5 Apr 2005 - SPONCERD BIKE RIDE DAILY DIARY
Wellspring Round-UK Tandem Bike Ride Account.The following is my account of the week 18th to 26th Mar 2005, where Peter McDonald and myself Brian Anthony set off to cycle 600 miles on our tandem, aiming to cross every national border on a circular route around the UK and Republic of Ireland. Apart from that, we hoped to promote the need for caring for the homeless in all our communities, raise sponsorship for the local Stockport based Wellspring homeless center, and have a flaming good bike ride. We promised to pay our own expenses, which soon turned into our decision to Go homeless for the homeless, and live by our wits to avoid any expenses and deliberately not book any accommodation.
Account starts - Midnight Saturday March 19th 2005
It was a bar in Gretna Green where we first got chance to catch our breath, appreciate our progress from Stockport so far, and also for the first time realise what we were letting ourselves in for. Moments before Pete and me set off, we tried lightening our load further by ruthlessly stripping down the pannier contents further, both agreeing to risk leaving the overly heavy tent behind, and you cant take those pajamas Brian either Pete demanded. We then felt we would prefer to rely on our faith and state of mind to get us round in comfort, but right now the reality of traveling round Ireland with a skeleton of a plan/route began to unnerve me. In sporadic moments of silence, we both contemplated the next day, a 102 ride to Stranraer where we'd sleep in the ferry terminal before catching a 5am Belfast sailing.
The weeks of effort planning, and perhaps mostly talking about our trip now seemed so inadequate and long ago, I seemed to now see all the gaps in the plans, and just then Peter confessed he had the whole route totally sorted, except for the bit in Northern Ireland. That was Pete speak for all of Northern Ireland.
Moments later, a large crowd of men came into the bar, ordering their beers with familiar accents, they then filled the tables around Pete and me. I was still lost in dire situations of being homeless and bikeless in some bandit filled county in Ireland, when Pete said, they're cyclists too. It turned out the group of men had arrived in cars and mini-buses from Manchester and were cycling back home taking 3 days to raise sponsorship for some cricket club. Smug as anything, our nerves evaporated as we baldly described how we were on our own crusade, without the aid of support vehicles and meticulous plans, and a target of completing a journey several times further than their stroll in the park. After talking our nerves away, we wished them well and headed off to our nights abode on the floor of the beautiful All Saints Church, Gretna.
An enthusiastic kick in the ribs from Pete woke me up (the first of many) as he insisted we set off at first light. After little sleep in the sleeping bag Pete had brought for me, or was it possibly a duvet cover through shivering most of the night, I decided I'll be hunting out an Artic conditioned bag that day at any cost. We dropped off the church key with Val who'd let us in the previous evening, and set off with flat jack and banana for breakfast.
Pete's love for back roads and eternal faith in the alternative being a short cut, down hill and a much better route got the better of me that morning, as it did most times, and amazingly it only put an extra 3 miles on the journey. Having all day/night to reach our destination, we made sure we stopped for a full breakfast, lunch and afternoon tea along the route at Dumfries, Gate of Fleet and Newton Stuart.
The last hours cycling were in darkness and cat eyes, not pushing any speed and ensuring we stayed clear of the occasional large lorries passing, racing for the last ferry of the evening. Several false mirages of Stranraer appeared ahead as orange glows in the sky, which turned out to be just small dwellings on the route.
At last at about 9pm we came across an out of town pub/restaurant claiming to be just 3 miles from our destination.
After another feast and what felt like an indulgent slow paced day, we felt like the "fat lads" on tour and wondered if our trip would cause us to put weight on in the end. A perfect end to our Scottish leg greeted us as we found the terminal waiting room at the ferry port was fully carpeted and centrally heated; perfect for a few hours sleep.
More sleep on the boat and then another early 7.15am cycling start allowed us to pedal the misty morning into Belfast. Pete wanted to head north, but I had other plans. A friend's mother had invited us to breakfast in Dun Donald, West of Belfast, so there we headed through the sleeping city, passing the graffiti and political murals, and then arrived in Dondonald where at 8am Rosaline stood on her street with yellow ribbons tied up welcoming us. After a wonderful hearty Irish breakfast, the handle bars were now bending, we set off again, firstly back into Belfast and then turning North for Antrim. Our tandem was perhaps an odd sight for Belfast on an early Sunday morning as we attracted kids to throw stones at us, which didn't help as Pete did his best to steer the tandem over the roughly maintained Belfast roads and pot holes.
After a 20 mile climb out of the city, we hit a terrific downhill 10 mile stretch where we made excellent progress at speed, before then turning into the rolling hills around Londonderry. Pushing hard down each hill, we got the bike moving fast enough to effortlessly lift us to the top of the next time and time again.
Late afternoon we eventually came to a village where we both needed a break. With miles still to ride, we asked if we could just have tea and hot water in the only open hotel/bar we'd seen, where we were then warmly invited in to tell them about our route. The whole village seemed to be in the hotel having a craic and a laugh, and we were given a couple of drinks on the house before we then found the bike had got a flat tyre. In the comfort of the hotel, the owner helped us with the bike, changes the tube, and wished us well as we set off to finish the day. Unfortunately, after just 5 miles the tube blew again, and then we suspected the wheel had been damaged from the Belfast roads. A passing car pulled up within moments of us starting to walk, and the lady driver offered to help. Amazingly, we'd just walked 50 yards passed her brother's house, who apparently knew everything about bikes and would surely be able to help.
Good fortune came to us again as now in the comfort of her brother's garage, with his help, we were able to strip down the wheel and find the fault. Fortunately, it was just the tyre, which would need replacing, but being a Sunday, we were forced to leave the bike in the garage and return in the morning with a new tyre. We set off, found a barn and slept the night before returning the next morning. At that time, there were rumours of Peter's Auntie from 20 miles away coming to rescue us, take us in, feed and water us before returning us the next morning with a replacement tyre. Don?t believe any of it.
Part of our ambitious route plan took us near Croagh Patrick, a 2,550 foot mountain near Westport on the West coast. Pete always suspected we couldn?t make it in the time, and now the alternative route missing Westport looked the more sensible choice.
Croagh Patrick was famously climbed by St Patrick himself, where today Catholics each year attempt their own pilgrimage, sometimes bare footed to offer prayers. If we were able to reach Croagh Patrick, we intended to climb it too, offering our own prayers for the homeless, the volunteers and all the support we've had for our own crusade around the UK.
The next morning we thanked Robert Young for looking after the bike and his help, and we departed flying at great speeds over the tops of Lima Vady hills heading now for Magilligan on the edge of the Foyle. We broke our land speed record touching 43 MPH on that route as we headed now for Southern Ireland into Donegal, crossing the Lough Foyle on a 10 minute ferry to make up lost time from the day before.
The Republic greeted us with our first down pour, and after a short time it seemed to make it through to our bones as we edged around the Foyle and then over the Donegal peat hills into Carndonah. The gorgeous smell of turf fires burning filled the air as we flew down the wet lanes passing thatched cottages. Eventually, a few miles out in the country side, Pete found the left turn up a 50 degree bray, where we gave one last burst of effort for the day to make it up to the farm where Pete's Uncle Eddy lived. After oiling the bike, we got cleaned up, with all our clothes/gear being dried in just hours on racks above their own turf fire.
We had a late night with numerous visits to local McDonalds related to Pete in that area, each offering wonderful hospitality, and lastly beds to sleep and slumber. At this point we were as far from London as you could be in the UK/Ireland, and we both recognized we'd now have to cycle 190 miles in the next 2 days if we were to have chance of climbing Croagh Patrick. Quietly, I was determined and confident, even if it meant pedaling into the night.
The next morning, we set off passing a 7th century AD Cross in the town where we paid our respects to St Patrick and prayed for a couple of local girls in their 20s that had died just days before in a car accident. With the sun in our faces, we turned South East over hills passing small lakes, and crossing the Inishowen Peninsula of Donegal to reach Lough Swilly. Although flatter, the route from this point, the next 85 miles took us straight South into severe head winds right through County Donegal, over Seefin Mountain via the Windy Gap which was like a wind tunnel, and gave us distant views of Dingle Bay. We stopped only to water the land, eat more chocolate, and by now we were nearly smoking the electrolytic energy powder we'd been getting slowly addicted to in our water. We began fantasizing about a Danish leg massage at this point, or a bowl of pasta, in no particular order.
Ticking off 20 mile chunks at a time before our 110 mile day's destination, we continued slowly on thanking the heavens for holding the rain off through the wind, while Pete got blown to pieces and I kept tucked down behind him. Too windy / noisy to talk, I intensely counted minutes/miles, and Pete chilled as ever watched for wild life, noticed girls in pink wellies fishing, and burst out poetic quotes of Yates and Dylan.
Earlier in the afternoon, I'd received a call from a lady who had heard of our ride, and offered to put us up near Sligo in her farm. Great news, but it was now going dark, and we still had 40 miles to cover to reach Sligo. We realized it was going to be a long long day.
We needed a stop and stretch just after Castle Shannon, just 20 miles short of our target, and we pulled into a petrol station. Just as we stopped the heavens opened with the rain beating the roof like hail stones, but we put that out of our minds as we sought hot drinks and something warm to eat. The busy but sparse petrol station amazingly had some hot food and drinks available, but no seating. Pete then blagged I was feeling faint, at which point a chair was rushed out to me, where I relaxed, eat/drank and occasionally put my head between my legs as other customers shopped around me.
Just as we set off again, the rain cleared completely, and it looked like the rain had been timed just right for our break.
Another 2 hours later, 22:30 we'd reached Sligo, cycled 110 miles and
crossed right through the town, when we realized we didn't really know how to get to our destination. Pete had lost his glasses now, and the small unmapped village of Dromard was another 13 miles away.
Our instructions were to get to the village of Dromard and ask in the Fiddlers Elbow for directions to Aileen?s house. We pedaled on, tired and weary now, and then at the next set of traffic lights, a van on our right offered to take us towards Dromard. In traffic, the car behind even helped load the tandem into the van, and relieved, we climbed in the front for directions. Our guardian angel driver listened to our story, the purpose for our ride and in the end drove 9 miles out of his way to take us straight to the Fiddlers Elbow pub.
There we found the 84 year old Aileen Neary perhaps more optimistic than us on our progress that day, was sat in her car outside the pub waiting to see us cycle past any moment. We thanked Simon the van driver, and cycled behind Aileens car as she drove the last couple of miles round the pitch black lanes to her farm.
Now, nearly 23:30, we showered, feasted and got all our clothes washed/dried again for the morning. Before sleeping, we both laughed at how amazingly things had worked out and how that if the van hadn't appeared at the time it did, then Aileen would have been waiting in her car for a good long time!
Over breakfast we heard about how Aileen had raised 7 children on her own on the farm and how life in Ireland was in years gone past. She was a wonderful lady, and insisted on giving us €50 for our charity as she wished us well on our way. She asked we remembered her to God in prayers at the top of Croagh Patrick if we made it.
We now had no doubts we could reach Westport now, where days and weeks before we set off, our contingency was always to reluctantly skip Westport if we ran out of time and head straight for Dublin. Confidently, we now took more scenic back roads, round Lough Coy, reed beds and quieter villages rather than more certain busy A roads. Closing in on Westport completing 65 miles, at Castle Var, just 10 miles short of our target, we sought out a pasta café to feed our legs for the climb and next days riding.
It was about 16:00, and we still had no accommodation arranged, but were focusing more on reaching the mountain in time to get up it in day light.
The first café we stopped at was crowded with women, all finishing for the Easter break, and so Pete/I sat at the end of a table with 6 other ladies enjoying their meal. Within moments, we were all chatting, and they were fascinated about our ride, and joked we were crazy to embark on Croagh Patrick that late in the afternoon. While we eat pasta, the ladies rallied to support us, and using their mobile phones, they contacted the local paper, radio station, and husbands to try to help us on our way. By the time we'd finished our hot drinks, pasta and refused a desert, the café owner had offered us the meal on the house for no cost, and the women had managed to book us in for no cost at all into a luxury hotel in Westport Castle Court Hotel.
Pete and me both begged silence in the bustling café, thanked the Irish and their wonderful generous kindness, ?blessed are we amongst women we said, and launched into our Daisy Daisy theme tune song. By the end, they were all singing and we got clapped out to our bike ready to fly onwards to Croagh Patrick. Slight embarrassment was Pete had to crawl back into the café in as we'd left a helmet behind.
Like the wind, we glided the last 10 miles into Westport, racing the daylight, abandoned the pannier in the hotel at the lily scented reception desk, and we then flew the last 5 miles to the foot of the 2,550 foot mountain. At 18:00, we hesitated at the bar at the base of the hill as we asked if we can hide our bike behind the pub as we waited for some sensible advise suggesting we would be foolish to attempt the climb that late in the day. Non came, so we were off!
Within the first 30 minutes, we past the last of the days climbers returning from the top, all querying why were going up now. Topped in mist it was difficult for us to fully assess the climb, but oddly it was refreshing to walk for a while after 5 days solid cycling. With my hand in the middle of Pete?s shoulders, I trusted him to guide be up, round over boulders, at times locking arms round drops and slippy edges.
The views were immense and rapidly gave me a great sense of height. After about 50 minutes of rapid climbing, we thought we'd reached the plateau as the route changed direction across a flatter plain and our now exposed position was filled with gales that took your breath away. Turning a corner, instead of an open summit I was sure we'd find, we instead saw a 60 degree ascent into the cloud over loose slate shale.
Saint Patrick was certainly with us on his mountain right then as we prayed our way upwards, praying for the homeless, the volunteers at the Wellspring, and for all the kind support we'd had on our journey so far. Trusting totally now in Pete, we completed the climb to the top, where in a shimmering misty light, the wind wrapped its way around us. We paused for just moments to hug and shout our cheers, before beginning the descent.
We'd both privately realized getting down would be tougher than the climb in the dark, and locking arms constantly, we saved each other from trips/falls all the way down. Although we had the bike light with us just in case, the shimmering glow that night seemed to highlight just enough of the floor hazards and path for us to make it down safely without a single scratch. Near the bottom we both confessed we'd started imagining on the ascent the possibility of mountain rescue coming for us, news stories of our climb attempt in cycling gear etc. Pete said he had faith in me to get us both down in the dark as long as he could navigate us to the top. I know I?d have surely died on that mountain without Pete that night as there was no way I could judge where the path went and couldn?t have found any shelter on my own. It was a great experience for both of us to co-operate in a different way to tandem cycling in a situation where we both felt reliant and vulnerable.
In the bar at the foot of the hill, with aching thighs we celebrated with our first Irish Guinness. The bar man thought we were either mad or brave to have tried it. Just as well he didn't say that before we set off. After changing/eating in the hotel, we walked into Westport to celebrate achieving the pinnacle of our journey. We called in at Matt Molloy?s bar, a member of the famous Chieftains band, and invited them to play in Stockport next year for our charity. We'd just missed him unfortunately, but the staff were still enthusiastic with our proposal and asked us to drop a note in with more information.
Another rumour suggested we slept in a large suite with 2 double beds and tea/coffee facilities before getting up early to have a 5 star breakfast the next morning. Our version however is that we slept in the bath and on the hard tiled floor, before skipping breakfast to make a good start on the next day's journey. Pete chased a foreign sounding reception girl on the way out of the hotel in the morning, just to find out if she was Danish or not for our piece of mind.
Thursday, we began the 160 mile cross Ireland trip for Dublin, now beginning our journey home. Flat and straight, we had to pedal every inch, with no significant down hills to satisfy the legs. After 40 miles, we stopped in Charles Town for a hot drink and stretch. Pete's cousin Marie had offered to put us up that night, which was along our route, but not far enough to leave a distance we could achieve the next day in time to get our boat home from Dublin. We had to at least cover 80 miles that day to be sure we'd have time on Good Friday to reach our boat departing Dun Laoghaire at 21:30 without our tiring legs failing us.
We then got a call from Marie, who had arranged for a construction worker working on a site well past half way to Dublin to meet us, store the bike, and run us back to Marie as he lived in her area. We just had to get to him for 5pm when he would be finishing for the day. At that time, this left us with an awful long way to pedal, about 65 miles in 4 hours.
We planned to ride past Marie's place, dump the pannier, and race a lot lighter to meet our contact. At a ferocious pace, we flew along the N5, and now the rain poured and poured for the first time since Donegal. Waves saturated us from passing lorries as we chased the miles down towards Longford. Pumping all the way, with no stops, we arrived at just 5pm, and then looked for the directions to Edwards Town, just 2 miles away. We then found the sodden directions meant just 2 miles before Edwards Town, which was another 13 miles still to go. With shot legs, we did our best now riding through rush hour traffic hoping to stop our builder friend that might be coming towards us in his white van.
Another 40 minutes later, like drowned rats, we arrived at the building site, where thankfully our contact had patiently and faithfully waited for us.
We locked the bike in an empty garage, and relaxed in the front of the van that steam dried us for the 1 hour drive back over the 58 miles we'd just pedaled in 3 hours.
Good Friday was our last day in Ireland, and my legs really suffered from the sprint ride of the day before. With now just 70 miles to Dublin, we were able to relax and cruise at a walking pace, laying on the grass and enjoying the last hours we had in this wonderful country. Just before reaching Dublin, we found a pretty looking coffee house that served food next to a river. There I feasted on more pasta, had several hot mugs of hot water, and Pete had for once time to read the paper. It was 4pm, and we were only 10 miles from Dublin.
Like aliens in a posh restaurant, we felt conspicuous enough to explain our dress and rough appearance. By now though it felt like we were also turning into beggar boys, since as soon as we mentioned our journey and purpose, the staff came over and read our newspaper articles, made a donation, and then offered us the meal for free. The manager of the café then insisted she made us up some sandwiches for later too. Before saying farewell, we got the staff outside and the manager sat on the tandem for a photograph with us.
Through Dublin, we snapped photos from the bike, paused briefly to buy souvenirs for the family and each other, and cruised the last 6 miles along the coast road down to the port. A girl cyclist over took us commenting she admired the shamrock we had pinned to the pannier. Clearly foreign, we chased after her, raced her along the roads a short distance before catching up and demanding to know if she was Danish. German she said, I'm a nurse. Laughing, we escorted her on her journey to the hospital entrance where she was working before we continued on to catch our boat. Although ideally qualified, for some reason we really wanted a Danish leg massage.
We had informed Stenaline about our journey, who had fully supported us and had refunded the price of our tickets as a contribution to our charity. We had discussed some local press at Dublin to take photographs of us, but being 9pm on Good Friday this hadn?t been possible. However, on boarding the boat, we were invited into the Stena lounge, where complementary drinks and any food was offered to us. Unshaven and exhausted from the week however, we enjoyed a simple meal and a pint. We both ordered a second beer, but before we could drink half of it, we were asleep in the chairs we sat in.
The loud Tannoy on the ship woke us, where we then had to get to the car deck and prepare our bike for the short ride into Hollyhead's waiting terminal. Great, another warm, carpeted quiet corner greeted us, where we slept a few more hours.
Despite Pete's jolliness in the morning, it's still really annoying when it greats you first with yet another kick in the ribs and an enthusiastic come on, lets get off, first light. So, up and out we were off, blue sky and sun just above the horizon, we headed 23 miles across Anglesey for Bangor for breakfast. Wales was contrastingly less cheerful than any of the other counties and countries wed crossed, so we made a point of heartedly cheering the tourists up through the streets of Conway and Prestatyn with Pack Up Your Bags and Riding along on my push bike baby.
Taking a slower pace all day long, we headed home, crossing back into England about 4pm, and finally announcing our arrival on Pete's and my own street with a full "Daisy Daisy" melody at about 8pm. Pete and me planned a temporary separation for at least a week to satisfy our jealous wives, and to give ourselves some quiet time to firm up some ideas we have for a future Irish trip.
The 685 mile journey in the end too 8 days, and with the additional £250 donated by Irish well wishers on our route, we estimate to have raised over £2300 for the Wellspring center. Stena Line fully backed our challenge and refunded our £90 ticket costs as a way of supporting us further.
With each opportunity we've had to describe our round-UK venture, we've tried to describe how in every community there is a need to support broken people homeless in some sense that would benefit from others co-operating to offer help and support. Locally, the Wellspring Center which is constantly seeking further voluntary help, has proven for over 13 years we can all make a difference and help the homeless find independence and turn their lives around.
I hope you enjoyed this account, and on behalf of Pete and me we would like to thank you for your support.
It was a bar in Gretna Green where we first got chance to catch our breath, appreciate our progress from Stockport so far, and also for the first time realise what we were letting ourselves in for. Moments before Pete and me set off, we tried lightening our load further by ruthlessly stripping down the pannier contents further, both agreeing to risk leaving the overly heavy tent behind, and you cant take those pajamas Brian either Pete demanded. We then felt we would prefer to rely on our faith and state of mind to get us round in comfort, but right now the reality of traveling round Ireland with a skeleton of a plan/route began to unnerve me. In sporadic moments of silence, we both contemplated the next day, a 102 ride to Stranraer where we'd sleep in the ferry terminal before catching a 5am Belfast sailing.
The weeks of effort planning, and perhaps mostly talking about our trip now seemed so inadequate and long ago, I seemed to now see all the gaps in the plans, and just then Peter confessed he had the whole route totally sorted, except for the bit in Northern Ireland. That was Pete speak for all of Northern Ireland.
Moments later, a large crowd of men came into the bar, ordering their beers with familiar accents, they then filled the tables around Pete and me. I was still lost in dire situations of being homeless and bikeless in some bandit filled county in Ireland, when Pete said, they're cyclists too. It turned out the group of men had arrived in cars and mini-buses from Manchester and were cycling back home taking 3 days to raise sponsorship for some cricket club. Smug as anything, our nerves evaporated as we baldly described how we were on our own crusade, without the aid of support vehicles and meticulous plans, and a target of completing a journey several times further than their stroll in the park. After talking our nerves away, we wished them well and headed off to our nights abode on the floor of the beautiful All Saints Church, Gretna.
An enthusiastic kick in the ribs from Pete woke me up (the first of many) as he insisted we set off at first light. After little sleep in the sleeping bag Pete had brought for me, or was it possibly a duvet cover through shivering most of the night, I decided I'll be hunting out an Artic conditioned bag that day at any cost. We dropped off the church key with Val who'd let us in the previous evening, and set off with flat jack and banana for breakfast.
Pete's love for back roads and eternal faith in the alternative being a short cut, down hill and a much better route got the better of me that morning, as it did most times, and amazingly it only put an extra 3 miles on the journey. Having all day/night to reach our destination, we made sure we stopped for a full breakfast, lunch and afternoon tea along the route at Dumfries, Gate of Fleet and Newton Stuart.
The last hours cycling were in darkness and cat eyes, not pushing any speed and ensuring we stayed clear of the occasional large lorries passing, racing for the last ferry of the evening. Several false mirages of Stranraer appeared ahead as orange glows in the sky, which turned out to be just small dwellings on the route.
At last at about 9pm we came across an out of town pub/restaurant claiming to be just 3 miles from our destination.
After another feast and what felt like an indulgent slow paced day, we felt like the "fat lads" on tour and wondered if our trip would cause us to put weight on in the end. A perfect end to our Scottish leg greeted us as we found the terminal waiting room at the ferry port was fully carpeted and centrally heated; perfect for a few hours sleep.
More sleep on the boat and then another early 7.15am cycling start allowed us to pedal the misty morning into Belfast. Pete wanted to head north, but I had other plans. A friend's mother had invited us to breakfast in Dun Donald, West of Belfast, so there we headed through the sleeping city, passing the graffiti and political murals, and then arrived in Dondonald where at 8am Rosaline stood on her street with yellow ribbons tied up welcoming us. After a wonderful hearty Irish breakfast, the handle bars were now bending, we set off again, firstly back into Belfast and then turning North for Antrim. Our tandem was perhaps an odd sight for Belfast on an early Sunday morning as we attracted kids to throw stones at us, which didn't help as Pete did his best to steer the tandem over the roughly maintained Belfast roads and pot holes.
After a 20 mile climb out of the city, we hit a terrific downhill 10 mile stretch where we made excellent progress at speed, before then turning into the rolling hills around Londonderry. Pushing hard down each hill, we got the bike moving fast enough to effortlessly lift us to the top of the next time and time again.
Late afternoon we eventually came to a village where we both needed a break. With miles still to ride, we asked if we could just have tea and hot water in the only open hotel/bar we'd seen, where we were then warmly invited in to tell them about our route. The whole village seemed to be in the hotel having a craic and a laugh, and we were given a couple of drinks on the house before we then found the bike had got a flat tyre. In the comfort of the hotel, the owner helped us with the bike, changes the tube, and wished us well as we set off to finish the day. Unfortunately, after just 5 miles the tube blew again, and then we suspected the wheel had been damaged from the Belfast roads. A passing car pulled up within moments of us starting to walk, and the lady driver offered to help. Amazingly, we'd just walked 50 yards passed her brother's house, who apparently knew everything about bikes and would surely be able to help.
Good fortune came to us again as now in the comfort of her brother's garage, with his help, we were able to strip down the wheel and find the fault. Fortunately, it was just the tyre, which would need replacing, but being a Sunday, we were forced to leave the bike in the garage and return in the morning with a new tyre. We set off, found a barn and slept the night before returning the next morning. At that time, there were rumours of Peter's Auntie from 20 miles away coming to rescue us, take us in, feed and water us before returning us the next morning with a replacement tyre. Don?t believe any of it.
Part of our ambitious route plan took us near Croagh Patrick, a 2,550 foot mountain near Westport on the West coast. Pete always suspected we couldn?t make it in the time, and now the alternative route missing Westport looked the more sensible choice.
Croagh Patrick was famously climbed by St Patrick himself, where today Catholics each year attempt their own pilgrimage, sometimes bare footed to offer prayers. If we were able to reach Croagh Patrick, we intended to climb it too, offering our own prayers for the homeless, the volunteers and all the support we've had for our own crusade around the UK.
The next morning we thanked Robert Young for looking after the bike and his help, and we departed flying at great speeds over the tops of Lima Vady hills heading now for Magilligan on the edge of the Foyle. We broke our land speed record touching 43 MPH on that route as we headed now for Southern Ireland into Donegal, crossing the Lough Foyle on a 10 minute ferry to make up lost time from the day before.
The Republic greeted us with our first down pour, and after a short time it seemed to make it through to our bones as we edged around the Foyle and then over the Donegal peat hills into Carndonah. The gorgeous smell of turf fires burning filled the air as we flew down the wet lanes passing thatched cottages. Eventually, a few miles out in the country side, Pete found the left turn up a 50 degree bray, where we gave one last burst of effort for the day to make it up to the farm where Pete's Uncle Eddy lived. After oiling the bike, we got cleaned up, with all our clothes/gear being dried in just hours on racks above their own turf fire.
We had a late night with numerous visits to local McDonalds related to Pete in that area, each offering wonderful hospitality, and lastly beds to sleep and slumber. At this point we were as far from London as you could be in the UK/Ireland, and we both recognized we'd now have to cycle 190 miles in the next 2 days if we were to have chance of climbing Croagh Patrick. Quietly, I was determined and confident, even if it meant pedaling into the night.
The next morning, we set off passing a 7th century AD Cross in the town where we paid our respects to St Patrick and prayed for a couple of local girls in their 20s that had died just days before in a car accident. With the sun in our faces, we turned South East over hills passing small lakes, and crossing the Inishowen Peninsula of Donegal to reach Lough Swilly. Although flatter, the route from this point, the next 85 miles took us straight South into severe head winds right through County Donegal, over Seefin Mountain via the Windy Gap which was like a wind tunnel, and gave us distant views of Dingle Bay. We stopped only to water the land, eat more chocolate, and by now we were nearly smoking the electrolytic energy powder we'd been getting slowly addicted to in our water. We began fantasizing about a Danish leg massage at this point, or a bowl of pasta, in no particular order.
Ticking off 20 mile chunks at a time before our 110 mile day's destination, we continued slowly on thanking the heavens for holding the rain off through the wind, while Pete got blown to pieces and I kept tucked down behind him. Too windy / noisy to talk, I intensely counted minutes/miles, and Pete chilled as ever watched for wild life, noticed girls in pink wellies fishing, and burst out poetic quotes of Yates and Dylan.
Earlier in the afternoon, I'd received a call from a lady who had heard of our ride, and offered to put us up near Sligo in her farm. Great news, but it was now going dark, and we still had 40 miles to cover to reach Sligo. We realized it was going to be a long long day.
We needed a stop and stretch just after Castle Shannon, just 20 miles short of our target, and we pulled into a petrol station. Just as we stopped the heavens opened with the rain beating the roof like hail stones, but we put that out of our minds as we sought hot drinks and something warm to eat. The busy but sparse petrol station amazingly had some hot food and drinks available, but no seating. Pete then blagged I was feeling faint, at which point a chair was rushed out to me, where I relaxed, eat/drank and occasionally put my head between my legs as other customers shopped around me.
Just as we set off again, the rain cleared completely, and it looked like the rain had been timed just right for our break.
Another 2 hours later, 22:30 we'd reached Sligo, cycled 110 miles and
crossed right through the town, when we realized we didn't really know how to get to our destination. Pete had lost his glasses now, and the small unmapped village of Dromard was another 13 miles away.
Our instructions were to get to the village of Dromard and ask in the Fiddlers Elbow for directions to Aileen?s house. We pedaled on, tired and weary now, and then at the next set of traffic lights, a van on our right offered to take us towards Dromard. In traffic, the car behind even helped load the tandem into the van, and relieved, we climbed in the front for directions. Our guardian angel driver listened to our story, the purpose for our ride and in the end drove 9 miles out of his way to take us straight to the Fiddlers Elbow pub.
There we found the 84 year old Aileen Neary perhaps more optimistic than us on our progress that day, was sat in her car outside the pub waiting to see us cycle past any moment. We thanked Simon the van driver, and cycled behind Aileens car as she drove the last couple of miles round the pitch black lanes to her farm.
Now, nearly 23:30, we showered, feasted and got all our clothes washed/dried again for the morning. Before sleeping, we both laughed at how amazingly things had worked out and how that if the van hadn't appeared at the time it did, then Aileen would have been waiting in her car for a good long time!
Over breakfast we heard about how Aileen had raised 7 children on her own on the farm and how life in Ireland was in years gone past. She was a wonderful lady, and insisted on giving us €50 for our charity as she wished us well on our way. She asked we remembered her to God in prayers at the top of Croagh Patrick if we made it.
We now had no doubts we could reach Westport now, where days and weeks before we set off, our contingency was always to reluctantly skip Westport if we ran out of time and head straight for Dublin. Confidently, we now took more scenic back roads, round Lough Coy, reed beds and quieter villages rather than more certain busy A roads. Closing in on Westport completing 65 miles, at Castle Var, just 10 miles short of our target, we sought out a pasta café to feed our legs for the climb and next days riding.
It was about 16:00, and we still had no accommodation arranged, but were focusing more on reaching the mountain in time to get up it in day light.
The first café we stopped at was crowded with women, all finishing for the Easter break, and so Pete/I sat at the end of a table with 6 other ladies enjoying their meal. Within moments, we were all chatting, and they were fascinated about our ride, and joked we were crazy to embark on Croagh Patrick that late in the afternoon. While we eat pasta, the ladies rallied to support us, and using their mobile phones, they contacted the local paper, radio station, and husbands to try to help us on our way. By the time we'd finished our hot drinks, pasta and refused a desert, the café owner had offered us the meal on the house for no cost, and the women had managed to book us in for no cost at all into a luxury hotel in Westport Castle Court Hotel.
Pete and me both begged silence in the bustling café, thanked the Irish and their wonderful generous kindness, ?blessed are we amongst women we said, and launched into our Daisy Daisy theme tune song. By the end, they were all singing and we got clapped out to our bike ready to fly onwards to Croagh Patrick. Slight embarrassment was Pete had to crawl back into the café in as we'd left a helmet behind.
Like the wind, we glided the last 10 miles into Westport, racing the daylight, abandoned the pannier in the hotel at the lily scented reception desk, and we then flew the last 5 miles to the foot of the 2,550 foot mountain. At 18:00, we hesitated at the bar at the base of the hill as we asked if we can hide our bike behind the pub as we waited for some sensible advise suggesting we would be foolish to attempt the climb that late in the day. Non came, so we were off!
Within the first 30 minutes, we past the last of the days climbers returning from the top, all querying why were going up now. Topped in mist it was difficult for us to fully assess the climb, but oddly it was refreshing to walk for a while after 5 days solid cycling. With my hand in the middle of Pete?s shoulders, I trusted him to guide be up, round over boulders, at times locking arms round drops and slippy edges.
The views were immense and rapidly gave me a great sense of height. After about 50 minutes of rapid climbing, we thought we'd reached the plateau as the route changed direction across a flatter plain and our now exposed position was filled with gales that took your breath away. Turning a corner, instead of an open summit I was sure we'd find, we instead saw a 60 degree ascent into the cloud over loose slate shale.
Saint Patrick was certainly with us on his mountain right then as we prayed our way upwards, praying for the homeless, the volunteers at the Wellspring, and for all the kind support we'd had on our journey so far. Trusting totally now in Pete, we completed the climb to the top, where in a shimmering misty light, the wind wrapped its way around us. We paused for just moments to hug and shout our cheers, before beginning the descent.
We'd both privately realized getting down would be tougher than the climb in the dark, and locking arms constantly, we saved each other from trips/falls all the way down. Although we had the bike light with us just in case, the shimmering glow that night seemed to highlight just enough of the floor hazards and path for us to make it down safely without a single scratch. Near the bottom we both confessed we'd started imagining on the ascent the possibility of mountain rescue coming for us, news stories of our climb attempt in cycling gear etc. Pete said he had faith in me to get us both down in the dark as long as he could navigate us to the top. I know I?d have surely died on that mountain without Pete that night as there was no way I could judge where the path went and couldn?t have found any shelter on my own. It was a great experience for both of us to co-operate in a different way to tandem cycling in a situation where we both felt reliant and vulnerable.
In the bar at the foot of the hill, with aching thighs we celebrated with our first Irish Guinness. The bar man thought we were either mad or brave to have tried it. Just as well he didn't say that before we set off. After changing/eating in the hotel, we walked into Westport to celebrate achieving the pinnacle of our journey. We called in at Matt Molloy?s bar, a member of the famous Chieftains band, and invited them to play in Stockport next year for our charity. We'd just missed him unfortunately, but the staff were still enthusiastic with our proposal and asked us to drop a note in with more information.
Another rumour suggested we slept in a large suite with 2 double beds and tea/coffee facilities before getting up early to have a 5 star breakfast the next morning. Our version however is that we slept in the bath and on the hard tiled floor, before skipping breakfast to make a good start on the next day's journey. Pete chased a foreign sounding reception girl on the way out of the hotel in the morning, just to find out if she was Danish or not for our piece of mind.
Thursday, we began the 160 mile cross Ireland trip for Dublin, now beginning our journey home. Flat and straight, we had to pedal every inch, with no significant down hills to satisfy the legs. After 40 miles, we stopped in Charles Town for a hot drink and stretch. Pete's cousin Marie had offered to put us up that night, which was along our route, but not far enough to leave a distance we could achieve the next day in time to get our boat home from Dublin. We had to at least cover 80 miles that day to be sure we'd have time on Good Friday to reach our boat departing Dun Laoghaire at 21:30 without our tiring legs failing us.
We then got a call from Marie, who had arranged for a construction worker working on a site well past half way to Dublin to meet us, store the bike, and run us back to Marie as he lived in her area. We just had to get to him for 5pm when he would be finishing for the day. At that time, this left us with an awful long way to pedal, about 65 miles in 4 hours.
We planned to ride past Marie's place, dump the pannier, and race a lot lighter to meet our contact. At a ferocious pace, we flew along the N5, and now the rain poured and poured for the first time since Donegal. Waves saturated us from passing lorries as we chased the miles down towards Longford. Pumping all the way, with no stops, we arrived at just 5pm, and then looked for the directions to Edwards Town, just 2 miles away. We then found the sodden directions meant just 2 miles before Edwards Town, which was another 13 miles still to go. With shot legs, we did our best now riding through rush hour traffic hoping to stop our builder friend that might be coming towards us in his white van.
Another 40 minutes later, like drowned rats, we arrived at the building site, where thankfully our contact had patiently and faithfully waited for us.
We locked the bike in an empty garage, and relaxed in the front of the van that steam dried us for the 1 hour drive back over the 58 miles we'd just pedaled in 3 hours.
Good Friday was our last day in Ireland, and my legs really suffered from the sprint ride of the day before. With now just 70 miles to Dublin, we were able to relax and cruise at a walking pace, laying on the grass and enjoying the last hours we had in this wonderful country. Just before reaching Dublin, we found a pretty looking coffee house that served food next to a river. There I feasted on more pasta, had several hot mugs of hot water, and Pete had for once time to read the paper. It was 4pm, and we were only 10 miles from Dublin.
Like aliens in a posh restaurant, we felt conspicuous enough to explain our dress and rough appearance. By now though it felt like we were also turning into beggar boys, since as soon as we mentioned our journey and purpose, the staff came over and read our newspaper articles, made a donation, and then offered us the meal for free. The manager of the café then insisted she made us up some sandwiches for later too. Before saying farewell, we got the staff outside and the manager sat on the tandem for a photograph with us.
Through Dublin, we snapped photos from the bike, paused briefly to buy souvenirs for the family and each other, and cruised the last 6 miles along the coast road down to the port. A girl cyclist over took us commenting she admired the shamrock we had pinned to the pannier. Clearly foreign, we chased after her, raced her along the roads a short distance before catching up and demanding to know if she was Danish. German she said, I'm a nurse. Laughing, we escorted her on her journey to the hospital entrance where she was working before we continued on to catch our boat. Although ideally qualified, for some reason we really wanted a Danish leg massage.
We had informed Stenaline about our journey, who had fully supported us and had refunded the price of our tickets as a contribution to our charity. We had discussed some local press at Dublin to take photographs of us, but being 9pm on Good Friday this hadn?t been possible. However, on boarding the boat, we were invited into the Stena lounge, where complementary drinks and any food was offered to us. Unshaven and exhausted from the week however, we enjoyed a simple meal and a pint. We both ordered a second beer, but before we could drink half of it, we were asleep in the chairs we sat in.
The loud Tannoy on the ship woke us, where we then had to get to the car deck and prepare our bike for the short ride into Hollyhead's waiting terminal. Great, another warm, carpeted quiet corner greeted us, where we slept a few more hours.
Despite Pete's jolliness in the morning, it's still really annoying when it greats you first with yet another kick in the ribs and an enthusiastic come on, lets get off, first light. So, up and out we were off, blue sky and sun just above the horizon, we headed 23 miles across Anglesey for Bangor for breakfast. Wales was contrastingly less cheerful than any of the other counties and countries wed crossed, so we made a point of heartedly cheering the tourists up through the streets of Conway and Prestatyn with Pack Up Your Bags and Riding along on my push bike baby.
Taking a slower pace all day long, we headed home, crossing back into England about 4pm, and finally announcing our arrival on Pete's and my own street with a full "Daisy Daisy" melody at about 8pm. Pete and me planned a temporary separation for at least a week to satisfy our jealous wives, and to give ourselves some quiet time to firm up some ideas we have for a future Irish trip.
The 685 mile journey in the end too 8 days, and with the additional £250 donated by Irish well wishers on our route, we estimate to have raised over £2300 for the Wellspring center. Stena Line fully backed our challenge and refunded our £90 ticket costs as a way of supporting us further.
With each opportunity we've had to describe our round-UK venture, we've tried to describe how in every community there is a need to support broken people homeless in some sense that would benefit from others co-operating to offer help and support. Locally, the Wellspring Center which is constantly seeking further voluntary help, has proven for over 13 years we can all make a difference and help the homeless find independence and turn their lives around.
I hope you enjoyed this account, and on behalf of Pete and me we would like to thank you for your support.