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I am up, dressed, bike loaded, and ready to go at 8:30 but thinking the hostel might owe me £5 deposit I hang around trying to roust them. I ring their buzzer to no avail. I take
some quiet, early morning tours of the city and return to the hostel at 9:30 only to discover that I could have just dropped the key off because there is no deposit forthcoming. I am charged £15 full with no deposit for key. Unless I want to sleep in a dormitory and take my chances with security and then only pay
£7-8, hostels are not going to be favored by me on this trip.
The hostel management can't help me with my maps either. I want to avoid N-85, which is the main thoroughfare between Ennis and Lahinch, so I take a side lane that I think is £52 which according to the map will take me almost to Lahinch. Side roads are hopeless. They are absolutely unmarked. There seems to be a national law against it. Of course, they are mere one-car lanes that meander and send off lanes throughout the countryside like a spider high on Guinness. Even a compass is little consolation. And the hills are exactly as God made them and the roads follow. With full bike I am in lowest gear often and once after rounding one more bend that still required climbing in granny gear, I lose heart and get off and walk. Miraculously I come upon an elderly gentleman who is off on his "morning exercise, don't you know." A second miracle: his directions are perfect – "Take a left at the fork ahead and then a left on the main road," which of course is N85. As I shove off, I hear the old man's "God bless, lad. Have a grand holiday!" My odometer shows almost eleven miles and the distance sign at the highway gives 5 miles for the distance back to Ennis. The side lane more than doubled my "pleasure." I learn a lesson. I will stick to the main roads - the hills are graded and more gradual and the routes are more direct. The highway today is not terribly busy, and the drivers are fairly considerate even though the roads are narrow and sometimes require traffic to back up behind me. Somewhat relieved to know I am definitely on my way to Lahinch, I stop at Early Biddy's pub, "The only Brew Pub in Clare County," and sample the lager. It is cold and delicious. I chat with an elderly brother and sister who are visiting from Dublin and enjoy the coal fire as I observe the locals in their suits and tweed caps, mostly elderly, including wives who are sipping their Guinness along with their husbands. This is a Sunday ritual, the elderly couple tells me: Church followed by a pub visit wherein the week's events on the farms are recounted. A bakery in Ennistimon provides me with a freshly brewed pot of coffee and a rhubarb square. I am a couple of killer hills and two miles from Lahinch, and it is only after 2:00 p.m. I pull into Lahinch at 30 miles for the day and am struck by the oceanside village. It has a promenade along the beach that runs the distance of the town and beyond. After casing the town, I stop to view the ocean when a fellow wearing a Bulls cap strikes up a conversation. This is a "small world" story because Lou comes from the neighborhood in Chicago where I grew up. He and his older brother Nick are traveling the isle together, the first time for Lou and the seventh for Nick. We spend a delightful two hours in a pub talking Chicago and Ireland. We all agree the people of Ireland are generally quite charming and friendly. Most will go well out of their way to accommodate tourists. In fact, Nick tells the story about getting lost one night after a late pub visit with his wife. After driving two hours without any idea of his whereabouts, he stops at a farmhouse at 2:00 a.m. After apologizing to the farmer who greets Nick at the door in his nightshirt, Nick and his wife are invited inside, and the farmer's wife emerges from bed and puts on the tea pot. After tea and conversation, the farmer then drives his car with Nick following to a key intersection where he points the way, adding, "Next time you stop by, Yank, take more time to visit." Such a gracious host even after a surprise visit by strangers at 2:00 a.m. After a pub meal of Irish stew, broccoli soup, and a Harps, I stroll along the seashore and watch the men in their wetsuits riding the waves on their surfboards. In the distance the Cliffs of Moher can be seen, including O'Brien's
tower. Along the cliffs of the south coast, cows can be seen grazing.
I write, have tea, and turn in at 11:15 p.m. at the Tudor Lodge B+B. (45 miles)
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