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I arrive in Bray, a tired and somewhat grungy coastal town, at 9:30 only to discover that the tracks are being repaired and we are being bussed to the next town south, Graystones, where we will catch the train to Arklow. The three busses
roar over the very narrow roads, and I count myself lucky that I am not biking them. The train is waiting, and I load my bike in the Guard's Van, the car at the end of the train. The first 20 minutes are right along the Coast, but sadly the fog prevails.
As we move inland the sun breaks through and the scenery is engaging - the Wicklow Mountains are to the west or in some cases with us, necessitating three tunnels. A woman across the aisle engages me in conversation, asking if I am hiking or biking Ireland. It turns out she is heading home to Wexford after spending time on holiday in Florida.
She is a transplanted English woman who has taught at Cambridge University in England. She thinks biking is a "grand" way to see Ireland, and like all the Irish I've met is quite supportive and wishes me well. Maybe all this great support and well-wishing comes as a result of my age. Nobody has said so, but I suspect if I were 25 they might not be very interested in me, and I wouldn't seem very unique. There are young, strapping bikers often on the Irish roads. So most of these people who are my age or older must identify with me, must somehow project themselves onto my bike, alone, for three weeks. I arrive in Arklow at 11:45 AM; mass is exiting, and noon mass is entering. The town is a confusion of people, traffic, and noises. Numerous little girls of about seven are posing in their white dresses, white gloves, and white purses. It must be First Communion Sunday. As I watch all of this in the bright sunlight, an elderly lady with four long white hairs protruding from her chin asks me where I'm from. She loves America, she says. She's been there three times,
has a sister in New Jersey, somebody in Boston, etc. She's absolutely non-stop chattering but delightful. She says she goes to mass, "For all 'doze who don't go." She tells me I can make the noon mass as though that's what I have been contemplating as I stand
across the street from the church. I tell her I'm checking my guide books for B+B's, and she points me up the road, "Darze many B+B's yonder up the hill. You can go later. Just put your bike here and go in to mass." I
tell her I must secure it; I can't afford to have anything stolen. "Just go to the church, lad, and ask the priest to put it in the sacristy." I beg off, and she goes to make her phone call when I'm almost immediately addressed by a young Irish woman who asks if I'd mind helping her on a school project. She's going to some sort of college and majoring in "Child Care," so she asks me what four toys I would give to a boy and girl. I tell her a tricycle for each; Monopoly for each. A bat and ball, a cowboy hat and gun for the boy; a Barbie doll for the girl and also a nurse's kit. The last two seem sexist, but that is the best I can do under these odd circumstances. The young lady tells me of other B+B's downhill, so I decide to take the path of least resistance. Arklow has some charm. It's situated on the ocean and along a river, and there are some nice pathways along both. In fact, I spend about an hour talking to a retired couple from Dublin along the ocean pathway. They have a son in L.A. They fill me in on Irish politics involving
one of the Dunne family (a department store chain) who has spent a wild holiday in Miami with a number of chums, leading to a number of headlines in Irish papers about drugs, women, and night club escapades. They are quite funny, but as the skies cloud over, we all hasten to shelter before the rains come. We shake hands, and they leave me with hearty best wishes and a number of "God blesses." Their blessing is not as powerful as that old man's on my first day of biking because by 3:15, happily writing away in the sun room of my B+B, I hear droplets of rain soon followed by a haunting sound rarely heard in the States: a church bell tolling about every 10 seconds for no
reason that I can fathom. Mass isn't until 7:00 p.m. this evening, but whatever the reason it sounds great. I'll never forget the first breakfast my wife and I had on the rooftop of the Pitti Palace Hotel in Florence three years ago; bells were pealing all over the city and the view and sound were breathtaking. The bell in Arklow sounds for 15 minutes to the accompaniment of rain. By 4:00 it is pouring, and I can no longer see the mountain to the north. Between biking to the train station in Bray and biking from the train station in Arklow, I manage to put on 12 miles today. (577 miles) |
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