Wigtown

We set out along the Giant's Causeway Coastal route, pausing along the way to admire the beach and views of the chalk cliffs at White Park Bay.

What's not to like about views of the sea? I do love the mountains, but if I had to choose just one, it would be the sea.

We had our morning tea at a waterside park in Ballycastle.

On this cloudy day, we had the place to ourselves.

When our guides joined us at the lunch table yesterday, they remarked that we seemed awfully quiet. “That's because we just reviewed the description of tomorrow's ride. Toughest cycling road in Ireland!” it says. They looked at each other.

The Torr Road. It started out gently enough.

They're always scenic, these climbs. I declined the offer to ride in the van. It was cloudy, but not raining; and the steep section (16% grade) was short. I walked, until it leveled out a bit. Luka Bloom's lyrics played in my head:

Ah go on, get up on your bike.

The switchback ahead was steep, but I'd get there faster if I pedaled.

And if I pedaled, would I make it? My legs were as balky as yesterday. I dug deep.

The van was parked above. “It's clear, you can go wide!” shouted our guide.

Instead of walking, with great determination, I pedaled. I powered up one steep bit, at last!

I was, of course, off the back again. Fragments of Irish fiddle tunes (the soundtrack during Sunday's long drive) played in my head, and helped me keep turning the pedals. [Note to self: listen to more of those.]

One benefit of climbing slowly is all the time you have to admire the view. And here, there were plenty of views to admire.

I drew closer to some cyclists who had stopped ahead; close enough to see that they were not part of our group.

“Are you the lady from California?” one asked. (Evidently they've met the rest of our group.)

“Near San José,” I replied. One of them pointed at his arm warmers: San Jose Bike Club. And then, things got really surprising. He noticed my club jersey ... he was wearing a different one. We are members of the same bike club. What are the odds, that we happen to be on the same remote road in Northern Ireland, on the same day, at the same time? It's been years since we've crossed paths on a ride in the Bay Area, as he's a much stronger rider than I am.

Just as I was getting back on the bike, our guide circled back to find me. With a little more climbing ahead, he gallantly offered to take my handlebar bag. “People pay money to shed that much weight from the bike.” I handed it over. “I'll try to keep up on the descent,” he joked. (My reputation has been solidly established.)

We were on the clock again today, as we had to catch the ferry that would take us to our fifth and final country, Scotland.

To reach our destination for tonight, Wigtown, we cycled 20 miles across a peninsula. Along the way, right next to the road, was the Torhouse Stone Circle.

Whenever I visit an ancient historic site by bicycle, I can't help but wonder what its people would make of us and our machines. And wonder at the labor (and the thought) that went into the creation of this monument, during a time when it would seem a luxury to do anything more than the work needed simply to survive.

Our longest day, so far: 52 miles, with 3,350 feet of climbing.

Yet, I was not eager for this day to end.

Giant's Causeway

The sun lingers late, this far north, during the summer months.

Which afforded us the opportunity for a bonus post-dinner excursion to a very special place—the Giant's Causeway—a UNESCO World Heritage site.

I saw my first volcanic basalt columns last year, when I visited Yellowstone National Park. Here, they were more varied and accessible ... and particularly striking at dusk.

Looking at the landscape now, I can't imagine the volcanic violence that formed these towering columns (about 60 million years ago).

Even more so, given that despite the work of waves and weather over the millennia, some 40,000 columns remain.

Wildflowers find their footing in the crevices and hint at the size of these rocks.

The perspective is much more clear at human scale.

Before it finished setting over the North Atlantic, the sun tinted sea and sky in shades of gold and pink and lavender.

How very fortunate were we, to bask in this place and time.

Portballintrae

More rain to start our day. So it goes.

We shared the road with a few sheep (and a lamb); they kindly kept to the left side of the road.

This was day seven of our trip, and despite our recent rest day, my legs did not want to climb. Did. Not. Want. To.

Being way off the back again, I was feeling like I should call it a day at lunchtime. The prospect of biking 48 miles was daunting.

We were headed for another steep climb, up Mamore Gap. Photos never do justice to the slope—we're headed for the V-shaped notch, and around the bend the road goes more or less straight up. I recorded a grade approaching 19%, though this report suggests it maxes out at 22%. In other words, I was doomed. I took a deep breath and pedaled until I couldn't; then, I walked the steepest 4/10 of a mile. Only one rider, and our guide, pedaled the whole way up.

The descent was technical, and wet, so I took it easy. If you look carefully, you will find a tiny dot of a cyclist (above the big rock) descending a twisty, steep bit. Looking back when we reached the fields below, the skies grew darker and darker: we were lucky to get through the Gap before the downpour.

Somehow, I didn't get the memo about where we would have our tea break, and the van was not visible from the road. I assumed that everyone was ahead of me; I did catch another rider at an intersection, where we decided to pause. Our guide appeared (somewhat breathless), to reel us back in. We backtracked to find the van at a parking lot for the Glenevin Waterfall. We didn't have time for a hike to see it, so we just enjoyed our tea and sweets.

The rain found us when we stopped at a pub for lunch (cycling—it's all about the food). Have I mentioned that our guides also wipe our saddles dry when we're ready to get back on the bikes? [Yes, they do that.] They talked me out of abandoning into the van at this stage; the drive would be long, and they assured me that the climbs ahead were gentle.

We rolled into Greencastle, where we would meet up with the boat that would take us across the edge of the North Atlantic to our fourth country, Northern Ireland. There was enough time to warm up with our favorite libations, each to his or her own: hot chocolate, tea, Guinness ... I was amused to find USB ports installed under the bar top, for patrons to charge their phones.

Bikes and people were loaded onto the boat, lifejackets were donned, and tales were told by the captain: How the British army used to play rugby on the sand bar we were skirting, at low tide. How the Royal Portrush Golf Club (visible along the shore) will host a championship in 2019.

There was an unusual boat in the harbor at Portrush; our captain didn't think much of their maritime skills and gave them a wide berth. It was the vessel that the four-man team “Home to Portrush” plans to row in the 2017 Atlantic Challenge. [Yes, they plan to row 3,000 miles across the Atlantic Ocean.]

Having biked some 41 miles, what's another seven? [Sigh.] Not much climbing, I was promised.

It was worth it, from the coastal promenade, to the ruins of Dunluce Castle.

It's a personal foible, to imagine I'm capable of less when I really can do more. Today, for example: 48 miles, 2,940 feet of climbing.

Buncrana

There is still some land in Ireland that's farther north than we would travel today, but nonetheless we traversed an area that is not frequently visited.

We packed up for a long drive to our starting point, near Sheephaven Bay. Some chaps from a local cycling club (Cill Chluana Wheelers) were refueling at the same place where we stopped to refuel the van.

Amazingly, we happened to be in just the right place at just the right time to catch the start of one of the races in the Emyvale Cycling Club Grand Prix.

Being here, I already had seven-time Irish Champion Ryan Sherlock and his wife Melanie Spath on my mind; as visitors, they have dominated a few of our Low-Key Hillclimbs. Evidently Melanie won the 2012 Emyvale Grand Prix women's race! For us, she set a new women's record on the Mt. Hamilton Low-Key Hillclimb in 2010—which she bested in 2015.

We had a chance to roam through what remains of Doe Castle, dating back to the early 16th century, before enjoying our picnic lunch on the grounds. The rain came down just as we were ready to begin our ride.

We found shelter in the little snack bar onsite and chatted with the family who tended it. We set their little boy off in a fit of giggles with our American and Canadian accents. [It took just one word: “cow.”]

Eventually we started riding up the Fanad Peninsula ... in the rain. The hills were pleasantly rolling (not steep!), and the rain came and went. A distinctive bird call spilled out of the nearby woodlands: Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Our guide schooled us in their parenting approach: Mom deposits her egg in another bird's nest and flies away. Once hatched, the interloper sometimes crowds the foster parents' own chicks out of the nest.

South of Portsalon we joined the signposted scenic drive route, which we shared with very little traffic until ... Ballymastocker Beach.

There we stopped for snacks, with a view toward the lovely bit of pavement snaking along the edge of Knockalla Ridge (also known as the Devil's Backbone).

Unfortunately, some local lads were keen on time-trialing their way around the curves, tempting the devil ... in their hotrods.

I was not keen on sharing the road with them.

The lovely blue bike rack beckoned ... where better to park my shiny blue bicycle?

And then came the rain. When would I be happy to ride in the rain, ever?

Today. The rain got heavier, the road got slicker, and the boys turned tail and drove back to town.

It was a bit windy, and the rain came and went; still, it was worth pausing to take in the view of Ballymastocker Bay and the beach below.

We made our way to Rathmullan, on schedule to load cyclists and bikes onto a fishing boat for a shortcut across Lough Swilly to the Inishowen Peninsula.

Once across, it was a quick ride to our lodging at Buncrana. For the day, a scenic 29 miles with 1,820 feet of climbing.

Dublin

We had the option to cycle today, or to rest. A mischievous rider toyed with one of our guides, eagerly proposing a hilly 100 km jaunt. On his home turf, with fresh legs after doing virtually all of the driving up till now, he was all in. [We, of course, were not.]

Dublin is the capital of Ireland, and not surprisingly it's a bustling place. Even on a Saturday.

Until it started to rain. People scurried off the sidewalks in search of shelter; with my umbrella I had the place to myself. [Really, people? It rains here, you don't carry umbrellas?]

In my wanderings, I happened upon the statue of Oscar Wilde in Merrion Square Park.

I thought I'd take a walking tour of the city, but having slept in and then taken a wrong turn, I missed the start.

I thought I'd see the Book of Kells, but so did hundreds of other people. The line stretched out of sight.

Although I'm on vacation, I simply had to pay a visit to our local office. [Because. It's there.] I thought I'd leave a note on a colleague's desk, but the surprise was on me when another colleague passed on her way out the door. [Yes, on a Saturday afternoon.] I didn't know she'd relocated to Dublin, and of course she had no idea I was in town. What are the odds?!

I strolled along a segment of the Grand Canal, and watched a waterfowl building out a nest.

A pair of riders had asked if there were any plays being staged, and as it turned out, we were in luck: The Chastitute was playing in revival at the Gaiety Theatre. All the women in our group decamped to the theatre after dinner. Dark material wrapped in a comic candy shell; the sad denouement made me feel guilty for my laughter.

To live is the rarest thing in the world.
Most people exist, that is all.

—Oscar Wilde

Caernarfon

Day five, and I was ready for a rest day (but that's not today). I was feeling a little bit off, and we were slated to climb about 2,000 feet.

Faced with a steep (though short) climb before we'd even warmed up, several of us were quick to dismount (max grade today, 22%).

I wasn't expecting to be rained on. [You'd think I'd learn?] Luckily, it was only a short burst, not much wetness.

Ping!

Was that a hailstone that just bounced off my mirror? Ping! Another one hitched a ride on the lid of my bag until it melted.

We waved at a stream of cyclists passing in the opposite direction, members and supporters of the Gwernyfed rugby football club, on a two-day fundraising ride from the most northerly club in Wales to the most southerly.

There was talk of a steam train, and whether our timing would align to see it. I caught a glimpse through the trees. Evidently it's coal-powered—and a very sulfurous coal, at that. One of the Welsh Highland Railway's trains, I believe.

We stopped for our morning break at a pub in Beddgelert, which was fortuitous for me as the menu offered a ginger beer that helped settle my system. Shortly after we stepped inside, the rain came pouring down. It stopped by the time we were ready to roll out, and I was the only one who suited up in my rain gear. [Which meant, of course, that we would see no more rain.]

Regrettably, we didn't pay a visit to the local bike shop, but were surprised to find a wicker bicycle mounted above the stairs inside the pub.

We continued on our way through Snowdonia National Park, heading for the coast.

Looking at the map, and the roads not taken ... I just might have to come back here.

We had a schedule to keep today, as we would be crossing the Irish Sea (by ferry) to Dublin. We made good time, affording a chance to admire the nature reserve at Foryd Bay.

Our riding ended at Caernarfon, where we enjoyed lunch and a stroll around the town square near the Castle. Despite the weak start to my day, I felt pretty good at the end: 33 miles, 1,830 feet of climbing.

A local cyclist struck up a conversation, wanting to learn about our trip. “You weren't cycling on Monday?!” she exclaimed.

The scavenging gulls were a menace! You had to keep close watch on your food, and they'd dive at a table as soon as the diners departed, knocking plates and cups to shatter on the stone plaza. Before the trip, while I was languishing sick at home, I had binged on Hitchcock movies. Fittingly, the last one had been “The Birds.” Here, we laughed at a little boy chasing them down—he couldn't have been more than four years old. “Shoo, you bloody bird!” he cried, flailing his arms at one. [He hasn't seen the movie.]

To free us from the time pressure of biking across the Isle of Anglesey to reach the ferry at Holyhead, the group would get a tour up the Menai Strait on a speedy boat (45 knots, at one point).

We cruised under the Menai Suspension Bridge, regarded as the first modern suspension bridge (completed in 1826).

From St. George's Pier, the van carried us onto the ferry and the next phase of our adventure: Ireland, the third country of our Five Countries Tour.