Day 67

December 9, 2021:

I knew I'd have a big day ahead of me. I was able to check Warmshowers in advance, and a gent named Hendrik in the small town of Ballinruan north of Ennis had agreed to take me in. But first, I had to cycle to Lahinch and then to Doolin to see the Cliffs of Moher. But I slept in a bit, then got distracted watching funny videos on my computer. Instead of leaving early to get a head-start towards the Cliffs, I ended up leaving only around 11 am, the checkout time. I heard Johnnie in the hallway, and knew I'd better go. I filled him in with my plan, musing that I wasn't looking forward to paying the 10 Euro entrance fee for the Cliffs of Moher. Johnnie said that for most people, they actually charge more because the 10 Euro doesn't include parking. And to be sure, it is nice, with the curated trails and walkways there. But Johnnie said there's a better way to do it. Instead of going to the main visitor center, the better way to do it is to go to Liscannor, where Mag's Head is. Here, you get a majestic view of the Cliffs along their entire length. There aren't the same guard rails, and there's actually a place you can walk down the cliff much closer to the water. There, two large chunks of rock have broken off from the coast, and you can walk through a deep fissure in the landscape. It's free, though a local house does charge 3 Euro for parking, but on a bike, I wouldn't need that. And being just in Liscannor, I wouldn't have to go all the way up to Doolin, and that would save me time getting to Ballinruan.

The road to Lahinch was pretty hilly, but I tried to keep a good pace. As much as I would be pleased to have a Warmshowers host this evening, I hate cycling against a deadline. Traveling just becomes much less fun, and feeling pressured to go fast would diminish my experience at the Cliffs of Moher. On the way to Lahinch, I forced myself to let go of that. I sent a message to Hendrik that I'd arrive pretty late, probably well after darkness fell. That way, I eased the time deadline for myself. If I could accept that I'd probably ride a good way through the night, then I wouldn't feel as rushed at the Cliffs. Lahinch was a bigger town than I had expected, and the beach there had a few outfits that offered surf lessons. One of those shops had the webcam that I shared with Palmer and Nieman when Storm Barra passed through. I thought there was a way through to the bridge over the Inagh River with a paved coastal trail that ran alongside the beach, but it ended up being a dead end, so I had to double back and go the long way around.

The road to Liscannor wasn't as bad as I had suspected: it was only the last kilometer or so that was a steep uphill climb. The road turned to gravel at some point, and I walked my bike the rest of the way up so as not to risk punctures. I parked it at a gate and climbed over the stone fence with the tiered steps provided.

And let me tell ya: The Cliffs of Moher are fantastic! It's a name seemingly straight out of Tolkien, but they live up to the hype. If you visit Ireland, you have to visit the Cliffs of Moher. I walked along the rim of the cliffs, careful not to get too close to the edge. The wind was staggering - literally. I needed to be far enough so as not to fall. I did lie down a few times to peer over the edge. There were a few sea caves or at least arches far below. The cliffs are majestic. I walked back to Mag's Head, taking a look at the ruined tower that now stands there. Some of the fencing around it had been blown over by Storm Barra. I could have crossed it to go inside, but it didn't look like the structure was very stable, and I would have had to treversed some treacherous ground to get there.

Instead, I walked down the trail to the point. The trail drops you down over the side of the cliff, such that one side becomes a wall that you walk along. The cliff face was layered rock with interesting cracking. I took a few pictures to send to Palmer since he collects interesting textures. Further down, I found a seat on a flat-topped rock with a stupendous view of the Atlantic and the craggy outcropping of land the trail went down on. I took a classic photo of my boots there over the ledge. The photo makes it look terrifying, but it wasn't a shear drop.

I spent a bit longer at the cliffs. You could really spend all day there. I felt a twinge of sadness in leaving. I had to get on my way if I had any chance of getting to the Warmshowers host in the evening. I could have cancelled, but I felt I had seen the cliffs. I'd done them justice. I had been there for something like two hours already, the time just slipping out of my fingers as I gazed out into the blue. On the way back to my bike, I made a brief gopro recording of how I felt at that moment.

Then I carried on. I used google maps to navigate to the house in Ballinruan. The route was complicated, with many back roads. I decided to basically just keep my phone out to check that I was going the right way. Since I had already clued Hendrik in that I would arrive past dark, I didn't feel stressed, but I still decided to rush. I wanted to see how quickly I could get there. I left the cliffs past 2 pm, and it would get dark at 4:15 or so. I had 50 km to go, roughly. That is basically my average distance for a whole day. So I got cracking, laying into the land before me. Up steep hills, gasping for air. Down the other sides of them, never letting up on my pedaling. If I could keep the gearing above (2,6), I did, since that keeps me at a good pace. I stopped a few times for water, gulping it down, then breathing raggedly. Normally when I cycle, I don't push myself this hard. I fall into a steady state sort of rhythm, and I can go for dozens of kilometers. But like this, I would wear myself ragged rather quickly.

I pushed on. The path didn't take me through any major towns as I plowed into the Irish countryside. I barely paused even crossing the N67. I did go through Corofin, and there were a few signs there for Burren National Park, which I plan on visiting tomorrow. I also passed through Dromore Woods, but only very briefly, and only along the road. I'd have to go back to get a proper experience there. It was dusk, and I rushed on. It was dark by the time I reached Crusheen.

I recalled that the Warmshowers host had labelled 'No meals, full kitchen access' so I stopped at a convenience store there to pick up some goods. I got a pre-prepped lasagna with mashed potatoes and that horrible chopped cabbage crap. The guy threw in the last chips he had for free, and I pretty quickly could tell why. The chips were stale, assuming that old french fry texture that's just so horrible. It's the one food that tastes markedly different when hot versus cold. I ate a bit of the chips on the way, but mostly just resumed cycling.

My front lights were both dead now, so I had to use the flashlight on my power bank as a headlight, mounted from my front saddle bags. The road out of Crusheen was crushingly dark (pun intended). My headlight barely illuminated the ground ahead of me, but I was confident any oncoming cars would see me. I was quickly swallowed by the night. There was a very steep hill up to Ballinruan, and put myself in the lowest gear and tried getting up. It was tough going, but I made it. There were a few bright lights emanating from the village, mostly from houses, though I think there was one street light. I pedaled past a wool studio and arrived at the house.

There was an open gate and I rode down a steep hill to the house. A man inside saw me, and approached the door as I knocked. It was Hendrik, and he showed me where to put the bike in the back. It was totally dark now, so I used my flashlight to light the way as he showed me to the off-grid cottage he has in his back yard. Inside was an old Irish furnace, a work bench, a sofa, and a mattress. Adjoining it was a small shower unit. I dropped some of my things off there, then asked where the bathroom would be. Hendrik had one inside the main house that I could use, but if I needed to use it in the middle of the night, there was also an outhouse he showed me up the path by the top of the property.

We went back to my bike and he looked over my equipment. That's a common thing for hosts to do. Then he invited me inside for drinks. I thought he meant tea, but he had a six pack of Dutch beer. His son Rowan was watching television on the sofa by the porch door when we walked in. I introduced myself. Then Hendrik and I took seats at the dining room table and cracked out the beer. We talked about cycling.

Much like Peter McColgan, Hendrik is an ultracycler of sorts. He also completed the Wild Atlantic Way, but he did so on his own, rather than taking part in the official race, and took nine days. That's still incredibly fast. He explained that he likes endurance cycling, and often pushes his limits to see how long he can cycle at a time. It's not so much about speed, but it is about continuous cycling. He's organized 200, 400, and 600 km cycling marathons, where they'll do all that in one go. He said sometimes you do just have to rest, and even taking a quick nap of as short as three hours can really do the trick. He said people in Ireland really don't mind where you wild camp, and he would often do so right at the side of the road. In a ditch, or on a grassy bit by the WAW signs. I was very impressed. Sure, I can cycle 40 miles per day, every day, fully laden with equipment. But going for days on end, through the night, without stopping is something that's out of my reach. In the words of Markus Hohmann - a previous host - it's not something I even aspire to do. I prefer to go much more slowly, and really see the territory I'm passing through, meeting cool people along the way. I'm very much a tourist. While I am motivated by the personal challenge I have set for myself, I'm not solely focused on doing just that; there are other elements that make such trips interesting for me.

He mentioned that his son Luke would be coming home later, and I almost did a double-take. I hadn't realized he had two sons, and had thought Rowan was an only-child. I don't know what had given me that impression. I later learned he had a third son, Kian, but I don’t think I met him. We opened a second set of beers. Then a third. The chicken that had been roasting in the oven was ready to come out, and Hendrik called Rowan for dinner, but he was asleep in his room. Instead of bothering him, we ate up. The conversation meandered.

His wife Laura came home at some point. I repeated a number of bits from my story as she asked questions. I didn't mind. Their dog Alfie - a white and brown dog - wandered through. He had big eyes and floppy ears and was very affectionate and willing to receive the scratches I have him. We talked late into the evening. I asked Rowan about GAA, since he was wearing a shirt that read that. He explained that GAA is the Gaelic Athletic Association, and that they play Gaelic football, hurling, and soccer. He plays hurling. I didn't know what that was. He explained, and showed me his hurling stick, which looked like a sharpened wooden axe. It's apparently like a combination of rugby and lacrosse, as best as I can understand it. The GAA is self-funded, so they host lotteries to raise money.

At some point, it was time for bed, so I excused myself and Hendrik handed me fresh sheets and a pillow. I would find a blanket on the couch in the cottage, but it was still a good idea to use my sleeping bag to keep warm. One of the boys had stretched an electric power cable all the way outside from the house to the cottage, so I'd be able to charge my devices there. I moved the rest of my stuff in, remembering to trigger my inreach device only very late: maybe around midnight. I used a firestarter and some of the dry wood in the cottage to light the furnace, and treated myself to a warm fire as I drifted off to sleep.