When Irish eyes were weeping - 9/11

It’s 20 years since 9/11, and I remember it well. Myself and John North (RIP) were in Ireland riding and shooting for a great rides feature, and while driving we tuned into a local radio station. At the time we had no idea what was going on, it sounded like some crazy radio sci-fi show. We then walked into our B&B and saw what was happening.

Oh how the world changed after that…

Dingle dabble in Ireland 

In search of what carved out such characters as Roche and Kelly Steve Thomas pedals off in to the remote mountains of Irelands West Coast;

Totally blinded by the late afternoon sun, we really couldn’t see anything of what lay ahead of us as we hit the foot of Connor Pass. This is the tallest of all mountain roads in the whole of Ireland, and in my mind the gateway to the true Dingle. This being a land of dramatic craggy coves, brightly painted houses and imposing green mountains, which fall gracefully from high above without relent into the gulf stream toasted clear blue seas bellow. Eye, the Ireland of picture post cards and old romantic movies. The land of the black stuff and horse drawn caravans. 

Perhaps it was lucky for us that the pass was so nearly invisible. It certainly did make the climb a whole lot easier on the mind, and what a treat for genuinely sore eyes it was when we got chance to take five and look over our shoulders from the summit. Behind us lay strewn out one amazing vista; a huge lake floored valley guarded by the great and green Brandon Mountain and his close relatives, a valley that opened out on to one awesome coastline. Wow! We just gazed on in awe, there was nothing else we could do. Thankfully, somehow, we’d drawn one of those all too rare sunny days for which the Emerald Isle is most certainly not renown. The luck of the Irish, maybe….

The pass effectively divides the peninsular in two. Over the summit we drop in to a land encapsulated in a timeless way that could only happen here in Ireland. The town it’s self seems to have somehow retained all of the finer aspects of old Ireland, yet somehow it’s managed to face reality and cater for the growing tourist industry in an polite and unintrusive manor. This is a great place to stop off for a refuel, or even longer if you get half a chance. You really can’t help yourself here; life just kicks back a notch or two, in an automatic kind of way that’s indescribable, and so refreshing. 

Riding out of town is like being slung in to a classic old time movie set. The scenery is so imposing and dramatic that it totally fixates your mind and demands your full attention. Off to the left the lush greenness falls from high cliffs in to the Dingle bay bellow, home to Fungi the dolphin, a lone dolphin that has lived in the bay for many years. The far-flung horizon is dominated by the rugged and lumpy silhouette of the neighbouring Kerry mountains, while ahead lie the craggy islands of Blasket, Europe’s westernmost outpost. 

Back on the road and the going was good, we seemingly had a full on tail wind. Before we knew it we were rounding the peninsulas blunted western tip, and dropping down towards Dunquin, a place which will be instantly recognisable to any film buff as the venue for the filming of Ryans Daughter. You actually feel that you’ve slipped right back in time, and that you are in fact part of that set, things really have not changed that much in this part of Ireland over the past few decades, many of the old locals around Dingle don’t even speak English.

This was already turning in to one of the most spectacular rides that John and myself had ever done, and then we rounded Clogher Head. Blown away, totally. That’s the only way I can explain how it felt when we got our first eye full of the Ballydavid and Three Sisters bay area. One great patchwork quilt like plain lay spread out bellow us, it’s fringes ruffled by a mass of sandy blue sea coves, the top end all heaped and folded in to a series of triangular mountain peaks, and a whole splattering of white sequinned houses scattered randomly around the place. This land really is all it’s cracked up to be, and then some too. 

Our ride plummeted swiftly down and along to the plain bellow, then turned upwards a little and headed back towards Dingle. By now the sky around us was breaking up some, and the mountains above dipped their pointy-heads in to the swirling high cloud. We couldn’t have asked for more, we’d had the best of the light with us for the day, the wind had been kind, and now the atmosphere was about to perform for us. The way the clouds drew in was sheer magic, crowning the day in fine style.

Thankfully the atmosphere stayed as atmosphere, the persisting down didn’t materialise until the following day, by which time we were well on our way back home, vowing to return, and with a little more time to spare the next time round