Friday 12 July 2013. Day 60.
I woke up and cajoled Niki awake. Well I went to the loo. Woke Niki and she needed to go as well. Then it was time for a cuppa and the day rolled onwards from there.
Inside the house I found Tom’s letter. It is easy to see how most people get worn down by their time wasting and posturing. I’m determined not to let that happen but also need to evolve the way forward from what I have available.
I speak to Lorrie and she agrees to get in touch with Sarah’s cousin and her husband. They are lawyers. Their response when it arrives via Lorrie is no more no less than I expect. We are, as ever, on our own.
Today I’m feeling tired and really do not want to head butt Toms. I choose to follow up on the family tree stuff that I would like to do.
Mum has gone off to Truro with friends, I conclude that she has given up driving. Dad has gone off to Trevose to play golf with his pals. Niki and I head into town. At the PDSA we give away a suitcase and some odds and ends that will hopefully nett the charity a few quid. At TK Maxx we return some clobber that Niki and Sarah bought me, that I didn’t fancy. Then we were back at base for lunch. A door step sandwich to keep us going.
Packing the van to leave, garage cleared out, scooter in and stuff reloaded. No child seat today. That was truly a trip of a lifetime, a bit like the trip that Jez and I undertook on the Goldwing. There need to be other such trip for these are the stuff of memories. Perhaps, just perhaps, Ireland will be such a trip.
On the news we hear that Alan Whicker, age 87, has died. The man was an icon in his day. I’m not sure that my love of travel came from him but there is no doubt that he influenced many of us.
Tidy and calm, cups of tea to cool- the afternoon heat, I work through the Jeremy (Oxon) Renals data on Ancestry. I cannot find the link that must, somewhere, be hidden.
Dad returns from his golf and we agree to book a table at The Carclaze for seven. Dad’s question of Niki “Do we need to book”, will later be answered as we nab one of the final two parking spaces in their large but well filled car park.
Restaurant food is great because you can each have what you want and enjoy your food without having to consider the dishes etc. Both mum and dad tucked into their tucker. Neither Niki nor I were shy about packing away our choices. With drinks all around we escaped with a ticket price that left change from an estimate of twenty a head.
Home and Niki attempts to show mum how to use her new phone. If this is a forerunner of the iPad experience I sense that it will end in tears, of frustration. We end up making calls across the room. Oh to be a fly on the wall. Dad and I neck a couple of whiskeys and then it is time for bed.
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Saturday 13 July 2013. Day 61.
We’re off today. Our stay in Cornwall is over. We have done some of what we planned to do. Met some people we should have met years ago and sadly not met others we should probably have seen. Such is the nature of the opportunity costs of choice.
We say cheerio to mum and dad and then drive a mile to Polkyth where we would have parked and paid had it not been for the presence of a parking warden who told NIki that we should not park in a lorry and coach bay. There were four, unused bays. He would have us park in car bays, two, and pay for two spaces. I cursed this short sighted jobsworth. We left and parked in the street.
As we arrived at Jez & Nic’s, Jez was out walking Dolly in the car park looking for us! Niki soon had Isaac in her arms and was cooing like a pigeon. Jez and Dolly returned as I set out to find them. We updated the guys on our plans for the next days and weeks and exchanged hugs and kisses before leaving.
As day’s go this one feels hot. I later learn that Saturday is the hottest day of the year so far. So hot that two soldiers died on a training exercise on the Brecon Beacons.
We motor up the A30 coping with queuing traffic at the known pinch point just beyond Bodmin. Our plan is to visit Sophie Orchard in Holsworthy and Siobhan tries to take us down a lane just beyond Launceston. A sign warns of a narrow road of only six feet and six inches, too slender for our two point four four metres of width.
We head off on the old A30 through Lifton, Combebow and villages before emerging at Sourton Cross. We found traffic queuing there as well, the dual carriageway was choked perhaps because of road repairs and lane restrictions. Fortunately our impromptu doversion kept us out of the queue and we were able to fuel up before wending our way on a route I knew well from years before when we used to visit the North Devon Sun Club at Beaworthy? Driving onwards we pass through Hawill Junction an towards Holsworthy.
Here in deepest Devon the roads have deteriorated in places to quite a shocking state. At one point I felt as if I was driving along a rail line as the wheels dropped into a deep rut where the two strips of ashphalt had broken up down the centre line of the road. Dramatic stuff.
We arrive at Sophie and Jim’s residential caravan. Tucked down a lane, with four or five vehicles parked in the lane and evidence of perhaps two more homes beyond, their home sparkled in the sun. Their garden is filled with cottage plants and the bird table is home to finches with a further feeder being set upon by a squirrel.
We park on the left just beyond their junction, pulling up on some grass alongside a pile of scrap items. Once inside we are invited to have a seat and a glass of cider shandy. An ideal refreshment on a hot day. Sophie’s daughter Susan is here and we chat about families, Cornwall and Cyprus. We learn that Susan is a supervisor at Waitrose, in Holsworthy. Her husband John, a former Police officer, has a heart condition and is currently awaiting an appointment for some stents to be fitted. They enjoy holidaying in Croatia and are concerned lest this health issue preventS John travelling later this month. Susan says that she has had plenty of volunteers to accompany her.
Sophie has another daughter, Carol? who she says lives in Cirencester. Yet another sibling, probably a daughter lives in Australia.
Two hours pass as we talk about travellers and I learn that there was outrage in the travelling community when Betsy and Charlotte married “outsiders” as Bob and his brother J? were described. In a few days I had learned of the antipathy from both sides of both families. The wedding which took place on Derby Day 1924? in Liskeard was followed by a reception at the pub at Menheniott. The celebrations went on for three weeks. What a party! The group photos were, I understand, difficult to arrange, one can by looking closely at the photo, get a sense that perhaps some of those present have partaken of alcohol!
I show Sophie the photos that mum gave me and with great speed and accuracy Sophie recalls the names of those who on the Orchard side of the family. I am particularly thrilled to learn the names of all of those in the photo of the waggon that I so treasure.
Apart from Bob, Jim and of course Eddie and Roy, she does not know any of the Renalses. Her memory and wit are very good and Niki and I are surprised to learn that she is now very nearly eight years of age. I promise to provide her with copies of photos that she has seen and would like.
Sophie shares with me a text about the Wyndham-Orchards of Minehead and also a magazine about Travellers which features a photo of the Orchard family (who also live in Holsworthy) descended from the Spanish sailor who became familiar with Miss Richards in Port Isaac. Niki notes down details of a dvd about Sussex travellers which Sophie has and suggests that I would find interesting.
We also learn of a traveller event, which we might visit, in the Camargue.
A cup of tea and some delicious saffron cake fresh from their local baker sustains me. Two hours after we arrive we head back towards the A30, retracing our steps as there are no other easy routes back onto the spine road. It feels good to have learned more of my romany roots.
The A30 gives on to the M5 and we are again amongst the throng heading North. We turn off at Portishead and pass Pill, Leigh woods and Ashton Court before descending into Hotwells. Pete and Julia have secured parking for us right outside their door. With Brigitte straddling the pavement we gather up provisions and head off to their allotment. Pete fires up the BBQ and before very long we are enjoying a tasty bbq supper on Sooty’s lawn, by the shed, amongst the fruit and vegetables. This is a wonderful English summer day and has really kicked off stage three of our summer tour 2013.
Back at Pete & Julia’s there is the bonus of the fourth day of the first test as a catch up. Pete and I settle in to watch the highlights of what has become a titanic struggle. At close of play, Australia have quite an ask but the target looks achieveable. Pete and others quote statistics that suggest that a chasing team seldom manages to overcome the lead built up. When tomorrow comes, we shall see.
Sunday 14 July 2013. Day 62.
Niki sets our alarm for five am. An early start because we are to be at the “Maize Field” by six. Pete has a “check flight” and has kindly organised for me to go aloft. Now if all of this seems double dutch, let me explain. Pete Dalby is a commercial hot air balloon pilot, and a ballooning examiner. He may also teach people to fly for all I know! I do know that he also flies airships and is a jolly fine chap. I am flying with one of Pete’s friends, Stewart. A no nonsense, former Exec Chef who now works for a company that provides food ordering systems for commercial organisations. As he has recently been working in Dubai, I can only guess that this is a job of significance with a prestigious company.
Stewart owns his own balloon which Pete has brought down to the Maize Field, a launch site just beyond Saltford and on the outskirts of Bath. With glorious sunny weather, clear skies and just enough wind we are all set for a fab flight. But first we have to set up our kit. There are probably five balloons already out and on the ground in various states of readiness as we arrive.
With the towing vehicle parked looking out of the field, Stewart unlocks the trailer and off loads the gas cylinders, the basket and burner assembly, a bag containing four polypropylene rods and four leather covered, zip up foam filled tubes. Each is the same length as one of the polypropylene tubes. Then there is a large bag which must contain the nylon envelope of the ballon.
Stewart and Julia busy themselves and before very long the polypropylene tubes are sitting atop the wicker basket and I assist Stewart as we fit the burner to the top of these items which I can now see will be the “sides” above the body of the basket. Some wire ropes are also clipped into place and the four gas supply tails are threaded into their correct places before the leather cladding is zipped over the outside.
Attention then turns to the bundle that is the envelope. With practiced ease, the knot is undone and the “scoop” of the balloon is attached by wires to the stainless steel burner assembly. We, all four of us, then man-handle the bag away and the envelope flakes out onto the floor. Stewart and Julia spread it out and I am handed a length of line with two hand holds knotted into the end. My instruction is to take up tension on the line as the ballon is filled with cold air. I will inevitably be pulled into the balloon and I shoould not loop the line around either my hand or myself, for the avoidance of an uncomfortable pinch injury!
The honda powered fan kicks into life. Stewart re-appears and he and I loosely attach the top of the balloon. A large circlular piece of cloth that is held in place by only twelve velcro patches!! What is more Stewart says that I should not press them together tightly otherwise he will not later, be able to undo them. I don’t say what I am thinking, which is that I’d rather that they did not come undone. With the top in place, pretty quickly the yellow and blue fabric starts to billow and fill.
I watch the guy, guying the balloon next to me and get an idea of what I am to do. Stewart’s final instruction is a hand signal, like Popeye scratching his head. This I am to respond to like for like to confirm that everything is OK with me as the balloon envelop is inflated.
Following Stewart’s instructions, I hop into the basket and catch hold of those things that I am permitted to hold onto. I get a brief about bending my knees when we come in to land and that I should hold the tape loops but should not hold the edge of the basket (which might get dragged along the ground).
Stewart burns gas and the envelope stiffens. Then he tugs on the red coloured line that releases the velcroed in circle of fabric at the top of the balloon. He quckly releases the line and the circular fabric snaps back into place sealing the top of the balloon. Stewart burns again and we start to rise against the line tethering the balloon to the Land Rover. Stewart operates a release catch and the line falls away.
Checking around to see that all is clear, Stewart burns again and again, alternating between burners, presumably to keep the load on the basket even. The heat from the burner flame is quite noticeable as is the sound of the gas as it vapourises and then gets burned. We rise steadily, joining the other ballons that have launched. The wind is largely unnoticable as it is propelling us along. We rise over the A4 and can clearly see those on the ground, the pub on the roundabout and Newton St Loe and some new buildings being constructed for the University of Bath.
Might we overfly Hinton Charterhouse? As we rise the wind is coming from a different direction. Stewart says that we are tracking the balloon on which Pete is doing the check flight. They dip down almost touching a field, before picking up height. We seem to pass them but before long they are ahead of us again. This illustrates to me how the wind operates with different wind speeds and vectors at differing altitudes.
Stewart has an iPad attached to a cradle attached to the collar of one of the stainless steel gas cylinders. The iPad shows the OS map of the area, it shows where we are and where we are likely to be in about ten minutes. It shows the wind speed and the map is also marked to show areas where land owners are known to either be friendly or less than friendly. In addition to the iPad Stewart has a paper copy of the OS map. We keep intouch with Julia and Niki in the retrieve vehicle using a set of hand held radios. These, newly bought by Pete, work flawlessly.
Our trip which lasts for something over an hour ends with a landing in a field near Peasedown St John. As we descend we are moving to our left, overshooting what I thought was the target field. We graze the top of a tree and settle into the top left corner of a field that has recently been cut for silage and thereafter has has slurry applied. It is smelly but not too fresh! Stewart instructs me to hop out of the balloon but also to maintain a grip on the basket. He then gives a brief burn, burn, burn and as the basket lifts I drag the basket towards the gate. We find a clean patch near the gate and Stewart has me running off with the line to control the descent of the envelope as he releases the bouyant air. Niki and Julia who had tracked our landing have managed to drive around to where the gate gives access to the field and they join Stewart and I to make the recovery. The envelope gets folded in and then the top goes into the bag. With a couple of people lifting the bag towards the scoop end, I scoop up the envelope and stuff it into the bag. This process is soon completed. In the meantime Stewart has disconnected the cylinders. I give him a hand to take off the burner assembly, the poles and their buffers get re-stowed. The burner sits in the basket. The whole kit and caboodle is placed back into the trailer and we are off, back to the launch site to collect Stewart’s car before we set off to Bristol Docks and the Dockside Cafe where breakfast is taken. We arrive there at a few minutes before nine and witness the Matthew, a copy of the ship that John Cabot used on the voyage when he discovered Newfoundland, come out through the swing bridge. There is a large party of people on board and they all seemed to be having a jolly time. I took a photo or two.
My first hot air balloon flight – wow! We took off at around six forty and land just before eight. Sounds from the land, someone out shooting with a shot-gun, an old British motorcycle being driven through the countryside in the early morning are all easily heard.
Breakfast was delicious, early starts really make for a good day. We head back to Pete & Julia’s where we shower before we set off for our next destination, King’s Sutton.
King’s Sutton is home to Jeremy and Julie Renals, they bought their cottage here about two years ago when they married. Today they are holding a get together for family members. The inspiration for this came from their attendance at Uncle Fred’s funeral a few months earlier. Jeremy aka Jem had identified that family members only meet up at weddings and funerals and he thought that it would be good to gather people together for a glass of Pimm’s followed by a cream tea. We arrived in the village at about a quarter to three and with the blessing of a man we presumed to be the garage owner, parked alongside the local mechanics’ workshop. This is a few minutes walk down Banbury Lane and meant that Brigitte was not blocking the highway.
When we got there, people were already seated in the garden. The sun was beating down and there was almost a competition to get a shady seat! Roc, Jem’s dad and Julie, Jem’s mother were already seated under the apple tree and I was directed to sit next to Roc who immediately launched into questions about our respective family trees. I explained what I had found, that there was no plain connection between their line and my line, despite the unusual name! Jem contends that the best way to find the link is to keep going back to the earliest generation and delve in the detail there to find the children of that person or persons. Such an investigation will have to wait until I again have a working internet connection. I wonder what the availability of internet connections will be like in Eire?
Drinks are served as more people arrive and introductions are done. Jem explains the absence of brother Nic and his wife Lynne, last evening they have been to see the Rolling Stones and have begged off as a result of their late night. Jem’s sister’s daughter has overnight given birth to a baby girl Mia, as excuses for non-attendance go, this one is much more “top drawer”!
Photos are passed around, people chat about how relatives are coping with the loss of Fred. Fred junior, seems at times close to tears when talking about the loss of his dad. Fred Junior’s son, Colin? is here with his wife? Joyce has a daughter Debbie who is a laughing woman whose partner is Graham who seemed quiet and reserved. Their daughter Nikki is a young teen, self confessed computer and gaming geek. There are two elder brothers one of whom was busy today performing rap music, to his mother’s confused amusement. Nikki and Jem’s daughter Rosie have a great time chatting to each other.
Susan, Fred’s daughter came up from Brighton with daughter Holly. Niki and I are on the far flung margins of this galaxy of Renalses some of whom thought that they were the last of the last Renalses. Some had no idea of the Cornish connection. Fred Junior mentioned that there are Renalses in Leicester. I know of Renalses in Surrey? cousin Steve and his family…
Jem did a great bit of getting people to talk as he put together a family tree from scratch. I suspect that this information will re-emerge over the coming days and weeks. It was fun to listen to the tales that people shared as Jem went around the assembled company. We learned of Joyce’s husband who was killed young in a lorry accident. Of Debbie’s children and their father’s. We learn that Roc is a half-brother to Fred and sister Joyce. And so the conversation goes on.
By late afternoon people are drifting away, some have quite long journeys to make. Niki and I hang on and help with the clearing up. Then Jem declares that it is time for supper and wonders if we would like to have Chinese? With no firm plans we readily agree. A two minute walk up to and into the pub takes us to a counter where a young Chinese woman takes our order. We sit around a table sharing various dishes. Jem and Rosie are vegetarians. Julie, Niki and I are meat eaters. The food is scrummy and we chat about the cricket, the day and meat production.
All too soon it is time to say adieu and we trip off back to the camper. We agree to set an alarm for a quarter past six. We settle off to sleep spending the night parked at the side of the garage.
Monday 15 July 2013. Day 63.
We had agreed to set an alarm for a quarter past six but were awake by five. We have a cup of tea in the van. As I sit drinking my tea, I can hear the noise of traffic on the M40 motorway in the distance. Away by just after five thirty we pass over the M40 and I can see that the pressure to get jobs done and stuff delivered has people starting their working day even earlier than when, only three years ago, I was commuting to Watford.
We remain on more rural roads. The occasional commuter, irritated by our slower progress, blasts past us, risking life and limb in order to get to wherever. The roads become slightly familiar as we enter Chipping Norton, I try to get us parked near the impressive industrial mill that commands the valley but get thwarted by a modern industrial estate of steel clad sheds. Back on the highway we can look down on the mill? but the parking that would afford us time and the best available view is filled with parked cars belonging to the households living alongside the road. Moreton in Marsh is further from Chippy than I recall. A passing Bakers coach reminds me of one of the visits that as a student at the College I made. A heavy drinking session the night before resulted in my vomiting unceremoniously. The coach was stopped and things cleaned up – doh!
Not much has changed it seems as we glide past the entrance to the site. Further down the road that we regularly walked into and back from Moreton, there is a new industrial estate. On the other side of the road, land which looks as though it would have been within the camp, has now become a select housing development. The instructors’ houses are still evident and then we cross the rail bridge into MinM. Life here continues in traditional fashion it seems. We pass the Reedsdale and head out towards Stow.
Just on the outskirts of Stow on the Wold I pull Brigitte into a layby. There is already a camper van there. That vehicle has the look of having been on the road a goodly long time and there are no signs of life at a quarter to eight in the morning. With the sun streaming into our windows we have good countryside views despite the proximity to the bustling highway. In the meadow behind us, rabbits are enjoying the early morning, feasting on what takes their fancy. A bird call and a flock of birds taking fright has the rabbits bounding for cover. Perhaps they were alarmed by one of the three refuse trucks that careered into the lay-by. Large vehicles, it seems, use this layby as a place to turn and head back into Stow. At one stage we have a large white lorry, bearing Polish registration plates, and complete with a drag trailer executing this manoeuvre. With Radio 4 delivering the news of the day we breakfast in our usual manner – tea, then porridge with banana and honey followed by coffee.
We dodge traffic as we cross out of the layby and pick up our route. The traffic lights at Stow remind me to turn right for that pleasant countryside run across to the Tewkesbury motorway junction. We pass places that I had long forgotten but which when seen bring back memories of travelling up and back, up and back to Moreton for weeks on end when I was attending various courses at the Fire Service College.
We need to shop and Tewkesbury has the answer in the form of a Morrisons supermarket. Shopping done I use our newly acquired squirty cleaner guck to remove bugs from our windscreen. It seems to do the trick. Meanwhile Niki has made a brew and I have this with a cinnamon bun whilst watching shoppers come and go about their business in the sunshine. It is hard, on a day like this, to think of Tewkesbury under water, as she has been on a number of recent well reported occasions. Recalling the aerial photo much used in the news, as we drive away I look for the Cathedral but cannot spot it.
We drive through the English countryside that defines Worecestershire and Herefordshire before crossing into Wales. This is the location for the ‘Witch books’. Had we more time here, it would be good to explore.
Wales brings more of the same. Rural towns and rolling fields. Roads of varying states of disrepair and drivers that simply wish to get where they want to go as fast as they possibly can and hell to the consequences.
Our chosen site is a Caravan and Camping site, at Rhandyrmoin. The approach down a steep incline is not something that would be inviting on the way out I mentally note. Neither is the narrow, high sided lane. Turning into the site across their cattle grid we cruise down the approach road at 5 mph before pulling up in the visitor parking bay. I allow the turbo time at idle as I record the mileage in my Evernote notebook.
The on duty site warden bounds out to greet us and before long we have explained why our membership cards are last years’ and she, having consulted her computer screen, has offered us an age related discount. At just over ten euros for the night this is a bargain of the first order. A shaded hardstanding pitch, close to the excellent shower and washrooms.
Just opposite us I clock a yellow ex-AA VW T4 transporter van. It’s occupant who I later discover is a Cornish 64 yo Triathlete and surf lifesaver, shouts out “Ah ha, another Cornishman!”. With his personalised number plate T4DLY, AA transporter van-man is returning to Phillack, Hayle having competed in a triathlon in Liverpool. He finished fifteenth in his age group which I would have thought was respectable. He wanted to get a top ten placing to obtain an invitation to compete in a London based triathlon that will be run later this year. As there are more qualifying events yet to be run perhaps our man from Cornwall will make the starting line-up?
The Rhandyrimoyn site sits in a bowl, being surrounded by fields which are in their turn surrounded by mountains. We are either in or very close to the Brecon Beacons, very much in the news due to the deaths during training, of two soldiers on Saturday. The hot weather is expected to be a factor.
It is not only the Army that make use of the Brecons, the air force come here to train as well. Apparently it has been an unusually quiet day for low flying aircraft. With that a fast jet screams low overhead. A few minutes pass and it is the turn of a lunbering transport aircraft to fly past hugging the contours.
Our shopping expedition provides half of a roasted chicken which we share for our supper. With the long evening available to us and as we are in the countryside we indulge in a wildlife spotting river walk. Despite careful scrutiny we can see no signs of fish in the section of the river that we walk. We put up a few birds from the river bank. There is evidence of sheep but no evidence of rabbits. We need our family guiding experts here but they are busy earning a living in Shetland!
Tuesday 16 July 2013. Day 64.
The sun is shining and this promises to be another idyllic day. Our Cornish compatriot with the yellow AA van is up and about early. As are other campers. This site has been a good introduction to the Caravan and Camping Club. We breakfast, wash our pots and leave the camp site, turning left, then driving over the river bridge before climbing uphill through a narrow lane which winds around the side of an old tree. We manage to avoid both the tree and the opposing hedge. Now we face an eighty mile drive across Wales to Fishguard.
First though we have to retrace our steps into Llandovery. Siobhan instructs us to turn right and as we do so we become the first vehicle caught by the descending railway crossing gates. Not literally caught you understand! Six guys in orange overalls are gathering around a concrete section which two of them lever up with a couple of pry bars. One of their number is trying to rod a duct from one end and lifting this slab it seems may help. Once they have it up the scrape about a bit with shovels before lowering it back into place. This is when the fun starts. The slab does not want to go back into its slot. Meanwhile traffic is building, from both sides. The gang become anxious. One tries to drive the slab down with his pry bar and only succeeds in knocking chips of concrete off which fly up into the face of one of his mates. The slab is so close to fitting I feel sure that when my van wheels run over it, it will setttle into place. They lift it again. I fear that one of their number will trap a digit. They work fast and furious. The slab is dropped back down. It still stands slightly proud as it did before. They give up. The barriers are raised and as I predicted when Brigitte rolled over the slab it snicked down into place.
There are an incredible number of roundabouts on modern roads. They ease the flow of traffic whilst requiring quite a bit of steering wheel and gear box work from the drivers of larger vehicles. What to the car driver is an easy left, right, left flick of the wheel is an exercise in precision for longer, wider, heavier vehicles. We drive over a variety of roads from dual carriageways to A roads to single track lanes, Brigitte takes them all in her stride.
Arriving in Fishguard with almost an hour to spare we search for a Post Office from which to post Herve’s get well card. Our first excursion takes us down hill to what must have been the old harbour, reminiscent of a Cornish port, I’d like to have stayed longer but we needed to turn around promptly otherwise we would have blocked all roads. The second choice road through Fishguard brought us to the Post Office and a convenient car park. Niki went off and sent the card.
Following the signs we are soon on the Stena ferry terminal. Andrew, the customer services person we spoke to at the front desk was friendly and polite. He explains the free wifi on the port, times of boarding and where we might wish to park up on our return journey. Friendly, knowledgeable staff add so much to the customer experience. Thank you Andrew.
We park the van and eat lunch. A salad and ham sandwich that Niki puts together as the kettle boils for a cup of tea. We pass through check in and the customs shed and join the line to board the Stena Europe. There are lots of vehicles of every description. We all wait in the sunshine. Then as if by magic vehicles begin to move forwards. Brigitte scrapes her bottom even though I edge her forwards over the plates that bridge the gaps between ship ramp and shore. There are a couple more sharp angles but we get over these unscathed. We are in the bowels of the ship, car deck three. The space is filled with articulated lorries and trailers, coaches and camper vans. The air is heavy with the smell of fish and diesel oil. The deck is wet, slippery and dirty. With Brigitte locked up we climb the stairs to the top deck where we spend most of the three hour crossing.
Pulling out from harbour we are in for easy sailing with water like a mill pond our ship glides along as if on glass. Using our new binoculars I spot a couple of seals. I also see puffin and young puffin for the very first time. There are also a plethora of other seabirds which all fly in remarkably similar fashion, skimming low across the water. It has to be said that some of these black backed, white underbellied birds have a rapid wing beat whereas others with similar plumage have a much easier flying style. Note to self: I need my guide book to hand for the return journey.
Niki finds time to do a bit of retail therapy. I get a packet of liquorice allsorts and some Cool Water Eau de Cologne, hurrah.
Off ferry and into Rosslare, along the strand to the pub. Park up at the back of the car park and sink a couple of swift Guinnesses. Then into the village to find the Chipper as recommended by the chap with two women who had told us about the government plan here, to put Lithium in the water?! The woman with the vibrant colour dress has a fiance who is a fisherman going into and out of Cornish ports. They all say that they love Cornish pasties. Hurrah.
We pay for our drinks, €12 for three pints total plus two packets of the wonderfully named Ta Toe, potato crisps. Based on the advice of our new friends we walk down into Rosslare Strand in search of the chipper. The lady in the booking office points me to the building. Inside we order a fisherman’s supper complete with mushy peas and tartare sauce plus a grilled cod steak for Niki. Waiting outside we speak with some of the local youths. I note the bravado amongst them especially from the girls. One girl is openly smoking, another scrounges a roll-up from a boy who is just about to leave to join another group. All the girls want to know where he is going. A voice from within announces that our meal is ready. As we enter to collect it, the girls that remained follow along the group of boys.
Back at the van we tuck into the fish and chips which have stayed hot despite the ten minute walk. Then we tuck into bed. A good night of sleep awaits.
Wednesday 17 July 2013. Day 65.
The sun returns as we wake. In the pub car park a guy is busy watering the hanging baskets. I ask him who I see about paying for last night’s parking. He asks who we spoke to. I reply that it was the young woman who was behind the bar last evening. After a few moments reflection, our man decides to phone “the boss”. The boss says that we need pay nothing for parking the night. A great result for our first night’s stay!
We start up and head away towards New Ross where we will visit the famine ship Dunbrody. The journey is through a rural landscape on modern roads. The one odd experience we have is when we pass through a swarm of bees. These poor things hit the front of the van like hailstones! It sounded as if we had just run into a downpour of heavy rain. The windscreen was covered in the bodies of dead and dying bees before I turned on the wipers to clear them away.
New Ross sits on the river and just as you enter the town, the masts of the Dunbrody can be seen towering over the nearby buildings. We park, paying the two euro charge for two hours. Across the road to the centre. We are in time for the eleven fifteen tour. A walk through some display boards. A short video and then an introduction by our guide Siobhan before the reveal. Sliding aside two wooden panels we catch our first glimpse of the ship.
On board we are told about main deck and the limit of one half an hour per day on deck for the steerage passengers. Then we went below to inspect the conditions under which passengers and crew lived. It was not particularly pleasant. All this was going on between 1840 and 1870. So in the lifetime of my great great grandfather?
What of Sharp Hoskin, where did he sail? Which vessels did he Captain? What cargo did he carry?
When our tour ended we set off to buy diesel before plotting our route to Clonmel. Our actual destination, the “Powers the Pot” campsite has no sat-navigable address. Towards the end of the journey I find out why. We Wind our way along narrow, tree lined country lanes, much of the time heading up steep inclines. At a junction Niki opts, after some deliberation, to take us left. The signs are not good. We start descending with forestry on either side. I stop the van and find myself reversing about three quarters of a mile back to junction before we about face and set off again.
Hurrah, we’ve found it shouts Niki as we arrive. A black spaniel comes to greet us. Found and taken in by the owner of the site, the dog is named Kevin for the character from the “Home Alone” films. Our introduction to the site comes complete with a run down of the archaeology of the area. Its remoteness has ensured the preservation of some significant features. We are briefed on a walk to Laghtnafrankee, one of the smaller of the Comeragh Mountains. As we are at about 350 metres on the site, the climb to the top is described as a straightforward ascent of about five hundred feet.
We set up on our pitch then have a spot of lunch. After lunch we set off to explore the walk. The initial climb up the metalled road feels as hard as anything that follows. I’m puffing and blowing before we’ve gone fifty feet. Not a good sign. The climb eases as we pass the first of the communications masts. What Niki believes is a raven is sitting high up cronking away. As we look at the raven through the binoculars it decides to excrete. The noise as the waste hits the floor is clearly audible! There he sits, cronking and shitting! Niki says I know someone else like that. I can’t think who she could possibly mean!
We cross a cattle grid and turn right, continuing along a surprisingly busy roadway. At the T we hop through a gap in the wall and follow a well worn track towards our destination. As with most hill climbs, the ascent is punctuated with stops, typically as a piece of level or leveller ground is achieved. At the top there is a triangulation point. We later learn from our host that said triangulation point is atop a stone cairn which itself is atop a Mesolithic tomb.
The views around are amazing. In one direction a factory with a series of tanks we later learn is Magners aka Bulmers. There was a time when Magners was doing less well in Eire and so they bought the use of the Bulmers name. This explains why, when I saw people drinking Bulmers cider last night, they were drinking an Irish brew and not the product of Shepton Mallett. Further around are the towering mountains and then even further comes the vale and the vee. A stirring scene.
After taking photos at the top, we motor back down the slopes. Using our new binoculars, I spot a guy who stops his car at the T. He dives into a gully an promptly returns to his car and drives off. My interest is piqued. As we pass the spot I check it out. Nestling in the gully are two bottles of water. I had noted that the guy was wearing running gear and so I reasoned that he is a runner who will later run a route that takes him to this point and he will then be able to take on water without the need to carry it with him.
Back at the site we enjoy our first bbq using our gas bbq. It takes almost as long to figure how to assemble the relevant sections of the bbq as it does to grill sausages and jalapeno beefburgers. The meal is delicious. Eating in the open air whilst watching the bird life is priceless.
On our way back from doing the washing up, in a rather down at heel wc/shower/kitchen block, Niki notices that our host has lit the fire in his bar. Since Niki had earlier asked if he was going to light the fire, we felt obliged to have a drink there. In so doing we learned more about the local area than we would otherwise have done. Our man is a fan of JP MacManus. He spoke aboout Merck, who have a very profitable plant nearby. He spoke about the Austrian artist who lives nearby, a Scientologist who produces huge canvases. Then there is Marylyn Manson who holidays here with his wife.
The collective term for the period when money was being made hand over fist is “the Madness”. The repercussions are still being felt.
Our conversation deviates to mountaineering and Joe Simpson. A signed print from Joe is on the wall. A book to look out for has the title “Conquistadors …”
Well, it’s now bed time. Spaniel Kevin is still mythering around. The sky is light even at ten thirty as we retire to bed. Another great day exploring and living life with my lovely wife.
Thursday 18 July 2013. Day 66.
The sun beats down on Ireland. People here do not get prolonged periods of fine weather it seems judging by all of the comments about the weather and the expectations of rain. We sat outside for breakfast and were slightly taken aback by the pheasant that walked through the camping field. Expect the unexpected ought to be the motto for life here at Powers the Pot.
The name is explained by the fact that two bachelors and a widow lived here in the 1970’s. Back then the water for the site came from a spring out on the hill. It arrived at a cast iron cooking pot that had been set into the hedgerow. And so we have the ingredients for the name. The owners were the Powers family and passers by used to stop to water their animals at the pot. In time the name Powers the Pot was coined and stuck.
The water supply seems to be in good order today. I take a shower using the one electric shower. It works a treat unlike the gas powered showers which are awaiting the repair of one or other of the boilers. Both look quite ropey and I suspect that the repair might be short lived. A shave with cold water in the gents loo leaves me clean and tidy for the day ahead.
One of the two other groups of campers leaves the site ahead of us. The second couple have headed out towards the three peaks, a much more serious endeavour than the walk we undertook yesterday.
With things stowed we say our farewells to our host and his ever present dog. Down the hill we trundle, so steep is the incline that I cover the brake pedal and occasionally apply a dab of braking. At the crossroads we head left along the nearside bank of the river Suir. This avoids most of the Clonmel traffic. Then we are away in the open countryside and meandering up the Vee. The rhododendrons would have been magnificent last month our host told us. Now I can see what he meant. On both sides of the road the rhododendron bushes have taken over. On higher ground the managed forestry of fir takes over. At a view point we pull over for a break. As Niki scours the map for signs of Samuel Grubb, I point to what looks like an oversized cairn or bothy. “What is that?” says I. Niki replies, “You’ve found the Upright Samuel Grubb!”. Perched in a commanding position on a hillside this pile of stones is the final resting place of Samuel Richard Grubb. Grubb wished to be buried in this way so that he could witness the magnificence of the Vale of Tipperary spread golden before him. We scaled the fifty or sixty feet up to his monument and took photographs. As a view point, his choice of burial site could hardly be bettered.
Back on the road, we buzzed along until we find ourselves behind a trailer-towing tractor. Convinced that he is going to turn off at any moment, we end up following him for about four miles, much to the annoyance of a couple of car drivers who overtake us and him. When finally he does peel off he gives us a knowing wave. Indeed the wave is something of an art form here in Ireland. People taking the air may spot the motor caravan and they wave. Drivers of large vehicles generally wave. Perhaps they are saying “Nice van mate”. Who knows? Today a chap walking his dog waved at us and of course I waved back. This feels good. There should be more waving it is so much better for all of us than road rage.
The we meet the traffic chaos that is Cork. Without venturing into the city we get embroiled in the peripheral nonsense. Taxis are flying to the airport and back. Cars buzz around us as people are anxious to go about their business – all of which must be so important given the pace of the traffic. Oh, and nobody waved at us.
A few minutes later we are out of Cork and plunged back into rural roads. Many are narrow and high hedged. This requires total concentration as we are bouncing along over well worn roads with pot holes and ruts, the new European standard in these austere times. I’ve no doubt that this period of hot weather will get blamed for yet more road damage. The tar that binds the stones is melting and rising to the top. In places one can see where the molten macadam is being torn up. I try my best to keep the wheels off of the worst of it but at times one just has to ride it out. At these moments I find myself listening to ripping noises as the tyres adhere to the tar and then pull apart again.
It’s an eighty mile drive to Kinsale. On arrival at Charles Castle I’m glad of a rest and a cup of tea. I render assistance to a guy who needs a pair of stout scissors in order to wrestle a new memory card from its security packaging. He in turn tips Niki off about camping on the Beara peninsula.
We pay our entry fee to the Castle in time to join the four thirty tour. By the time we finish the tour I am glad that I did not live the life of a soldier in the era of the castle. Paid one shilling a week before deductions, the private soldier shared a bunk room with eleven others. If married and permitted to have his wife with him, our soldier would be fortunate to have a blanket draped around a corner of the room. His wife would qualify for one half ration of food and if she undertook specific work, she could then obtain the other half ration.
The Officers had a better existence once they had bought their commission. Their houses were more spacious and also the food was markedly better.
Our guide told us about the style of construction of the fort. It followed the star shape devised by the Frenchman De Vaubin. Attacked only once in its working history, the fort wall was breached by a continuous bombardment of cannon balls. Fired at a rate of eighty an hour, the wall became holed and the Jacobites within were invited to surrender and marched away to Limerick.
There is more to write but for this I need my photos and access to the internet.
We exit Kinsale driving along the dockside past some very smart restaurants and a huge hotel. We are once more back in the countryside heading for the “Old Head”. Quite why it has that name I do not know. We drive right out to the golf club at the end before we discover that the place we want is “The Speckled Door” which we passed two and a half miles back. Arriving, I am exhausted. We venture into the pub/restaurant and have a beer each. I opt for a pint of Beamish and Niki takes a Bulmers Irish cider. Sitting out on the garden is pleasant. The night is warm. A large family group at a table just beyond us provides interest as a couple of the children take to playing with a wheel chair that one of the elderly adults has been using. Depite being told not to, they careen about the place, laughing all of the while. On other tables people are enjoying their meals. And the weather is being enjoyed by all.
Out in the bay people are sailing, the sails of their craft taut in the breeze. Further out to sea a large ship, sitting light in the water, rides at anchor. Other small craft are out with people trying their hand at fishing. Perhaps for a mackerel supper.
An older man and a youth are clearing some white tape barriers from the horse field just next door. Then a fella arrives with a huge tractor and mower and after a conversation with the older man, tractor man sets to work in the horse field next door. His mower lays waste to the weeds that the horses won’t touch. The trouble is that his tractor, a huge behemoth makes a fearful din and the mower sends clouds of dust flying. We retire to the van where even at ten at night it is hot. Niki touches an aluminium part of the window blind surround and comments that it is incredibly hot to the touch. When I also try it, I find that the aluminium feels as if it has been heated with a plumbers torch. With the roof vents open we manage to keep the van cool enough to get off to sleep. Niki takes longer than me to go off as she can hear some children in the large permanent caravan site behind the hedgerow. Once asleep the first thing that I hear is a solitary lorry, early in the morning. Perhaps it is the milk lorry out collecting?
Friday 19 July 2013. Day 67.
Niki is determined that I should have a less demanding day driving. We set off from Old Head, south and west of Kinsale, towards the Mizen Head peninsula.
At the first bay we come to there are a couple of groups of school children being instructed in how to surf. The small children are on the shore and are basically having fun under the guidance of their leaders. The bigger children are in the water, clad in wet suits. Quite what their instructor is having them do, I do not know. They don’t have any surf boards, nor for that matter is there any surf. With this sunshine and the notion of learning to surf they seem to be having a good time. We stop and I take a few photos. I’m intrigued that at this bay there is a waggon train of camping cars all pulled up. Perhaps these vehicles are owned by Irish surfers or perhaps by people who like to wild camp on the beachside? Whatever the reason, this is the biggest collection that I have seen outside a camping car dealership. Parked in the middle of them is a double decker bus serving as a cafe, Niki tells me as we drive by.
We then wind our way back inland to Ballinspittle which leads us onwards to Timoleague and thence to Clonakilty, Ross Carbery and Skibbereen before we stop for lunch at Ballydehob. This spot, next to the tidal estuary, is delightful. Fish teem in the water. The view is exquisite and Ballydehob is a characterful village – with a wholefood shop to boot.
The after lunch journey to our planned destination, Barley Cove Campsite, is challenging, we wind our way along narrow country roads barely wide enough for two vehicles to pass. The occasional idiots who choose to throw their vehicle bindly around corners are becoming increasingly frequent on the road through Schull, Tootmore, Goleen to the cul de sac at Crookhaven.
At Barley Cove the going rate is €29 for a pitch plus electricity. I have already decided that I do not want to stay here even before Niki tells me the tariff. I have an intense dislike of sites filled with huge residential caravans and static homes. This place is a reminder of the worst of Newquay and Perranporth. We leave and retrace our steps to Toormore before taking the R591 to Durrus and the unmarked roads to Carbery Cottage SNI site at Brahalish. Unable to empty our very full chemical loo, they have a septic tank and unable to provide a place for us to shower, we agree that it will lbe sensible for us to head on to find a campsite where we can get these essential service items. They do, however, very kindly let us use their own toilet so that we don’t run the risk of overflowing the one in Brigitte!
The Glengarriff Campsite meets the need and is only a further forty kilometres away. Pulling up onto a level hard standing I happily let the engine idle for a minute or two to cool the turbo. Then I’m into toilet service mode, emptying the twenty or so kilos of waste that we have been toting around the coastline! How I wished that I had taken the plunge at that very first bay and dumped the contents of the dunny down the public loo. I mistakenly thought that there would be bay after bay like the first one. I found, to my cost that the first bay is also the last bay on our route. And so as far as the loo emptying saga is concerned, I didn’t do it and the story is now written.
With the loo cleaned out and topped up with deodorising and sanitisng solution I turned my attention to my own hygiene and washed my hands. To create some shade in order to bbq, I winched out the awning. A first for the summer of ’13. A spray of WD40 on the hinges and all is good.
The bbq heats up quickly and I soon have pork steaks as well as pork and leek sausages grilling nicely. The smoke from the bbq drifts across the campground. I can only imagine how others must feel having previously been on campsites whilst someone else is cooking away.
After supper we wash up. Then we take a walk up to the bar. There we find a collection of regulars keeping the bar person busy. All are discussing the weather and where each has come from to be here today. Against the back wall is a fellow who, from the snippets of conversation that I could hear and understand, is the singer for the evening. With a pint of Beamish and a half of Bulmers for Niki we sit near the entrance door. We are glad of the breeze through the door but not the midges that come in with the air. We are both getting too much attention from these pests and so rather than have a second drink and stay to hear the talent, we head back to the van.
The van is better protected against midges than the open door of the bar. We have insect netting at all openings with the exception of the doors which we keep firmly closed. Niki proceeds to beat me in two games of dix mille. I comfort myself with two glasses of whisky. With a night cap in hand it is time for bed. Chance to read a few pages of my current read – The global arms trade – and then lights out.
At some point during the night I am conscious of one of the fellows who inhabits the tent near us. He is snoring loudly. When I report this to Niki in the morning she says that I also snored in the night. Hard to believe until you recall that this was supposed to have been an easy driving day. I am told that it would have been an easy driving day had I not turned down Barley Cove.
Saturday 20 July 2013. Day 68.
The Italian Gardens at Ilnacullin have been calling to Niki for the past twenty years. A little explanation, Niki came to Ireland with her dad and his dog Carrie, in his campervan, twenty years ago. Much of the route that we are doing reprises that trip. Apparently the weather was not conducive to a visit to the gardens on Garinish Island back then – it was raining. Today it is sunny and the only thing standing between us and a trip to the island is the two loads of washing we have to get done. This washing m’larky can only happen if “your man” can find a couple of tokens for us to use. He is quite occupied by the guys who are putting down macadam. Yes, with the holiday season in full swing, the site is having running repairs done. The tarmac crew started work at seven thirty this morning, firstly by firing up their vibrating plate and rolling machines, the din was ear splitting, much to my chagrin.
Once awake I found myself needing to use the bathroom. I have a pleasant surprise in finding that loo roll is provided. This pleasure is short lived as at the conclusion of business, I find that there is no loo brush. After two failed attempts at flushing away, it became a case of “third time lucky”. I checked the other stalls and found the same situation for each of the three of them. At €23 per night you would think that they could afford to provide loo brushes?
Your man, is still no where to be seen and so I go off in search of him again. This time I find him brandishing a watering can and helping with the tar laying. He explains the washing machines to me, “You put the token in and then select cold, medium or hot and press the button, that’s it”. And yes that was it, forty minutes later we empty each machine and arrange our washing on our impromptu line and on their rusty but otherwise servicable drying rack.
By eleven we have breakfasted. We unload the scooter and motor into Glengarriff. Niki needs some Molaxole and we call at the pharmacy. They do not carry this product and offer a range of alternatives. Niki spots that they have Movicol. This is prescription only here. We get briefed that there is a pharmacy in Castletownbere which Niki will probably not be able to visit tomorrow so we must look ahead to Kenmare on Monday as a possible source of supply. In the Tourist Office that looks more like a gift shop, we learn that there is no ATM in Glengarriff. The nearest, on our chosen route, is in Castletownbere.
We head for nearby office of the Blue Lagoon Ferry company to get tickets to visit the Italian Gardens. The guy in the booth is a complete card. He agrees to have the scooter parked next to his office and to take our helmets into care. A fellow motorcyclist. Ten euros for the return trip seems steep until you add in the fun of the journey and the time spent watching and photographing seals en route.
On the island, as soon as I spot that we are visiting another OPW (Office of Public Works) site, I pay up for a season pass. We should have done this at Charles Castle but hey there are another one hundred plus locations to go at during our two and a half weeks here! The gardens are a marvel. Transforming a gorse and heather encrusted island into such a sub-tropical jewel is no mean feat. The trouble today is, the heat stress that all of the plants and trees are now under! Two weeks without rain, the heat of the sun combined with the effect of the everpresent winds are showing. The gardener that we spoke with showed serious concern. I hope for the sake of the garden that rain comes soon enough.
We spend a good couple of hours looking at plants and planting, the various walks and buildings and the Martello tower built by the British to defend against a possible Napoleonic?? attack that never materialised.
Stopping in the tea room at the end of the walk provided a chance for me to have a cup of coffee and a slice of carrot cake, as a substitute for lunch. Waiting to board the boat back we got chatting with an elderly fellow and his wife who although quite clearly Irish, now live in Cape Cod. The man told me that the next OPW site we plan to visit, Derrynane, has been frequented by Charlie Chaplin, Charles De Gaulle and other notables. It is his home turf and he should therefore know.
The boat worked hard on the return trip. Into a head wind and almost full of passengers the beat of the marine diesel was reassuringly loud and solid. As we re-entered the blue lagoon the pontoon that we passed on leaving had garnered a few more people out enjoying the weather, swimming and relaxing in the sunshine.
We collected our helmets and scooter and set off to the Spar shop to buy some salad items. Returning to the caravan site, the roads were sticky with tar in the heat. Back at base the fresh macadam was now the route into the site. As our washing had blown over a time or two a kindly neighbour had picked it up and placed it alongside the van. We stowed our things and set off for the Healy Pass.
Healy was a character from the early 1930’s who was instrumental in creating the pass. As scenic routes go, this one has some spectacular rock formations, some neat hairpin bends and contrasting valley views from the pass. Looking towards Kerry, the views are gentler. The view back to Cork shows a harsher terrain with rocky outcrops which have been tilted into inclines. All in all it is beautiful.
Coming off Healy we meet a guy towing a trailer. He backs up and we enter a gateway to allow him to pass. With a loud metallic sound, Brigitte sticks her bottom into the soft tar. After jumping out, shredding my legs with brambles and nettles, to take a look, I reverse dragging yet more macadam away. It all sounds much worse than I thought it might have been. At least we had not ripped out the battery box, which is my big fear.
Now the roads wind down the coastline until we reach Everies and turn inland to recross the Beara Peninsula to Castletownbere. Here we drive through the main street and return, stopping at the ATM to withdraw cash. We exit the town on the road towards Glengarriff stopping to refill with diesel and then finally pulling in at the Beara Golf Club. Here they have converted a car park into camper van pitches. It is all hard standing and so pitching an awning is not likely. With electricity and water on each spot, this will do us for a night – the view of Bear Haven and Bear Island beyond are not to be sniffed at! It looks like being a peaceful pitch and we join the three other vans and two tents who have also decided to stay. The tents are pitched on a grassy area just below us. I’m guessing that this is not a fairway and that we are out of the range of golf balls! We shall see.
Niki rustles up supper using the left over pork steaks and pork and leek sausages from last night, with a few steamed potatoes, some baked beans and some toast this is fine food at the end of an enjoyable day spent meandering around an Italian style garden and wending up and down the Healy Pass.
After supper we take a walk out onto a quay. I spot the mast of a rusting shipwreck mid channel. Niki takes the binoculars and says “Guess what? I’ve found Dunboy Castle and Puxley mansion. They are on the other side of Castletownbere!”. I thank our lucky stars that we have found Dunboy before setting off in the morning, in search of it, as we would have been travelling up the coast in the wrong direction!
Sunday 21 July 2013. Day 69.
Dunboy Castle anybody? Most of the morning we spend cleaning the van. So many weeks on the road have taken their toll. Carpets beaten in the open air send clouds of dust skywards. The floor gets a brush and then a mop before being allowed time to dry.
With electricity included in the cost of our stay, we fire up the Combitronic and heat water for a shower. Our own water, piping hot, is the ideal remedy for hot, sweaty bodies.
I have an interesting conversation with one of our fellow campers. He tells me that the hill behind the golf course is named Hungry Hill and that some years ago whilst sailing up the waters between the mainland and Bere Island, he was watching a yacht skippered by a Welsh woman when, all of a sudden it capsized. Wondering what had happened, my new friend sailed on. At almost the exact same place he too capsized. The winds coming down off of Hungry Hill had caught him in the same way as the Welsh skipper. Local conditions can and do wreak havoc. (Coincidentally, Hungry Hill is the name of a Daphne du Maurier novel in which she tells the story of the family who built the Puxley Mansion.)
We left the golf course camping pitch as the rain began. All of the other over-nighters with the exception of one tent had left before us. We were the last to leave. Golfers had taken their fill of a Sunday morning round, presumably before lunch. A stiff wind adding to the challenges that the course has to offer.
We motored through Glengarriff and on to the Puxley mansion where the developers had re-roofed and glazed the old place. They have also built some hideous apartment blocks to the rear of the Gothic mansion. These additions add nothing to the charm of the place. We park up and Niki quickly finds the quayside, now largely lying under a carpet of tall grasses, where her dad fell into the water in an ill fated attempt to rescue his dog, Carrie. Had he tested the water he would have known that to leap straight in would have meant that he would ultimately have emerged dryer! Niki says that strange as it may seem, she feels closer to her dad here than in Wales. It is worth making the trip for that comment alone.
We move on and along the ring of Kerry. The roads continue to offer an interesting driving challenge. They vary in width, they vary from even and smooth surfaced to rough and pot holed. At times the van bucks around as she rears out of an unseen dip. Then there are the vehicles coming towards one. Some observe lane rules and have an idea that our motorcaravan may need space beyond that which a car requires. Others drive in a state of oblivion. Others still have a mobile phone conversation ongoing. Then there are the coaches, generally well driven by drivers who know the size of their vehicle. It is, as they say, all going on.
We fetch up in Wavecrest, a camping and caravaning site that Niki and her dad stayed at twenty years hence. A very busy site where, on arrival, you are invited to find your own pitch. The only injunction being that pitches with electricity on them should be left free for those who are prepared to pay the extra four euro for the priviledge.
We locate ourselves on a scrap of land just beyond a VW camper van and in front of two tents. One of the tents is being put up as we settle in. Unwittingly the tent occupants provide us with a laugh or two as they spend an age banging tent pegs into the hard ground. The out comes a huge inflatable bed which they jiggle about with until getting it into the tent.
Kids are running around the van playing games of hide and seek. Older kids are grooming themselves in hope of meeting friends or perhaps a new boy or new girl. I hear one young lad being ribbed by an older woman. She wants to know if he has a “Colleen” or perhaps a few “Colleens”. He feigns ignorance as his dad and the woman enjoy a laugh.
Night descends and the camp goes quiet. Niki and I enjoy a hand of dix mille. Despite a minus three thousand score I eventually emerge champion. I remind Niki of this a few times before we head to bed! Our destination to morrow is Derrynane House, the home of Daniel, the Liberator, O’Connell a reknowned Irish Barrister, Politician and Repeal Campaigner.