The Hitchhikers Guide to Ireland Part 2: Conquering Slea Head

Before I conclude this hitching experience to one of Ireland’s most picturesque locations, I think it’s relevant to tell you how I even heard about the town of Dingle in the first place. A few weeks before I left for this trip a trio of Irish lads came into the pizza shop as they had just recently made their way over to Newtown Square to work for a Software company and were out for some West Chester craic (Irish for fun). We chatted for a while about places we’d been and I told them the plans I had brewing in my head. I had been putting off buying my plane ticket for months, one of those things I knew I wanted to do, but just couldn’t pull the trigger on. As we do as faith based beings, I assigned my own meaning to this encounter and promptly purchased my ticket that night.

One of the most important things I got out of that conversation was the town of Dingle. I had never been and they insisted with great passion that this was a spot you couldn’t pass up. They were also from County Clare, which is just a stone’s throw away from Dingle and this gave me even more reason to take their word for it.

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Once I made it to Dingle and the row of hostels in the city center I was really surprised and a little nervous that the first hostel I stopped at turned out to be booked for the night (..on a Tuesday). I did get in some small talk with the host there and he invited me to come watch his Gaelic football match the next day. I had never seen Gaelic football live, and even if it was amateur it was something I would later take advantage of.

I continued down the street and came to the purple exterior of “The Grapevine”, which turned out to be the most friendly and communal hostel I had ever stayed at. It was essentially a four bedroom home acting as a hostel with a kitchen, dining room, and family room on the bottom floor with bedrooms on the next two levels filled with bunk beds. The current manager was few years older than me from California and the other main employee was around the same age and from Dingle. This was the perfect combination because you had the familiarity of home as well as the perspective of a local under your fingertips.

That night I walked into a family dinner being made for the hostel, but respectfully passed it up for some of Dingle’s signature fish and chips. Before we went out we had two or three guitars going in the family room for a mini jam session. We ended up at the only bar in town open after midnight and after a couple pints of Guinness I retired early because the next day I would take on Slea Head, Dingle’s most grueling bike trail along the Western end of the peninsula. A biker in Galway had told me about this circular route that makes up part fhe Wild Atlantic Way and spans about 60K all along steep cliffs and winding road. I knew I wouldn’t be able to stay in the saddle the whole trek, but I was pumped to put my most recent biking skills to the test.

Down by the Sea

The next morning and my only day in Dingle I woke up to a downpour ringing against the windows. I had some communal jam and toast and chatted for a while with the housemates before the sun shot through clear skies. A big lesson Ireland teaches you is to take every day as it comes, and this day was a perfect example. I can’t tell you how freeing it is to be away from the weatherman and weather forecasts that overcrowd our televisions and smartphones. Sure, knowing the weather is important for planning big events and knowing what to wear, but in the end it can always change and keeping your head devoid of what the next day’s weather will be like clears away expectations and makes room for happier, more present thoughts.

I ended up asking Cole, the hostel manager from Cali, if he would let me borrow his semi-rusted out cruiser sitting on the back patio for my journey. He said of course, and it ended up saving me the 20 or 30 euro it would’ve cost to rent a bike. I filled up my tires at the bike shop next door and made my way for Ventry, the next town over. Before I left I got some advice from Robert, the local hostel worker who pointed out on the map where a good place to turn off and head back to Dingle would be. After I got to Ventry, there was a waiter having a smoke on a picnic table on the side of the street. I stopped to make sure I was headed in the right direction and got even better advice on where to turn off to avoid a painstaking mountain climb. I made it about five more miles along the coast before I stopped a third time to buy some baked goods from a lady selling out of her van just before the beach at Coomenole Strand. I revised my route one final time after she gave me one final piece of advice on where to turn off.

Commenole Strand

Commenole Sketch

Once I made it to the inlet I sat my bike next to a waist high stonewall and walked down the side of a hill to reach the shore. The water was absolutely frigid but my body temperature was steaming so I jumped in and lasted about two minutes before I hopped back out. The view was absolutely stunning so I made a quick sketch of the beach and headed back out to the trail. As soon as I got on my bike and started to peddle I could feel a significant lag in my front tire. I stopped immediately to feel the tire and could tell it was completely deflated. I inspected the tire for any major holes or slashes but found nothing. I talked to a few folks in the parking lot to see if they were headed back to Dingle but had no such luck. In the back of my mind I knew I wanted to finish the ride, even if it would be with a flat tire, so I continued on.

I managed to make it a mile before another biker passed me on the opposite side and I flagged him down to ask if he had a pump on him, which he luckily did. It was no use however, because as soon as the tire was inflated it would just lose all the air within a couple minutes. I thanked him and ventured on, making it another mile before a shirtless man wearing aviators stopped me to ask if I was alright. I told him about the tire, and in a thick English accent he said, “Oi mate! I think I have a kit in my boot!” He went to the trunk of his enterprise rent a car and pulled out a patch kit. He told me I could have it and I graciously thanked the Liverpudlian for his help and slinked on.

A fierce determination fueled me to keep going and not even half a mile down the road I spotted an RV parked just off the side of the road. This RV was home to an older German couple who were very friendly, but spoke limited English. I was able to convey my problem and the fact that I needed a pump in order to fix my tire. The woman, who did all of the talking spoke some German to her husband who went back into the RV to retrieve a small pump and a couple cartridges of CO2.

When he came back out the wife explained the pump would only function with these cartridges, similar to the ones you’d use for paintball. I took the tire and tube off the rim with the help of a screwdriver and began searching for the hole. I ended up finding a pinhole size puncture right in the middle of the tube. I applied the patch kit and threw the tire back onto the rim while the German man inserted the cartridge into the pump and managed to inflate the tire while white CO2 mist sprayed about. The two cartridges seemed like they were holding, so I thanked the couple and went on my way.  Before I left they said they would be heading my direction in fifteen or twenty minutes, and if they saw me struggling I could hop a ride.

Approaching Mount Eagle and the "Beehive Huts"

I saw the couple’s RV a few more miles down the road while looking over my shoulder. They pulled over just behind me so I decided to stop and let them know everything was alright. They tried to convince me to ride with them back to Dingle, but the tire was holding up fine and although I had 10-15 more miles to go the stubborn American in me wanted to finish what I set out to do. 

I would explain to people that the ride in itself was a borderline sensory overload. Biking along a coast, nonetheless hundreds of feet above sea level, combined with an infinite view of the Atlantic Ocean and sunny skies was enough to make me fall of my bike. I practically did a couple times. It's an incredible experience to just look to the side and see crashing waves, giant rocks and seabirds cruising about. The pictures and video here don’t quite do it justice, but it gives you a good idea. I can’t imagine being a local or living nearby and being able to bike that trail on the reg. I ran into several people whose reality that was. 

The last five miles of the route I took was a relaxing straightway just barely on a downward slope, which helped make up for the last few hills I had to climb to make it there. When I got back into town it was just before eight and I decided to see if I could still make the football match that was scheduled to start at seven. I rode to the bar we went to the night before in order to ask for directions to the pitch and who walks out but the German lady that helped sort out my bike situation. She had a look of astonishment on her face I thanked her again for the help and we went our separate ways for good. I ended up catching the last fifteen minutes of the Gaelic football match, which turned out to be pretty entertaining. From watching two people run into each other at full speed with no pads it became pretty obvious that the Irish don't have much regard for their bodies (tipped off by their drinking habits).

I would go out later that night and be confronted by what I thought was a stranger who greeted me with a hearty handshake. It took the guy several explanations to explain he was the one who lent me the patch kit. At first I didn’t recognize him in the slightest with a shirt on and no glasses, but when I did I gave him big hug. These re-encounters I had in town were another sign fate was in my favor; I got to thank these generous folk again and they would know I safely conquered Slea Head, rusted out cruiser, flat tire and all.

The Hitchhikers Guide to Ireland Part 1: Galway>Dingle

When we think of the term “hitchhiking” there’s almost always a negative connotation that goes along with it, especially if were talking in America. For whatever reason hitchhiking has lost its presence in the states and those that rely on such a means of transportation might be viewed as someone that’s dangerous, homeless or otherwise not right in the head. In Europe and various other continents around the world, however, hitch hiking is more alive than ever, to the point where some countries view it as a societal norm.

So how did I end up in a van with a former dog sled trainer halfway around the world? I first heard about hitching from an Australia friend I met in Barcelona. She had been utilizing the good in people as a means of transportation for the better portion of her adult life. This is the first person I got to know who genuinely thrived on a constant lifestyle of travelling and working abroad. The truth is, if you’re not tied down, your young and you have some sort of decent income then short to long term travelling can be one of the best things you’ll ever experience in this life. Of course she’s had her share of close calls, awkward moments with creepy drivers, and nights sleeping in parks, but none of this discouraged me from the idea of hitching, mainly because her countless success stories outweighed the bad.

Once I left Barcelona a couple weeks ago, the only plans I had made were to get back to Galway from Dublin, and then to Dingle at some point. After studying some maps the route from Galway down to Dingle in the Southwest seemed like it would be the perfect opportunity try out my friends suggestion. Certainly the amount of friendly folk in Ireland would create good conditions for hitching, and everyone I spoke with agreed this was a country where hitching was looked upon as a fairly common practice. So, after only a day back in Galway I decided I would head out to the N4 and try my luck.

On the trek down, like most things in life, the first hitch I caught was easily the best. It didn’t even take five minutes flashing a cardboard sign with “Limerick” scrawled across the front in green colored pencil before I caught a ride just before the bus stop (Hitch tip: For longer distance hitching always indicate the closest big city rather than your actual destination. You’re more likely to have someone pull over heading to that town rather than getting really lucky and landing a ride to your final destination).

Still standing with my sign I saw out of the corner of my eye a guy with a curly brown afro and a corduroy suit jacket waving me over. He’d pulled just around the corner in the car park because he didn’t want to stop in the bus lane. I followed him to a beat up burgundy van with purple flower petal stickers slapped across the sides. I threw my pack in the stripped out back and hopped in.

For the next hour I got to chat it up with Ian, an ex-dog sled trainer and current child social worker who was an Irish native on his way home from a ZZ Top concert in Cork the night before. I would describe Ian as a sophisticated hippie, one who is a free thinker yet still dresses well and not quite burnt out from years of drug experimentation. Ian lived for years doing odd jobs in Mexico City before pursuing his love for dogs and getting a free place to stay in Norway training huskies. He said he picks up hitchhikers whenever he gets the chance, mostly because he knows what it’s like to be the one waiting for a ride.

Give Me A Sign

The time in Ian’s unkempt van flew by, and unfortunately he could only take me as far as Gort before he had to turn off. He gave me his number in case I got stuck and mentioned his roommate just so happened to be twenty minutes away and on her way to Shannon airport, which is about another hours ride closer to Limerick. I should keep an eye out for a bright orange van he said.

After we parted ways I threw my stuff down just before a roundabout and put out my sign. Just like before it wasn’t five minutes before another car stopped, but they actually misread my sign for another town, so they continued on. A few minutes later a white worker van pulled over, and two behemoth Irish brothers inside told me they were going as far as Innis, a small town just before Limerick. Wanting to keep moving I squeezed in the front seat next to them. I could barely understand what the one brother was saying under his thick Irish rambling. Apparently they were on the way to Innis to look at a car for the one brother’s wife. They were nice enough, and when I thanked them for the ride the one brother I could understand shrugged it off and said, “Every man’s entitled to a lift”.

Once I got dropped in Innis, I had my first interaction with some fellow hitchers, a French brother and sister duo trying to get to Limerick for the night. The three of us posted up just before another roundabout, and after about twenty minutes rotating the sign holding we decided to start hoofing it to a main road towards the town. There was only a limited stretch of highway before the actual motorway, which is illegal to hitch on and the Garda will often pick you up for it. Not the type of ride you want.

We ended getting quite lucky after about a half hour of walking when we had one of those odd looking florist minivan types pull over. There was a guy inside driving the van by himself and was easily the nicest of all the drivers I had. He had a bag full of soccer balls in the back for the coaching he did for his two kids. I recall talking about the beautiful game for much of this ride, but unfortunately he could only take us to the outskirts of Limerick, which was the beginning of the hardest part of my journey.

The only money I ended up spending was to get in and out of the black hole of a city that’s Limerick, or “stab city” as it’s commonly referred to for its prominent nighttime street crimes (Luckily we had arrived here on a sunny day at three in the afternoon). We waited fifteen minutes at a bus stop just outside the city to catch the next one going into the city. Bread and clementines were exchanged as the duo told me the story how they snuck into Body and Soul, one of Ireland’s biggest music festivals, just the week before. This isn’t really the smartest move if you believe in karma, but sometimes the travelling lifestyle doesn’t afford much cash, which still doesn’t make it right but explained their reasoning.

The ten minute bus ride into limerick got a little interesting and quite awkward when a local recognized my accent and rightly pegged me for an American. She went on to tell my about her neighbor’s grandson who was apparently one of the lucky ones who survived the balcony collapse in California. I had heard the news a few days earlier, but the way the lady was talking to me made me feel like I had to represent that event and form an opinion solely based on my nationality. Shit happens was all I could come up with (I didn’t choose those words exactly, obviously). The lady was an eccentric one way talker, so whatever I said didn’t really matter anyhow. This wasn’t even the first time someone has come up to me asking for an explanation for a shooting/freak accident, but it’s definitely the first time in another country. Strangely enough I actually do have a slight connection to that accident through a friend in Galway who works for the crisis intervention company responsible for sorting out the aftermath of the bodies. Depressing stuff.

After we got off the bus the three of us headed to the tourist office to get some maps and plan our next moves respectively. One of the lady workers very confidently suggested the best hitching spots on the other side of the city. This was another sign hitchhiking was a pretty common occurrence in these parts. The French brother and sister stayed at the office to figure out a place to stay, and my next hour and a half was spent getting through to the other side and waiting for a ride. This easily took the most amount of time between any lift.

French Travel Mates

The next ride was the fourth Irish driver in a row (makes sense I guess?). He came to a skidding halt on the gravel side of the road and popped the automated boot to his black Audi. I stepped into a car filled with deep bass and three Irish twenty somethings with buzz cuts and tight t-shirts. The driver began switching lanes like he’d just bought, or stolen the car. I couldn’t tell which. I didn’t ask. We exchanged hometowns as he was changing the songs from his house trance mix every thirty seconds. The driver asked if I did any drugs, as if he had them right there, which to be fair is a common question I get whenever my hair reaches a certain length. “High on life” I like to respond to these questions. Corny indeed, but I needed to say something to combat the feeling I was in a scene from the movie Trainspotting. They told me they had just been “out for a drive” in Limerick, which is ether shady or sad depending on how you look at it. Either way I thanked them for continuing my journey and we parted ways on a rural road surrounded by thick brush.

I was now on the outskirts of a really small and obscure town called Askeaton. It took roughly fifteen minutes for a beat up maroon sedan to pull over. Inside driving was Kevin, a twenty five year old Irish factory worker. He told me he could take me as far as Listowel, only two towns away from Dingle, which ended up being a good thing, considering his emotionless demeanor. We shot the shit, and never got too personal in our discussion, but I could tell he was a little skeptical in the whole hitchhiking lifestyle. “You know what your doing can be dangerous,” he said at one point towards the end of the ride. I brushed it off and said of course, but people generally have good intentions. He then said something similar to his first comment, “Bad things can still happen,” which then made me feel a little uneasy in this guy’s presence.

I was relieved to say the least when we got to Listowel (Hitch tip: For a different reason then the first tip it is never wise to reveal your final destination early in a conversation. If you sense some bad vibes from your driver you can always just say the next town is your destination. Not until you’re sure this person is bearable and safe should you reveal where you’re headed. The same goes for drivers, as it’s generally a good idea to ask the hitcher where they’re headed first and decide later if you’d be willing to take them further if you’re even headed that way).

While this last ride probably made me feel the most nervous, the next one would have me feeling the most awkward.  I got a ride in Listowel from a Romania house cleaner who spoke limited English and could hardly comprehend what I was saying. She had these really peculiar eyes that were bugged out and felt as though they were looking into your soul every time she made eye contact with you. Definitely not the most ideal person you want driving you, but she could only take me as far as Tralee, which again was a good thing. Tralee is a fairly large city with an affinity for roses, so once she dropped me off I had to walk through to the other side, getting some directions along the way from a local who was wearing some artsy Stonehenge ear rings. She drew me a map and I jokingly asked if she could add some trees to the directions. She obliged and we went our separate ways.

Tralee would be the last town I passed through before reaching Dingle. Passing through is actually a really nice feeling that is both fleeting, yet enjoyable. You’re in a place you know you’ll only be for an hour or so and yet it’s special because of your limited time there. In this way it’s like a microcosm of life itself. A lot of people never lose the feeling that they’ll live forever, and then it’s too late when they realize they won’t. So hitching really can put this into perspective. Back to my last ride to Dingle.

Another black Audi would pick me up in Tralee, but instead of a pale skinned Irish lad it ended up being a black chap from London. He had the London accent and the type of energy that helps carry a party, always cracking jokes and commenting on whatever positivity surrounds you. I told him I was jealous of his ride to work, which consisted of green pastures and coastlines that extended as far as you could see. Mike lived just outside the town of Dingle so when he said he’d take me into town and grab some milk I was really surprised and grateful.

He told me the story how he’d met his Irish girlfriend in England and how they’d come to own 500 acres of Dingle land through a family inheritance. After seven hours of hitching I wasn’t quite in the talking mood but tried to keep an upbeat attitude nonetheless. The conversation was mostly concentrated on Dingle so I didn’t have much to add other then what everyone had told me about it's majestic scenery. Mike ended up dropping me off right before a row of hostels and we said our goodbyes. Eight hours, and seven rides later I had finally made it to Dingle. The bus takes six hours and in a car its about four, so not too shabby for a first timer. It wouldn’t be until the next day when I would discover why the journey down had mattered so much. 

Retiro Park Hitchhiker Poetry in Madrid (Might need to zoom to read!)