival was just getting started. I celebrated by having a a sensational fresh crab roll and a raspberry croissant with my delicious coffee at Cocoa’s right beside the small harbour.

Kilmore Quay has an amazing feature, called Forlorn Point. And today’s interesting fact is that ‘forlorn’ means ‘far land’. The beach extends out to a small island-like raised mound, which I reached on foot following the raised walkway. At high tide it’s a lot wetter, I’m told.

Car Show

As I headed west, aiming for a campsite near the famous Hook Lighthouse, I happened to pass a huge agricultural show, and stopped for a look. You’re meant to pay, but they let me in through the gate with my bike for free. The next section is for my dad:

By a weird chance, in the Classic Cars section they happened to have an example of just about every car we ever owned as I was growing up. A Morris (Minor, not Traveller, sadly), the red MG Midget you owned for a while, a mini like mum’s, a Renault 12 (not the estate), and a Honda scooter like the one you commuted with. Here they are:

Whilst cycling in America last summer I think I began to think that Google maps works for cycling, because it was so good there. Sadly, the same is not true here. I followed the last bit of the suggested route, and ended up submerged in greenery and wildlife, pushing my bicycle up a steep, stony and muddy hill, thick with beds of nettles and weeds, until I gave up and found a way back to the road. I think I’ll use ‘Car’ from now on.

As I write this I’m at the campsite in a peaceful spot, and feel ready to turn in even though it’s only about 6.30pm. Must be the excitement of the football last night. Dylan, who works at the camp office, is the son of the owner, who’s called Ben. Ben inherited it from his father who died aged 81 a couple of years ago, and they’ve fond it to be a tremendous amount of work. Dylan had only just started working there, and admitted to being a bit confused by it all. I know the feeling.

See you tomorrow!

Signs That Are Funny

Signs That Are Thought Provoking:

Signs That Caught My Eye

A nice mural seen on the wall of The Lobster Pot restaurant: