Taking in Eire from a bicycle saddle The Tour de France starts in Ireland next weekend, but competitors will be going too fast to admire the wonderful scenery. Jeremy Seal toured the west coast at a more leisurely pace, with a champion to guide him. Times, 4/7/1998
It was on the tiny island of Inishbofin a few miles off Ireland's west coast that I rounded a corner and pedalled into a flock of sheep. I had been waiting for it to happen. As most Irish cliches are wont to do, the one about the roads best encapsulated by a hundred giftshop postcards - of a bike backed up behind sheep above the caption 'Traffic Jam in Ireland' - had finally come true.
Ireland is currently abuzz with bicycling as the Tour de France prepares to kick off here, visiting the country for the first time in its history. Between 11 and 13 July, the three race stages, in Dublin, through County Wicklow, and from Enniscorthy to Cork, will attract an estimated worldwide television audience of 950 million, and roadside crowds of up to 2 million. Even the World Cup Final on 12 July looks set to play second fiddle to the biggest sporting event ever to be staged in Ireland.
Competitive cycling has a passionate following here, home to legendary bicycling names like Sean Kelly and 1987 Tour de France winner Stephen Roche. But while Ireland will pass in a pedal-pumping blur for the Tour's 200-odd competitors, there are many cyclists who would argue that this is no place to race through. A less committed breed of pedaller, who believes that running into sheep jams is what cycling in Ireland is all about, comes here to take all the time in the world marvelling at the country's green, beguiling landscapes and its 'soft' cycling weather, and sampling the many sights, pubs and the unscripted encounters along the way.
The roads themselves are a particular attraction for cyclists, notably those from the more bustling corners of Europe and the States. Safe and largely empty, their timewarp sense is no twee fiction, as I soon discovered when I joined upmarket cycling operators Celtic Trails for a May week's touring in the west of Ireland, through Connemara and County Clare. Celtic Trails' Paul McQuaid, who has ridden all over the world, considers Irish drivers among the most attentive to cyclists the world over. There are, of course, black spots to avoid; the Ring of Kerry and Killarney can be bumper-to-bumper coaches, and the Aran island of Inishmore's few roads tend to be overrun by cyclists, minibuses and consequent ill-feeling in the high season.
The engaging and professional McQuaid has the advantage of coming from Ireland's most conspicuous cycling dynasty. He he has eight siblings in the Irish bicycling business running bike shops, administrating biking events and publishing magazines and guides on the sport. A champion cyclist himself, he has ridden just about every road in Ireland. When he retired from competition after winning the Tour of Ireland in 1995, he had bikes and bike-mending, not to mention the best Irish roads, accommodation and bars, down pat. Everything, in short, to create superior cycling itineraries for the leisurely tourer.
And so we took to our excellently maintained, lightweight bikes. Most days, we would tackle a wholly manageable thirty or so miles. But the back-up vehicles, which carried our luggage, were always close at hand and could also carry as many bicyclists plus bicycles as, say, got distracted at lunchtime by the delights of a pub (Monks' in Ballyvaghan; Beola in Roundstone), or plain got tired. There was no obligation to reach our destination on two wheels. Nor was there ever that tiresome sense of having to push on, which is how it should be in Ireland.
The back-up vehicle also allowed us to skip the rare urban stretches - cycling through Galway City has few devotees - and to concentrate on some of the west of Ireland's finest cycling roads; the wonderful Connemara coast road via Roundstone to Clifden; the lanes north of Clifden towards the wild Renvyle peninsular; the Clare coast road to Doolin, with views across Galway Bay to the Aran islands; and the Burren road inland through Kilfenora and Corrofin to Ennis.
One morning, we cycled to Cleggan across a flat landscape lined by the deep, mocha gashes of peat cutters to catch the ferry boat to Inishbofin, about four miles long.
'We're going to cover every inch of the island's road network,' McQuaid said ambitiously. 'Which should take us about an hour so long as we don't hurry it.' Beyond the sheep jam a soulful Irish landscape unfolded. There was a poetically dilapidated church surrounded by a flourishing graveyard that, for want of space, had invaded the ruins of the building with a thicket of celtic crosses. Over the graves, pieces of fishing net had been pegged to prevent the elaborate floral wreaths disappearing on the westerly wind. A pattern of grey drystone walls ran down to the shore, and a sea paint-splattered with bright green islets where cormorants stood flexing their long necks. The road beyond the island's only bar, where we stopped for lunch, dwindled to a rutted track. It led above a beach which looked over to the island of Inishark. Inquisitive oyster catchers were investigating the message of love 'Clare X Seamus' which had been written in letters twelve feet tall on the pure white sand.
We left the quay back at Cleggan to cycle the twelve miles to that evening's destination on the remote Renvyle Peninsular. Light rain was falling. The hedges were heavy with fuschia and rhodedendron, and the waterlogged lowlands were stippled with yellow irises. We were staying at Renvyle House, an atmospheric - some say haunted - mock-Elizabethan pile that was once home to Oliver St John Gogarty, Irish revivalist man of letters, surgeon and politician. He was also a champion cyclist, cycling 20 miles in a record 53 minutes in 1899, which was impressive but increasingly not our idea of progress. Our small group, mostly Americans, had settled into the sort of leisurely Irish rhythm that Renvyle House serviced magnificently; log fires, pints of Guinness and protracted games of snooker.
The food at Renvyle House was typically good (Ireland is fast ditching its culinary notoriety). I lived on an unrelieved diet of kippers and porridge for breakfast, seafood chowder for lunch and something proper for dinner, washed down by Chateau Celtic Trails, who must be the only cycling operator to own a share in a French vineyard. The cycling did wonders for my appetite. One afternoon, pedalling down the Clare coast near Fanore, a sign on the road read 'Fulacht Fia - Ancient Cooking Place'. Thinking the ancients might have left something behind, I checked it out (I hadn't eaten for at least forty-five minutes).
The cycling was magnificent, and interesting sights were never far away on the wild landscapes; the romantic ruins of castles and ivy-tangled farmhouses; Kylemore Abbey and the spectacular Cliffs of Moher. But what I will chiefly remember were the pet enthusiasms of my fellow cyclists. Pat, who played in an Irish folk band back home, had brought his beloved bagpipes all the way from Boulder, Colorado in the hope of teaming up with the real thing. We were staying in the Connemara town of Clifden, with its handsome main street of pastel-coloured houses, on the day that 95% of the Eire vote endorsed the Good Friday agreement. There was uproarious music in King's Bar that evening - guitar, accordion and spoons - and the warmest of welcomes for Pat's bagpipes. He played rebel songs, 'A Nation Once Again' and 'Let Erin Remember', and drew thunderous applause, and several pints of Guinness for his efforts.
In the morning, a straggle of little Clifden girls dressed like fairy bridesmaids in white and ivory taffeta and silk were heading for their first communions, an important rite for seven-year olds in Ireland. But Pat was lost in memories of the night before.
'Just wait till I tell the guys back home,' he exulted, climbing onto his bike. As we cycled out of town, there were empty bottles of Jameson's in the window of the Clifden fish shop.
Then there was 71-year-old Massimo, a Japanese-American retired postmaster from rural California who insisted on collecting a franking mark in his journal at every post office we passed. There are, we discovered, a lot of post offices in rural Ireland. By the end of the week, Mass had collected about twenty. But Mass also ended up meeting lots of Irish postmistresses, and hearing endless stories of smalltown country life. He rode his bike at the Irish tempo and was rewarded accordingly; a greater prize, you might say, than any achievement in the Tour de France.
Jeremy Seal was a guest of Aerlingus and Celtic Trails.
Aerlingus (0181 899 4747) fly from London Heathrow to Shannon up to four times daily, and once daily from London Stansted, with fares from £79 return.
Celtic Trails (00 353 1 6619546; website http://www.celtictrails.com) offer week-long bicycling tours in Connemara and County Clare, including all transfers, transport, guides, hotel accommodation, food, wine at dinner; £IR750 (current exchange) per person. Bring your own bike or hire Celtic Trailss' fully-equipped, lightweight Giant Hybrids for IR£47 for the week. Celtic Trails are offering a week's special Tour de France in Ireland package (July 8th-15th), bicycling and watching the races (ED: worth checking whether this sold out by time you publish). The company is planning a new Donegal cycling itinerary for 1999.
Other Irish Cycling operators:
Go Ireland (freephone 0800 371203; website [email protected]) has budget 7-night cycling safaris from IR£299, and semi-guided packages from IR£250, staying in B&Bs and not including lunch and dinner.
Irish Cycling Safaris (00 353 1 2600749; website http://www.kerna.ie/ics/) has 7-night cycling safaris all over Ireland from IR£305, staying in B&Bs and not including lunch and dinner.
For general information on cycling in Ireland and a brochure with a complete list of Irish cycling operators, contact Walking Cycling Ireland (00 353 1 6688278; website http://www.kerna.ie/wci/)
Reading: Round Ireland in Low Gear by Eric Newby (Picador; £6.99)
It was on the tiny island of Inishbofin a few miles off Ireland's west coast that I rounded a corner and pedalled into a flock of sheep. I had been waiting for it to happen. As most Irish cliches are wont to do, the one about the roads best encapsulated by a hundred giftshop postcards - of a bike backed up behind sheep above the caption 'Traffic Jam in Ireland' - had finally come true.
Ireland is currently abuzz with bicycling as the Tour de France prepares to kick off here, visiting the country for the first time in its history. Between 11 and 13 July, the three race stages, in Dublin, through County Wicklow, and from Enniscorthy to Cork, will attract an estimated worldwide television audience of 950 million, and roadside crowds of up to 2 million. Even the World Cup Final on 12 July looks set to play second fiddle to the biggest sporting event ever to be staged in Ireland.
Competitive cycling has a passionate following here, home to legendary bicycling names like Sean Kelly and 1987 Tour de France winner Stephen Roche. But while Ireland will pass in a pedal-pumping blur for the Tour's 200-odd competitors, there are many cyclists who would argue that this is no place to race through. A less committed breed of pedaller, who believes that running into sheep jams is what cycling in Ireland is all about, comes here to take all the time in the world marvelling at the country's green, beguiling landscapes and its 'soft' cycling weather, and sampling the many sights, pubs and the unscripted encounters along the way.
The roads themselves are a particular attraction for cyclists, notably those from the more bustling corners of Europe and the States. Safe and largely empty, their timewarp sense is no twee fiction, as I soon discovered when I joined upmarket cycling operators Celtic Trails for a May week's touring in the west of Ireland, through Connemara and County Clare. Celtic Trails' Paul McQuaid, who has ridden all over the world, considers Irish drivers among the most attentive to cyclists the world over. There are, of course, black spots to avoid; the Ring of Kerry and Killarney can be bumper-to-bumper coaches, and the Aran island of Inishmore's few roads tend to be overrun by cyclists, minibuses and consequent ill-feeling in the high season.
The engaging and professional McQuaid has the advantage of coming from Ireland's most conspicuous cycling dynasty. He he has eight siblings in the Irish bicycling business running bike shops, administrating biking events and publishing magazines and guides on the sport. A champion cyclist himself, he has ridden just about every road in Ireland. When he retired from competition after winning the Tour of Ireland in 1995, he had bikes and bike-mending, not to mention the best Irish roads, accommodation and bars, down pat. Everything, in short, to create superior cycling itineraries for the leisurely tourer.
And so we took to our excellently maintained, lightweight bikes. Most days, we would tackle a wholly manageable thirty or so miles. But the back-up vehicles, which carried our luggage, were always close at hand and could also carry as many bicyclists plus bicycles as, say, got distracted at lunchtime by the delights of a pub (Monks' in Ballyvaghan; Beola in Roundstone), or plain got tired. There was no obligation to reach our destination on two wheels. Nor was there ever that tiresome sense of having to push on, which is how it should be in Ireland.
The back-up vehicle also allowed us to skip the rare urban stretches - cycling through Galway City has few devotees - and to concentrate on some of the west of Ireland's finest cycling roads; the wonderful Connemara coast road via Roundstone to Clifden; the lanes north of Clifden towards the wild Renvyle peninsular; the Clare coast road to Doolin, with views across Galway Bay to the Aran islands; and the Burren road inland through Kilfenora and Corrofin to Ennis.
One morning, we cycled to Cleggan across a flat landscape lined by the deep, mocha gashes of peat cutters to catch the ferry boat to Inishbofin, about four miles long.
'We're going to cover every inch of the island's road network,' McQuaid said ambitiously. 'Which should take us about an hour so long as we don't hurry it.' Beyond the sheep jam a soulful Irish landscape unfolded. There was a poetically dilapidated church surrounded by a flourishing graveyard that, for want of space, had invaded the ruins of the building with a thicket of celtic crosses. Over the graves, pieces of fishing net had been pegged to prevent the elaborate floral wreaths disappearing on the westerly wind. A pattern of grey drystone walls ran down to the shore, and a sea paint-splattered with bright green islets where cormorants stood flexing their long necks. The road beyond the island's only bar, where we stopped for lunch, dwindled to a rutted track. It led above a beach which looked over to the island of Inishark. Inquisitive oyster catchers were investigating the message of love 'Clare X Seamus' which had been written in letters twelve feet tall on the pure white sand.
We left the quay back at Cleggan to cycle the twelve miles to that evening's destination on the remote Renvyle Peninsular. Light rain was falling. The hedges were heavy with fuschia and rhodedendron, and the waterlogged lowlands were stippled with yellow irises. We were staying at Renvyle House, an atmospheric - some say haunted - mock-Elizabethan pile that was once home to Oliver St John Gogarty, Irish revivalist man of letters, surgeon and politician. He was also a champion cyclist, cycling 20 miles in a record 53 minutes in 1899, which was impressive but increasingly not our idea of progress. Our small group, mostly Americans, had settled into the sort of leisurely Irish rhythm that Renvyle House serviced magnificently; log fires, pints of Guinness and protracted games of snooker.
The food at Renvyle House was typically good (Ireland is fast ditching its culinary notoriety). I lived on an unrelieved diet of kippers and porridge for breakfast, seafood chowder for lunch and something proper for dinner, washed down by Chateau Celtic Trails, who must be the only cycling operator to own a share in a French vineyard. The cycling did wonders for my appetite. One afternoon, pedalling down the Clare coast near Fanore, a sign on the road read 'Fulacht Fia - Ancient Cooking Place'. Thinking the ancients might have left something behind, I checked it out (I hadn't eaten for at least forty-five minutes).
The cycling was magnificent, and interesting sights were never far away on the wild landscapes; the romantic ruins of castles and ivy-tangled farmhouses; Kylemore Abbey and the spectacular Cliffs of Moher. But what I will chiefly remember were the pet enthusiasms of my fellow cyclists. Pat, who played in an Irish folk band back home, had brought his beloved bagpipes all the way from Boulder, Colorado in the hope of teaming up with the real thing. We were staying in the Connemara town of Clifden, with its handsome main street of pastel-coloured houses, on the day that 95% of the Eire vote endorsed the Good Friday agreement. There was uproarious music in King's Bar that evening - guitar, accordion and spoons - and the warmest of welcomes for Pat's bagpipes. He played rebel songs, 'A Nation Once Again' and 'Let Erin Remember', and drew thunderous applause, and several pints of Guinness for his efforts.
In the morning, a straggle of little Clifden girls dressed like fairy bridesmaids in white and ivory taffeta and silk were heading for their first communions, an important rite for seven-year olds in Ireland. But Pat was lost in memories of the night before.
'Just wait till I tell the guys back home,' he exulted, climbing onto his bike. As we cycled out of town, there were empty bottles of Jameson's in the window of the Clifden fish shop.
Then there was 71-year-old Massimo, a Japanese-American retired postmaster from rural California who insisted on collecting a franking mark in his journal at every post office we passed. There are, we discovered, a lot of post offices in rural Ireland. By the end of the week, Mass had collected about twenty. But Mass also ended up meeting lots of Irish postmistresses, and hearing endless stories of smalltown country life. He rode his bike at the Irish tempo and was rewarded accordingly; a greater prize, you might say, than any achievement in the Tour de France.
Jeremy Seal was a guest of Aerlingus and Celtic Trails.
Aerlingus (0181 899 4747) fly from London Heathrow to Shannon up to four times daily, and once daily from London Stansted, with fares from £79 return.
Celtic Trails (00 353 1 6619546; website http://www.celtictrails.com) offer week-long bicycling tours in Connemara and County Clare, including all transfers, transport, guides, hotel accommodation, food, wine at dinner; £IR750 (current exchange) per person. Bring your own bike or hire Celtic Trailss' fully-equipped, lightweight Giant Hybrids for IR£47 for the week. Celtic Trails are offering a week's special Tour de France in Ireland package (July 8th-15th), bicycling and watching the races (ED: worth checking whether this sold out by time you publish). The company is planning a new Donegal cycling itinerary for 1999.
Other Irish Cycling operators:
Go Ireland (freephone 0800 371203; website [email protected]) has budget 7-night cycling safaris from IR£299, and semi-guided packages from IR£250, staying in B&Bs and not including lunch and dinner.
Irish Cycling Safaris (00 353 1 2600749; website http://www.kerna.ie/ics/) has 7-night cycling safaris all over Ireland from IR£305, staying in B&Bs and not including lunch and dinner.
For general information on cycling in Ireland and a brochure with a complete list of Irish cycling operators, contact Walking Cycling Ireland (00 353 1 6688278; website http://www.kerna.ie/wci/)
Reading: Round Ireland in Low Gear by Eric Newby (Picador; £6.99)
