Tld 2010 report

[Farky]

Jazus you don't half talk some sh#te!

Can't tell where you come from with that blitherin.

Craicin all the same and yes, sun burnt scalp and a full face does hurt.

Your surely practicing for your first book...just gotta put the right adventure together eh!


Sent from my iPhone using Tapatalk

[Haratio]

excellent stuff I was eagerly waiting to read the part of your report that started with arriving in Dublin and it didnt dissapoint Your description of our roads,people and mannerisms are bloody spot on, I laughed so much. Sat Navs are just for looks over here. You neglected to mention the bit about where the road turned into a riverbed on one of the many hairpin bends on the road outside Dingle on the way to the point..it was a killer but where else where we to put the river ? again, an excellent report and as an earlier reader said, it felt like I had been on the whole ride.( I travelled down from Dublin to say hi to a few of you guys)

[winxp-master]

I travelled down from Dublin to say hi to a few of you guys)

Was nice to meet you Haratio, I was the bald *cough* skinny *cough* one of the 3 who you took photos for down near the beach, Myself, Stuart and Derek.

When you have been riding for so long it's surprising just how much joy it is to see a fellow XRVer on the horizon.

[Haratio]

Indeed XP- Im sure you guys were tired and sore, major 'grats' to all of you for completing your task... TLD... I hope your all proud of yourselves, I for one raise my glass to you all hip hip hurray ..etc,etc

[James691]

Glad people are enjoying the read and yes I do end up doing most of the reports in work! Never tell people you can type when your profession is driven by long winded reports! Here is the rest and I have yet to proof read it and add the pictures to the site edition. Hope you enjoy and it was a pleasure meeting everyone.

[James691]

Nick came back with a strawberry ice-cream and a sticker for Kerry to place on his panniers. It was then my turn to head off in search of patches and memorabilia. The good thing about a ride like this is that you pass through so many small tourist attraction towns. This leaves you with a great choice of nik-naks to buy as you evade Americans and the French who seem to come in by the coach-load at 10 minute intervals. All of a certain blue-rinse age group and in no kind of hurry at all as they procrastinate outside shop doorways.


With badges and stickers collected and put in pride of place and ice-cream consumed in the bright sunshine of a small Irish town we packed up for the move on towards Rosslaire.


We had ridden some of the most wonderful country roads that it has been my pleasure to witness to date. The natural beauty of Ireland cannot be over-emphasised and I am very much aware that I lack the ability to paint a picture in words that would do justice to the route we had taken.


The engines of the Varadero Duo hummed along at a leisurely cruising pace back up the N7 as we came to the roundabouts again, rendering the satnavs as little more than a time keeper and spare speedo. As we continued on our way I noticed that a sign had pointed to Dungarvan.


This is the town that my sister lives in and I had planned to stay over and see the family but thinking that I would not have time I’d put the thought from my mind. Seeing as I was little more than 5 miles from the place I thought that Nick and I could get a meal and a night out on the town with a free bed thrown in while I also got to see my sister and brother-in-law.


I pulled over at the side of the road that has the extra section for slow-moving traffic and spoke to Nick about my plan! I did not have my sister’s exact address to hand but I did have her number. I could call ahead and warn that she would have two hungry bikers coming for some grub and get the code for the house at the same time.


I made the call and Nick and I scribbled the notes on some paper, job done and we hurriedly plotted the course in the satnavs and jumped back on the bikes for a swift U-turn.


I’d not seen Sue for a while now and it was one of those things that I kept meaning to do but then other things would happen and the plans would again be put on hold. It was going to be entertaining no matter what, as life with Sue and Alex always is. If we where not going to be press-ganged into going the pub then I would have eaten my own rear tyre!


To say my family likes a drink is as much an understatement as the Taj Mahal is quite pretty if you like that sort of thing. We are Scousers in the true meaning of the word as in we are the children of Irish immigrants. The term Scouser was used to describe my people because of the stew that was made. Potato based, of course, with simple mixed vegetables in a broth it would have meat in of any kind that could be afforded but often was the case that people could not afford it and you would have ‘blind’ scouse. The term now of course is as lost as Cockney is: used to speak about anyone from London rather than those born in within the sound of Bow Bells.


So you have a Scouse woman and her husband who happens to be from Airdrie (outside Glasgow). A good time was just going to happen regardless and I had missed their fighting so much. Common-place was Alex getting a little worse for wear and as he does his voice gets louder and louder while Sue will shriek his name louder and louder. He would turn around and say ‘sorry Hen’ with a peck on the cheek before turning back to his enthusiastic conversation at the same volume that had prompted the shriek in the first place.


Nick and I pulled in to the side estate and onto the red stoned lattice brick drive of the yellow wall painted bungalow of my family. Both bikes parked up and Alex came out with his normal welcoming smile and hug. Alex is looking to pass his test and get his own bike much to the dismay of my sister but ever since I took him out as a pillion he has been hooked on idea of a bike. Alex is a very determined character and very intelligent along with it, never afraid of hard work, so I have no doubt what so ever that he will achieve his aim. He is one of these people that can turn his hand to anything, a master degree in robotics, a high position in Motorola, playing golf or becoming a well recognised rugby referee as well as trainer of many of the youth teams that have lead on to professional rugby careers with Munster, Ireland’s premier rugby team.


So we chatted about the ride and Alex ran around the bikes pointing at some of Nick’s adaptations with child-like curiosity before Sue came out and gave me a kiss and a hug. Sue asked what we wanted to eat and I said ‘yes please!’ She smiled and nodded and anything Sue cooks is going to be plentiful and tasty!


The neighbours came out as well as Sue and Alex’s dog, Angus the Scottish Terrier, who then duly christened Nick’s rear tyre with a cocked leg. The neighbours smiled and pointed at various parts of the bikes and we chatted about what we had done and why. In the middle of this chatting I could smell the unmistakable scent of steak on the grill and pepper sauce on the boil.


The neighbours had wished us well and we came in, Alex showed Nick his room and nodded to me ‘yer down there as ever Son’ for my room. Then it was off to the garden to see the various sports-kit Alex had collected.


The house is a clean organised chaos of clothes, stuff, magazines and computer equipment as it always has been. It is a system that works for them and to the untrained eye this would just look like a tip but you can ask either one where anything is and you will be told with computer like efficiency of what pile to look in to acquire your grail.


We had a play in the garden with the hurling bat or stick or whatever it is that they call it. The sport is huge over in Ireland and attracts as much attention as football does over here. Eire is very sport orientated as an island anyway but Dungarvan is like the capital of sport. Sport here is not a sport unless there is a minimum of a 50% chance of someone getting some bone broken in the process of the game, a simple but effective rule that makes every game more entertaining.


Alex had a signed hurling ball that I assume is the equivalent to a prized, signed baseball is in America. Shown and passed to Nick with some pride Alex showed Nick how to hit the ball against the 7 feet high back garden wall. Nick was all to happy to oblige his host and instantly hit the ball with all the effort one would expect from a ex-Forces man. We all watched as the ball disappeared over the wall and across the neighbouring wall into a rear garden. After Alex stopped speaking full speed Scottish Glaswegian we decided to leave the sports games alone and settle in the back to have our steaks.


No sooner had we eaten than Sue and Alex are now keen to show us around Dungarvan. I have been before of course but Nick had not and Alex had now enthusiastically had called a taxi to show Nick the sights. I knew the ‘sights’ would actually mean ‘pubs’ and that was fine with me.

Dungarvan is a beautiful place and it is cut in twain by a river or harbour I suppose is more accurate as it is or was a fishing town. Cobbled streets and as we came over the main bridge the lights from the far side of the river shone brightly from an array of bars. We pulled up and head in for a pint in one of the fine bars. Sue and Alex are greeted by both the bar staff and a few people around the bar, my family is rather sociable and you take us as you find us, you can normally find us near or in a bar.


One of the great things about a sports-orientated place is the very obvious effect it has on the female physique and indeed it was not Irish eyes that were smiling. The sun was still beating down and the pavement was packed so we moved across the road to have a drink. Followed shortly by a ‘doorman’, not like any doorman you will meet in Liverpool. The guy was big enough but the attitude and facial expression was relaxed and almost apologetic as he explained that the Gardai (Irish Police) had told them they could not extend past the curb of cobbles.


A few glorious pints of the black stuff and chatting to various people passing by we settled in while I enjoyed the ample views on display. Nick is very much married and I had palmed him off with Alex to listen to more sport tales: Alex would have many to tell and tell them with grandiose gestures of how some tackle had done what to what bone.


I rejoined our group who had started talking to gent who was introduced as Peter. Peter was thin and tanned with short cropped hair and trendy t-shirt and jeans with rolling blood-shot eyes. ‘When did you last sleep?’ Alex asked to Peter’s slightly unsteady wobble while he mused on the question and held his pint with a practiced grace. After what seemed about 10 minutes the reply came ‘errrr what’s taday again?’ Alex laughed loudly and slapped his shoulder ‘It’s not Sunday, yer safe Boy’ Peter smiled and wobbled and said ‘I’m not drinkin’ wit dat Simon no more, fecker drinks far ta fast. I tink I passed out fer a wee while but I caught up with by tree’. It’s a wonderful atmosphere over there and drinking is very much a social event all of its own. I’ve actually lost my ability to drink that much due to working shifts and of course riding the bike. I just seldom get the chance to go out for a session and by Irish standards I am a complete light-weight.


Alex was now in full cheery mode and we simply had to go over the other side of the river to see the ‘real’ pubs. I looked over to the now dark side of town, where we stood all the neon lights glowed and the short skin tight skirts tottered up and down the harbour, I thought moving was a bad idea but Alex was not to be dissuaded and of course Nick was a guest and should be shown the town.


We crossed over but did not go to the pure side. The pure side is a zone where only Gaelic is spoken and any other language is ignored. They are willing to help you ask for a pint in Gaelic but you would not be getting served until you asked in Gaelic!


Nope, Alex took us to what I would call ‘old man pubs’. As dark on the inside as they had looked on the outside with the smell of beer and stale peanuts in the air. The bar a simple affair of thick wood and simple displays of drinks rather. Dark carpets I assumed for masking the spilled drink and blood as tattered bar stools surrounded the bar. Nothing but a few older men sat drinking and talking about sport. I was right about Alex’s idea of a real pub and I was now in the Irish version of a British Legion pub!


The barman, a large lad with broad rugby playing shoulders looked at Alex sternly and placed his fists on the bar ‘what the feck do you want’ He had said leaning in towards Alex over the wooden expanse of the bar. Alex smiled and placed his arm around my shoulder and said as though an announcement ‘I’m showin’ me brother around’. The barman remained stone faced and replied in a broad southern Irish accent ‘I dun give a **** who ya wit’. He had not made eye contact with me and I laughed loudly at the display as spoke ‘Oh yeah, this is my kind of ****in’ bar’ and I rolled my shoulders, the barman looked at me and gave a small smile and a wink before turning his back and heading to the pump ‘da usual is it Alex?’ he said without looking back ‘same fer you Sue?’ again without looking back and I settled on a stool and got my drink.


It was starting to clock on and woman had started to fill the bar! Result I thought and it seems that there was the local nightclub up stairs and the girls would all file in to wait for the place to open. Alex and Sue being well known as well as Alex’s legendary ability to talk the leg off a donkey had a few girls wisp past with heads lowered to not attract Alex’s attention and whisper a polite ‘Hiya Sue’ but without breaking stride.


To my dismay we would not be going to the club, Nick was looking tired and we had a ride on in the morning to catch an early ferry that Barry had booked for us. Next time I would ensure that I had a few days over there for sure.


Sleep came blissfully and morning came swiftly, Sue had gotten up and made Nick and I breakfast and then it was back out on to the open roads and to the ferry port.


It was an easy ride and the weather was still being kind to all that lived in the Emerald Isle as well as those passing through it. It’s odd for me as I don’t consider myself fully Irish but I don’t count myself as English either, I’m a Scouser and it is rather like being an Irish cousin I suppose. I do consider the Irish as ‘my people’ but somehow disjointed and apart without having grown up there. As a Scouser you are readily accepted in Eire but I still feel I learn more about ‘the home land’ and the language. One thing that is common in Celts is the love of travel and perhaps this, rather like an Australian is why you can go to the deepest, most off beaten track on the globe and you will find a Scouser, an Irishman or an Aussie already sat there reading a book and having a beer.


We had passed through customs with ease and parked up waiting on our ferry when a chap in a baseball cap, red t-shirt, blue jeans and large dollar buckle. I assumed he was an American but as I came closer he was chatting to Nick in German. Nick obviously is fluent in German, so much so that the man must have assumed we were German and smiling at me and Lola started to speak to me in German. I smiled and shrugged and Nick explained that I didn’t sprechen.


The ferry ride was smooth one again with the good weather and I had stocked up on sandwiches for the route back to avoid the high seas pirate like prices of the meals. Nick was heading up to Cumbria so I route would be the same in Wales.


The rest of the XRV bunch had met up on the ferry and we had the chance to chat about our various sight-seeing expeditions. I took the opportunity to fall asleep on Ros and sprawl naked-footed across the seating area. Ros was chatting away to Nick about stuff when I came to. I rubbed my eyes and chatted to some of the XRV lads about rides they had done and rides I was looking to do in the future.


Time for a smoke and I meet up with the XRV smoking team up on deck, chatting away about adventures they had been in with the Police and asking me some questions on law as I gave my philosophical views on law keeping.


Tickertyboo, quite short but broad enough chap was fun to listen to as he was also a story teller like Alex. I instinctively like story teller folk as they have a confidence that I find relaxing and an enthusiastic approach to the delivery of interesting tales and misadventures full of humour. We stood there on the bright white painted deck of the ferry in the bright sun shine surrounded by a deep sapphire sea as we laughed and chatted before it was almost time to be packing up gloves and lids for the landing.


We said our goodbyes and exchanged emails with a few but all would be on the forum anyway I just didn’t know all of their forum names!


Pulling off the worn, green-painted metal ramp of the ferry on to Welsh soil we peeled off. I was not wishing to take the M4 route from Fishguard to join the M5 / M6. It was far too nice a day for any of that and Nick and I parted from the group at the round about that would send us up the glorious coastal road of Wales.


I had driven this route many times as a young man with a full head of hair, though shaved short as I was in the RAF back then. Living in Haverfordwest and I recalled that it would normally take about 4 hours in a car to get to Liverpool. I was in no great rush and neither was Nick.


I took lead and we headed past the yellows of the wheat field in full bloom of gold swaying slowly like a easy tide as the gentle breeze wafted over the tops of the stalks. Past the deep green pastures with the white moving spots that would become sheep as you closed the distance and all the time that sapphire blue sea shone on the left hand side. Cutting from countryside into small villages and back out again just as quickly I had found that I was really enjoying just riding. Not pushing for an Iron Butt qualification or seeking the next destination but just simply enjoying sweeping the amble bends of the Welsh countryside. The odd change of pace and challenge of a slow moving tanker would add a little extra spice and Nick soon got the overtake technique. Trucks tend to just ignore the line of traffic they create and there are few dual lanes in Wales. So I would take the lead then pass the truck when safe to do so before I would then slow right down on a straight, at times to the angry blast of a truck horn but if he was going to ignore that he was slowing everyone down I found it hypocritical of him to be pissed that I was slowing him down until Nick had blasted past him and me. I’d then speed up again and take the lead point and whenever a truck was in the way we would repeat the overtake procedure.


Now and then when we felt like it we would pull over for a coffee or a snack and some fuel. Steady easy sweeping progress in some wonderful coastal views. I’d been very much spolit this trip with the views in Ireland and the views in Wales. There are so many great rides to be done in the UK and Ireland if you just stay off the motorway. I will be taking more and more advantage of this in the future for sure.


All too soon we had hit the M56 and my junction came up, Nick beeped, waved and put the hazards lights on as I cut off left and waved goodbye to my friend. I headed for home with a smile, some wonderful memories and a broken front light.


Until next time – ride hard and force yourself to live your dreams.


James691

[Haratio]

Just as the start was excellent so was the finish, a most enjoyable read James, Im chuffed that both you and Co. had such a good time.The hurling 'stick' is called a Hurley made from Ash wood and the ball is called a Sliotar, sounds like (schlitor)

[James691]

Thanks man! I know it had a thin strip of metal along the end of the Hurley. Alex loves the game and think he is still looking for the ball that Nick slogged for about a 1/4 mile.

[James691]

PD, what edit was done?

[James691]

Cheers PD for picking up on some of the spelling mate! If you fancy doing a full proof read then please be my guest. It would be most appreciated