612 Words
Ireland - Smiling Irish lies...
All those superlatives describing Ireland are true. The green is luminous, the rock fences and homes exude quaintness, the gardens seem out of control and people are ridiculously friendly.
In fact, they're so friendly that they even introduce themselves before they steal your bicycle.
We'd been in Dublin less than 24 hours. My husband Kevin was reassembling our brand-new bikes on the sidewalk in front of our friend's flat, after having had them shipped - or should I say mishandled - from Vancouver. We'd already filed a claim for the bent gears and I'd taken the bike in worst shape to the nearby bike shop.
The young man in the tiny shop was tall, which was already appearing to be quite unusual, and redheaded, which was not. His generosity in stopping everything else, fixing my bike and refusing payment was soon going to appear normal too.
I came back expounding on such generosity in this vibrant city. Unfortunately, my story likely reinforced Kevin's already trusting nature. A couple with a baby came by and started chatting. Soon another young man stopped to talk. I was upstairs when I heard him say in his lovely lilting Irish accent, "Mind if I take it for a spin?"
"Well, of course," said the friendly Canuck. Our new friend at the bike rental was so dismayed by this brazen theft that he insisted on giving us a reduction in the rental rate. He didn't want us to go back to Canada spreading rumours that the Irish were all thieves.
The next day our friends met us at the station as we embarked on a train headed west. Our rather vague goal was to cycle the southwest of Ireland but nothing had been booked or really planned. We had one good ordnance map and a Lonely Planet guidebook.
We left behind all our wonderful, but heavy, books on cycling in Ireland with their suggested routes and itineraries. We had been warned to book all our accommodation in advance because we were traveling in the peak season of mid-July. We'd also been warned to bring plenty of rain gear.
So, every day, our cycles shimmered in the stunning heat wave and wheeling into town we'd find street after street lined with B&B's. Within 30 minutes we'd be in the shower at the next Mrs. Murphy's or Mrs. Kelly's guesthouse. Smelling of good Irish soap, we'd soon be ready for our first pint.
The pubs were like B&B's. There was no shortage. The best part of picking a pub was finding one that had live music. We learned that most of the time the musicians weren't paid. They were there simply because they loved to play. Two or three musicians would start with fiddle, guitar and the uilleann pipes and soon would be joined with more musicians as the evening wore on. The places were always packed.
The countryside held its own special charm. You know those delicate fuchsias that die in your baskets every summer? We cycled down roads lined for kilometers with fuchsia hedges 2 ? metres high. The Irish chop them back like weeds. Though the roads were incredibly narrow, the motorists always politely made sure they gave us lots of room.
We hiked into farmer's fields to stand among stone circles placed by the pagans, and clambered up hillsides to 2000 year old stone cells once inhabited by monks.
There were beautiful churches, bits of castles and everywhere crumbling rock fences and sheep.
The scenery was dramatic. The people were divine.
Go to the Emerald Isle. Don't worry about where you'll sleep. Just wander down its wonderful lanes, drink some Guinness and hang onto your bike.
www.tourismireland.com |
