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.
---
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.
No comments:
Post a Comment