Day 13: Buncrana to Malin Head (to Derry)

Grey, damp, lonely roads spattered by drizzle and swathed in cloud this morning, but I was happy. I was heading to the end of the End to End, at Malin Head, somewhere I’d only ever heard mentioned on the shipping forecast.

This horse was evidently trying to hitch-hike north (pic). The drivers were having none of it.

I headed up the peninsula (pic), to dramatic misty scenery on the moortop. Down into Carndonagh, which I kept seeing as ‘Creamdoughnut’ – I was clearly thinking of coffee and cake – but it wasn’t even 8am yet and nothing was open, so I carried on to Malin.

The drizzle got serious, and I hung around under awning of the Malin Hotel until it opened, and had a coffee inside waiting for the promised improvement in weather.



Around nine I was on my way again for the ten miles or so to Malin Head. There was a riverside, pleasant if damp scenery, lumpy coastal views, beaches, headlands (pic). I lurched up and over a hill for the last time and scooted down to the Head itself.



I didn’t feel emotional, as I did when I finished my British End to End at John o’Groats in 1997. Then, a group of ladies setting off the other way applauded me as I arrived, and I burst into tears.

This however felt like more like a job done, another day at the office, though a rather wet and windy office.



But I enjoyed the moment and took my time. I explored the head itself (pic). Somewhere out there are the Hebrides, then the Faroes, then I start to feel sea-sick.

I got some Dutch mobile-homers to take my picture by the START/FINISH sign (pic) thoughtfully painted on to the road.

I snacked at a picnic table with a feeling of satisfaction, and of the wind round my nether regions. There was a tower of impressive ugliness.

Well, that was it. The Irish End to End, Mizen Head to Malin Head: 665 miles, two punctures, no malfunctions except a major wardrobe one at the beginning, a birthday party, some islands, some music, and a good mix of convivial evenings with friends and relaxed evenings of solitude.

A very enjoyable, varied and sociable way to start my collection of International End to Ends.

As I like to sum it up, Total cost for fortnight including all transport, food, accommodation and emergency underwear: £520. Value: Priceless.

So... I retraced my steps back over the hills and headed south towards another country. The sun came out and the scenic road alongside Lough Foyle took me to Derry. The only clue as to the location of the border, at Muff, was the low-key sign advising you that speed limits were now in miles an hour. No Welcome to Her Majesty’s United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, or Farewell Free Ireland.

I found a hostel in the centre of town and got out my pounds to spend in sterling again, grateful to be back to price levels I recognised. A Guinness in Wetherspoon’s was two quid, a beer’n’burger six. I strolled the walls and admired the murals, the Loyalist ones dark and strident, the Republican ones imaginative and eyecatching. The Republican areas were usually easy to recognise because the roads were decorated with broken glass.

Back at the hostel I researched my way back home to York, and dreamed of more world End to Ends to come...

Miles today to Mizen Head: 27
Miles Mizen Head to Malin Head: 665
Miles today total: 56
Miles since Mizen Head total: 704

Day 12: Ballyshannon to Buncrana

There was a chance I could make it to Malin Head and its convenient hostel today, given good weather.

That was a big If, and an even bigger Probably Not, but I got off well before seven to maximise my chances.

Another sunny, clear, blue but cold morning. I tooled along a chilly back lane to the main road and then along the empty main artery towards Donegal.

It was still asleep when I arrived to poke round the castle, which was square (pic)...

...and the square (pic), which was triangular.

A long but quiet main road took me through a gap in the mountains and some rugged, lakesy scenery.

It turned into a long late morning of steady cycling, punctuated by a pecan plait and coffee from a Spar garage that could have been anywhere, and probably was.



An extended downhill took me into Letterkenny, and then came the longest and tediousest part of the journey so far: a main road with wide broad cyclable shoulder (pic), steady inclines up and down, but always almost always into the wind.

I had a nice lunch overlooking the Swilly estuary (pic) and arrived at Buncrana before three o’clock, with my 60 miles done feeling more like 80.

I found a cafe with wifi to research my next move. It didn’t take the whole cafetiere for me to make my decision. Heavy rain was forecast from 4pm for the rest of the day, so with Malin Head still 25 miles away, I would be staying here in Buncrana tonight in the outdoor centre’s hostel.



Result. As last night, I had the entire place (pic) to myself. Dorm 8’s ensuite, the kitchen and common room, were all mine.

I walked to the SuperValu to hunt and gather for dinner, pleased it was now raining steadily, as it confirmed the wisdom of my decision.

This may be where I’m happiest in life: after a good day’s ride, by myself in a hostel kitchen rustling up a spontaneous combination of pasta, onions, tomatoes, fish, herbs, spices and red wine. Only a splash of the latter though, of course, in the sauce.

Because I’d need the rest of the bottle to drink later on, to accompany more hurling on telly.

Miles today: 66
Miles since Mizen Head: 638

Day 11: Ballina to Ballyshannon

A super cycling day of fine weather and finer scenery.



Ballina has salmon fishing right in the centre, and a few chaps this morning were wading in the clear waters angling for a fat ’un (pic). Their waist-length waders would have come in handy for me over the last few rainy days.



What a fab few hours’ riding! Alongside the Moy everything was lovely and green and blue and clear under the summery sky (pic). Villages, quiet lanes, coast roads, little traffic, no wind, bright and cool... I hadn’t been this happy since yesterday.



There were lovely views of the hills back in Connemara (pic) and lush estuarysides.

You can see why it’s called the Emerald Isle, despite the fact that emeralds are made of Be₃Al₂(SiO₃)₆, in other words beryl, because Beryl would be a funny name for an island.

Eventually I rejoined the main road towards Sligo, snacked at a garage, and enjoyed some beachside riding (pic) – though it was too cold for a dip.

Shortly after, around Ballysadare, I found a wallet in the road. Perhaps it had slipped out of a cyclist’s pocket, perhaps, or, more menacingly, been discarded by a mugger.

It contained no cash, but several cards: Visa debit, Fingal Country Library, E111, Dublin Bike Hire, and tickets for an upcoming match at Croke Park...

They clearly belonged to a John Murphy, of Dublin. But what to do? I didn’t have a phone with me, and police stations would be closed for the weekend.

I knocked on the nearest door, and an unfazed lady took the wallet and promised to get on the case of tracking Mr Murphy asap. Should I have trusted her?

Sometimes you just have to make an assumption on the balance of probabilities that someone is honest, even if they look a bit unkempt and eccentric. So I’m glad she did.

Anyway, if you’re reading this, Mr M, I hope you got to see the rugby.



Now in Sligo, I lunched by the riverside at an old bridge. There were some nice trad shopfronts and old pubs, one of them with a bike parked in it, but Sligo felt a tad shabby, while not as rough-edged as Ballina. The waterside views away from the town were all grand, though (pic). Somewhere in the haze to the northwest were the mighty cliffs of remote, off-piste County Donegal; great to visit by bike, everyone said, but it’ll have to wait till next time...



Leaving Sligo, I passed the massive curtain of a mountain north of the town (pic) and got to Ballyshannon around six. I was curious to see the old bridge across the Shannon: because of the way Northern Ireland’s border bulges out westwards, the Republic is split into two by the river here.

So until 2006, when a new adjacent bypass was opened, the old bridge (pic) was the only thing joining the Republic’s upper and lower halves: the country’s thorax, where Ireland was a mere eight yards wide, and a coast-to-coast walk could be done in five seconds.

My hostel, recommended in the guidebook, was a few kilometres north in the village of Cashelard. But... it was firmly shut.

So I did what you naturally do in Ireland – ask in the pub for information, purchase price one pint – and within seconds one of the amiable bar-proppers had phoned for the caretaker, who duly turned up with the keys a Guinness or two later.

Evidently I crossed some sort of linguistic boundary back in the town. To my ears we were now on a Northern Irish isogloss, and I had to recalibrate my ears slightly to the new colours of the accent.

To my deep joy I found I had the centre to myself tonight. A nice new kitchen with complimentary tea and coffee. A whole dorm just for me with enough fresh towels to reserve sunbed spaces for a small German town. My bike safely inside, in the lobby downstairs. The TV room to myself, with a Premier League hurling match.

Commentary was in Irish, so I didn’t understand anything, only the general atmosphere and excitement, but it was fun. Eventually I found how to select English, but still didn’t understand anything, only the general atmosphere and excitement, but it was fun.

Miles today: 78
Miles since Mizen Head: 572

Day 10: Letterfrack to Ballina

Si, Sue, Paul and Chris bade their farewells after breakfast. They headed off to Cong and Galway and then home, but I carried on north through this sort of scenery (pic) to complete my End to End.

As Magnus Magnusson used to say with such determined finality when presenting Mastermind, I’ve started so I’ll finish.

It’s a maxim I follow closely on my bike trips, such as when beginning my first post-ride pint in Wetherspoon.

It was great having such positive, reliable and good-humoured company ever since Kerry – whoever she was – but I was also quite pleased to be back on my own.

I rather enjoy having time to myself, to think and contemplate: I have the soul of a poet. Though, sadly, not the writing ability of one.

Anyway, I made my way northeast towards Malin, enjoying four hours of super sunny smiley weather and wonderful scenery: Connemara mountainscapes; Killary’s fjordlike inlet; a striking, remote triangular church (pic).

Its unusual, surprise beauty brought genuine tears to my eyes and, yes, I prayed and, no, of course it didn’t come true.

I’m thinking about changing providers.

Leenane’s astonishing fjordside cemetery provided great views for the dead.

At St Joseph’s Well (pic) I made a wish, stumping up the ten cent coin I’d found in the road earlier.

This made a grand total of 13 cents recovered from the tarmac in the last three days, the most lucrative work I’ve had since moving out of London last year.

This wish never came true either.



So, on to Westport, through lovely mountain-fringe scenery (pic) under a dry cold sun again.

I had a second breakfast or perhaps first lunch around 1ish. Castlebar, a non-touristy town, felt a little down-at-heel, and I couldn’t get a proper coffee from Tesco’s cafe – the amiable lad behind the counter looked blank when I asked for cappuccino, macchiato or latte. Anyone would think I was speaking a foreign language.

I ended up with instant, which took ten minutes while they found a new jar.



I headed for Ballerina, sorry Ballina. What a fabulous little road! Single track, quiet, virtually car-free, through boggy landscape lined by the last ripples of the Connemara hills, heather moorland, and past peat bricks entertainingly stacked up in tripods (pic) with four legs.



There were lovely waterside views (pic) thanks to Lough Conn, named after the patron saint of Estate Agents, and Lough Mara (sorry, Lough Cullin).

Ballina may be the salmon-fishing capital of Ireland, but my picnic dinner in my room above a pub was bread, cheese, pate and jaffa cakes.

I decided firmly to have a night off the booze. But the only wifi signal I could get was in the bar, and, well, I could hardly sit there without buying anything...

Miles today: 66
Miles since Mizen Head: 494

Day 9: Doolin to Letterfrack

Better weather this morning enabled our ferry to the Aran Islands, from where we’ll hop north into Connemara.

Various companies ran boats across to Inishmore, like this one (pic).

We chose on a carefully-weighted algorithm taking into account factors such as price, bike spaces, and whisky on the breath of the crew.

With the last especially in mind we went for the friendly but reassuringly sober Bill O’Brien and his daughter Aine, who provided good banter on our choppy crossing (pic).

We enjoyed views of the Cliffs of Mohair on the way across, as well as a shipwreck, perhaps the victim of an unexpected squall and a skipper who had over-breakfasted on Bushmills.

On Aran we were excited to find a cashpoint and supermarket, and enjoyed a coffee in the cafe next door so that a hypothermic Sue could thaw a little.

More exciting still, we saw a cycle accident. A young American woman hired a bike, but within the first five seconds of setting off – evidently unfamiliar with the concept of brakes, and downward gradients – she careered down a small slope and hit a brick wall at some speed.

A local Irish bloke was desperate to carry her away, but Mark’s cool head prevailed, advising that she not be moved until the now phoned-for doctor arrived.

The woman had a companion who sat nonchalantly through all this at a picnic table checking Facebook and texting.

She told us, with a weary smile, that her friend was ‘clumsy’, in a tone that suggested this sort of thing was a tiringly regular occurrence.

Medical attention arrived and our duty of care ceased, so we cycled off to the middle of the island three miles away to explore an iron age fort on foot (pic).

Dun Aonghasa is a fort like none I’d ever seen: it’s on the edge of a sheer 100m cliff, half-ringed by a semicircular defence wall, whose diameter is the precipice itself. No handrail, no safety barrier then or now: just the rocks and crashing waves, a terminal-velocity distance below.

We took suitably dangerous-looking but in fact totally safe photos of us on the edge (pic). And some of Si, too.

We chatted to the affable and informed Ronan the duty guide, who reassured us that people rarely fell off, and when they did, not to worry, we wouldn’t see anything, the waves would quickly wash away the remains. Excellent stuff.

Mark went off to explore the island a bit more, while Si and Sue and I took the beautiful, lightly-trafficked coast lane back. It was now sunny and dry, and all rather fab.

We all took the ferry off the island north into Connemara, rather more swish and upmarket than our little boat out.

This one, indeed, had TV screens for the safety demonstrations, thoughtfully installed upside-down (pic) so they could be conveniently viewed in the event of a capsize.



Off we rolled in mainland Connemara, and Mark left us, scooting off towards Galway to resume the job he claims to have. Sue, Si and I were plugging on up to Letter-rack, sorry Letterfrack: a quite superb ride, marvellous scenery all the way (pic), almost flat but always surrounded by hills, the wind often behind us and not too bad even when into us, good surfaces, and hardly any rain.



It was a lovely evening, and we stopped to admire the Connemara giant statue (pic). We don’t know who the model was, but we do know it was so cold he refused to take off his woolly hat.

Thanks to my impeccable routefinding (pic), based on Irish satnav – asking people, in other words – we got to Letterfrack well in time for dinner.

Our accomm was a half-junkshop, half-hostel in the grey area between ‘eccentric’ and ‘creepy’.

Reunited with Chris and Paul, who had done a different route today, we enjoyed a splendid and convivial evening of hostel homecook and cheap booze in the grey area between ‘enough’ and ‘too much’.

Miles today: 50
Miles since Mizen Head: 428

Day 8: Doolin

Our plan to go to the Aran Islands was stymied by the wind: ferries weren’t running. They were more, kind of, lurching up and down and side to side in the harbour.

So our Plan B, a recommendation of our top-man hostel warden Karl, was a day cycling round the strange wasteland of the Burren.

I paused to admire this figure outside the Aran Sweater shop (pic). Given the rain over the last few days, the idea of cycling in wellies didn’t strike me as a bad idea.

We’ve been past a few empty new housing estates, the product of Ireland’s infamous housebuilding bubble.

This though is a rather older example: an uninhabited 12th century castle (pic) in a farmer’s field, perhaps just needing that flagship store nearby to get the buyers coming.



The Burren is a hundred-plus square miles of glacial karst, like the makers of Ireland ordered twenty Malhams by mistake. It boasts a lot of interesting flowers snuggling in the limestone cracks, and even has its own style of accordion playing. Our first views, after quiet backroads to a picnic spot, didn’t quite live up to the reputation, though this one did (pic).



But, following some tiny back lanes on Karl’s advice, we suddenly found ourselves in the Burren proper: limestone pavements (pic), rocky hills, grykes, clints and other useful Scrabble words. I admit, at one point we did cycle on the pavement.

Up one windy road we had a fine view of the Burren’s hills, and stopped off at Cassidy’s pub, which had views down to Europe’s largest turlough, or ‘disappearing lake’. Funnily enough it wasn’t there. Perhaps gone the same way as the snakes.

It started to rain heavily, so we had no option but to wait over a Guinness or two, which caused some temporary discord between some of the married members of the group.

En route back we visited what looked like a neolithic bus shelter (pic) – it was an old tomb entrance, apparently, so not that much different.



We worked our way back to the hostel along a mix of paths (pic), lanes and roads...



...via Lisdoonvarna, the Matchmaker capital of Ireland (pic), known for its music and popular singles festivals. Hmm; I’m not sure that having so many punters who come back every year to the matchmaking festival is a convincing recommendation.

Anyway, we got back to our hostel in Doolin with our own relationships intact, and had a fine evening matching up Guinness with our insides in the pub opposite.

Miles today: 40
Miles since Mizen Head: 378

Day 7: Kilrush to Doolin

A short day in prospect today, as we headed for the trad-music hub of Doolin.

A lively session of folk fiddle, flute, guitar and accordion, with Guinness as accompanist: it doesn’t get more Irish than that.

Well, unless it rains. Which it did, as soon as we set off from our accomm of Crotty’s pub (pic). Just as well it was a short day.



On the plus side, it only rained once today. On the minus side, it did so for five hours. Torrentially. We got totally soaked. Our tactic of stopping to shelter under petrol station canopies had no effect except to make us cold and wet, instead of steamy and wet, as we were when cycling along (pic).

We stopped in Melton Mowbray, sorry Milltown Malbay, for cafe and cream cakes. We dripped all over their floor but were no drier when we left.

Finally the weather started to clear as we got to the Cliffs of Mohair, sorry Moher (pic).

These turned out to be made not of angora goat products, but of cliff. They’re fairly impressive, though the visitor centre was a bit full of visitors for my liking.

We stopped for a look round, and marvelled at the extraordinarily steep, high, dramatic, breathtaking prices of food and drink. And the cliffs.



The final leg to Doolin took us down a delightful little lane looping to the shoreline past a castle turret thing (pic). It was built some time in the past by someone of local note, and is now regarded as one of the buildings in this part of Ireland.



The sun came out at last. As usual everyone else was miles ahead of me (pic). I always make sure to take a camera with a good zoom lens, so I can photograph the other cyclists with me.



Our accomm was a cracker, a chunky old farmhouse converted into a best-practice modern hostel. We dried off with a pot of tea and sandwiches in the pleasant garden (pic). What could be better after a rainy day cycling.

Then we went to the pub opposite for an evening of live music and drink. What could be better than to have another cup of tea? Well, we could think of a few things.

Miles today: 38
Miles since Mizen Head: 338

Day 6: Dingle to Kilrush

Excitement in the morning. A slow-talking Irish bloke came in to the hostel to ask uncertainly for help. He was camping in the hostel garden, but some campers’ tents had been invaded by drunks who wouldn’t leave.

Of course I volunteered to help out immediately. I put the kettle on and started making some tea for everyone.

Then I realised I’d actually have to join the small militia of hostellers forming to tackle the incursion, and pretend I wasn’t scared of a physical encounter.

We didn't look intimidating though. There was me, the Irish bloke, a Christopher Biggins lookalike with a dodgy eye, and a French hiker who spoke no English. And the warden, who was carrying a notebook, perhaps for evidence at the inquest.

In fact, the incident resolved itself quickly and with no fuss. The apparently scary gatecrashers were four or five lads in their twenties who were hoping to find somewhere to kip for an hour en route home from a very extended pub session.

They left with token verbal resistance, and we returned to the hostel kitchen for breakfast feeling brave and strong*.

Right. We had some cycling to do. A big tailwind scooped us along through Dingle town (pic)...

...and up the long climb of Connor Pass (pic) and briskly down the other side.

It was overcast and gloomy all day. We saw little of the scenery but a lot of mist and cloud. The only colours to be seen were brown, grey, green, greeny-brown, grey-green, a browny kind of grey, and a sort of intermediate shade between green, grey and brown.

It was like cycling through my wardrobe.

Elevenses was a supermarket coffee and muffin in Tralee, and we did at least get some entertainment in the afternoon: the car ferry across the Shannon (pic).

At 224 miles long it's slightly longer than anything in Britain – the Severn is 220, the Thames 215. Lengths are arguable, though, because it’s hard to say where the river ends and the estuary begins in all that mist.

Indeed, the scenery here put me in mind of the Tilbury-Gravesend Ferry, but I soon recovered.



So, we were happy in the knowledge that Kilrush was only five miles from here (pic), and arrived in the main square at our accomm, Crotty’s pub, just as the rain started in earnest. As James Joyce said in Finnegans Wake:

‘Elsewere there here no concern of the Guinnesses. But only the ruining of the rain has heard. Estout pourporteral! Cracklings cricked. A human pest cycling (pist!) and recycling (past!) about the sledgy streets, here he was (pust!) again!’

No, I haven't much idea what he was on about, either. But he was A Genius.

Well, Mark turned up to join us, sneaking a couple of days away from work over here, we all rendezvoused in the bar, and the evening in the pub ran away from us in a way we conspired to allow. Cracklings cricked enjoyably, and we may have got a little bit pust.

Somewhere around half one in the morning, some harmless drunks came to talk to us. They were so full of Guinnesses it was hard to understand a word, but I thought I heard something about them trying unsuccessfully to find a place to sleep last night in a hostel campsite...

Miles today: 64
Miles since Mizen Head: 300

* The warden lamented that this sort of thing was pretty common. I’d experienced something similar on the hostel on Clear Island, not far from Mizen Head, in 2000.
    Returning to my hostel in the small hours after a convivial pub session, I found my bed occupied by a snoring man. I wandered round the dorms until I found an unoccupied bed and slept there. When I woke I found it was a female-only dorm.
    Back at my original bed, the man had disappeared, and all my goods stowed under the bed were intact.
    Later that day I bought my ferry ticket back to the mainland and related the story to the kiosk guy. Ah, he said, that was me. I live on the mainland and sometimes miss the last ferry if I’ve been to the pub after work, so I kip in the hostel.
    Had it happened in any other country, I would have been outraged by the presumption, lack of security, etc. But in Ireland it just seemed the charming way of things.