Day 1: Hertfordshire to Tagoat

I quietly closed our front door at about five this morning and drove straight to Fishguard, 256 miles door to door, to catch the ferry over to Ireland again. There wasn’t a lot of planning, just a convenient gap in the work schedule and an okay or possibly even better than okay weather forecast. The bike and four full panniers were all in the back of the car, along with a nice new Irish flag for the flagpole. The last one blew away somewhere in County Waterford last July, and sadly, like the ridiculously-small model of Stonehenge in the film Spinal Tap, I slightly misjudged the dimensions when ordering online and this new one would possibly look more at home on a cake or stuck in the brim of an Irish bonnet. I’m actually already quite fond of it, fluttering away frenetically in even the slightest breeze.

Last year my visit coincided with the Spanish men’s football team beating England in the Euros final, much to the delight of every single person I met, from Dungarvan to Waterford to Rosslare. This year I’m travelling just after the amazing English womens’ team turned the tables on Spain with an already-iconic final penalty, but have decided it would probably be best not to mention it to anyone, at least until the final day perhaps.

The idea this time is to be not-quite-as-aimless as last year, at least to begin with. On the first full day of cycling I’m planning to cover the same distance that took three days previously, then start into some new territory as soon as I’ve had a swim in the sea and a bit of breakfast. I won’t go into too much detail now as it should become clear as we go along. There may even be stats, I’ll see what I can rustle up. Hope you enjoy the ride!

But back to today – some days I feel like I’ve done a reasonable amount of travelling in my life, and then I come across someone like this chap:

Meet John, originally from Nebraska, but who told me he lived in 15 different US states before he retired in 1990s, and has been on the road ever since, “just looking for a new home” as he put it. We met in the Foot Passenger’s departure lounge, then sat together outside in the sunshine on the top deck of the ferry to Rosslare, eating our packed lunches. As the wind picked up and the ferry pulled out into the Irish Sea, I was transfixed by his tales. He had been everywhere, Alaska, Patagonia, India, Africa, the Far East, on bicycles, motorbikes, e-bikes and recumbent cycles. He lives off his pension ($50 a day) and never stops moving. He laughed frequently as he told me about riding a recumbent bike from Argentina to Chile right over the Andes Mountains on unpaved roads, before the bike finally broke down on the Chilean side of the mountains following a crazy high-speed descent, and having to order a spare part to be shipped from America. Whilst he waited many weeks for it to arrive he desperately needed transport, so persuaded a Chilean bike shop owner to lend him a mountain bike. In return, John let him display the unique recumbent bike in his shop window. It became the talking point of the small town and proved a very sensible business decision. A few years back John made a special trip on a motorcycle to Turkey “to get some new teeth”, because his budget didn’t stretch to the fancier British or European alternatives. I have to say, my first impression was that you get what you pay for, but he said they were basically ok. His attitude was very phlegmatic, about everything. His hearing wasn’t tip top, but he laughed loudly when he did hear something that struck him as funny, especially any stories of mishaps on the road which he’d clearly developed a refined taste for with all of his experience. He said Brazil was the worst place he’s ever ridden. ‘Jeez, they just drive right at you, it’s pretty scary!’ The only things he wanted to know from me were about routes I’d taken and places I’d recommended, and quickly jotted down anything he didn’t already know about, such as the lovely beach near Dungarvan I’m heading for, Clonea. But that was fine with me, I love listening to travel stories, especially when the storyteller is as ridiculously experienced and as entertaining as John.

We rode off the boat together but then got separated in the complicated and enormous new ferry terminal that has none of the charm of the old one and makes you wish they’d never bothered.

I’m now at the campground in Tagoat a few miles from the ferry, writing this by a lake as the swifts swoop across the water and then swerve around the Irish kids playing table tennis with a full size football. I do like camping.

Probably an early start tomorrow, but we’ll see. Is everyone having a good summer so far? Feel free to use up some ‘comments’ space below. Bye for now. Bxx