Pedaling through Ireland on our own
"Here, take this cell phone," said Tony Boyd, owner of Iron Donkey Bicycling Tours, his bald head beaming in the morning sun. "Just give me a call if you have a flat or need a lift."
His thick Irish accent and jovial personality eased my churning stomach.
We had just arrived in the historic Irish west coast town of Ennis, a funny little village laid out for pedestrians that's slightly more somber than quaint. Our new, all-terrain touring bikes leaned against a fence in the parking lot of the homely bed-and-breakfast next to a small picnic table where Tony spread out the route maps and the week's itinerary of Ireland's most scenic and popular cycling destinations: The Burren and Connemara.
"You'll be averaging about 30 to 40 miles a day," he continued, "with shorter and longer options if you want." I stuffed my rain gear into the panniers and glanced up at the blue sky, hoping it would stay that way.
"Just pack up your luggage and leave it in your room and we'll pick it up and deliver it to your next hotel along the route," Tony promised. My skepticism subsided, at least momentarily.
When my husband, ever the adventurer, suggested doing a self-guided cycling tour of Ireland, I imagined cold rain soaking through my helmet and bike pants, leg-numbing hills, long, lonesome days and empty stomachs to be finally filled with awful food.
I had been spoiled on other bike trips, which were always with larger groups and several helpful guides. In China with Backroads, we pedaled alongside a local who translated the school children's chants. Riding in a tropical rainstorm in Bali, our tour guide swooped in to hand us dry towels and give us a lift in the van to wait out the weather. Paolo, one of our leaders with Ciclismo Classico in Sicily, waited patiently for our group at each intersection so we wouldn't miss a turn.
Now we were supposed to go it alone? Who would rescue us from the Irish rain? In the end, I agreed to go. No problem; I've been lost, cold and hungry before.
Waving goodbye to Tony and Iron Donkey Cycling, we shoved off with the sunrise, pedaling down the narrow two-lane roads that bob and weave along the coast in County Clare. Every parcel of land throughout Ireland is partitioned by stone walls, weaving gray cobwebs through the green pastures everywhere.
Our sturdy, steel bikes soaked up the bumps, riding smooth as a pair of old '57 Caddies. The countryside spread out like a grand picnic blanket draped along the edge of the seashore. Our route led us up to the plunging Cliffs of Moher, the waves crashing 710 feet below, shooting glistening sea spray skyward. It was spectacular.
Doin' Doolin and The Burren
The sun, the sea -- and not to mention, a tailwind -- pushed us toward Doolin. We'd hardly seen a car all day. Somehow my legs seemed to know that the end was in sight and I charged up a few more hills before my bike coasted down the last steep decline into town, which was a lovely spot set back slightly from the sea.
As promised, we found our luggage neatly stacked in our cottage room for two nights at Cullinan's Seafood Restaurant and Guesthouse. Owned by Carol and James of the same name, this eight-room inn supposedly touted some of the best seafood around. I could only hope.
As we nibbled on the local smoked salmon and tangy Inagh goat cheese, the brilliant orange sun set through the windows of the restaurant overlooking a meadow filled with glorious wildflowers. Perhaps it was the wine, but I was feeling a wee bit more comfortable about this solo cycling adventure, at least for the moment.
In search of ancient Celtic tombs
Doolin was to be our base for exploring The Burren; the name means "a rocky place." Some call it the "magical kingdom of the fertile rock," a kind of small, petrified desert. The sloping, carboniferous limestone scarred by grinding glaciers resembles thick pancake batter poured half a mile thick, oozing toward the sea. Bouquets of tender wildflowers sprout up between the cracks.
The Burren also holds the largest collection of enormous megalithic tombs in Ireland, older than the pyramids in Egypt.
Using a map that Tony had provided us, we huffed and puffed along a back road outside Doolin until we finally found one of the largest stone burial cairns, called the Portal Dolmen at Poulnabrone. I felt as though we were visiting a spooky cemetery on Halloween. The wind nipped at our bike jackets and an eerie chill surrounded the graves, dozens of them marked by giant stones weighing 100 tons or more.
Irish island life
The next couple of days flew by and before we knew it we had biked through Galway, Ireland's largest city in the West. Our goal, because we live on an island ourselves, was to explore Inishmore, largest of the three Aran Islands.
Sometimes, I was told, the weather is so bad that people wait for days to get on and off the island by ferry. Our trusty outfitter had encouraged us to book our bike trip during late May because it has the best weather.
Driving rain blew straight into our eyes as we struggled on our bikes, fighting a relentless head wind, to catch the morning ferry leaving from Rossaveal outside Galway. Only the sheep, scattered across the road, stayed dry in their wooly coats. I'm thinking, is it fun yet?
Fortunately, we caught the ferry and dried off during the 45-minute relaxing boat ride. Once on the island, the sun made a welcome appearance as we pedaled past rows of pastel Aran Island wool sweaters flapping on coat hangers in the warm breeze beside the shops. We discovered that tradition dictated that the womenfolk knit distinct patterns for their fishermen husbands, so if their sweater-clad bodies were ever found at sea they would be recognized by the designs woven into them.
Cars are limited on Inishmore, home to 1,000 residents, so bicycles and horse-drawn carts are the mode of transportation for visitors. Since the island is small -- five miles long and two miles wide -- it was easy to bike to our night's lodging at the end of the island, a stately looking two-story stone house.
Teresa Joyce met us at the door and showed us around the restored home with its 12 cozy guest rooms. As we walked through the sitting room, with its overstuffed furniture, she introduced us to her distinguished, well-dressed ancestors, whose portraits hung proudly on the walls.
"My mother, Brigid, acquired the house through her marriage to James O'Flaherty Johnston," she said. "The Kilmurvey House was built in the 1850s by Patrick O'Flaherty, one of the 'Ferocious O'Flahertys.' But now my husband and I run the place."
She showed us several more family portraits and continued. "He was run out of Connemara in the 1700s and ended up on the Aran Islands, acquiring land from the absentee British landlords who had been evicted for nonpayment of rent, and eventually possessed the property that we're standing on. They were a colorful, war-loving lot, those 'Ferocious O'Flahertys,' and were feared landlords, even evicting their own Irish countryman."
Things appeared to be more mellow now with Teresa at the Kilmurvey House. But just in case, we paid up our night's rent immediately, so as not to meet the same fate as the British or the Irish.
The boys on the bog
The next day, with our rent paid, we pedaled back to the ferry and headed to the "romantic heart of the West": Connemara in County Galway.
Our route took us past miles of blooming rhododendron the size of trees that form natural borders along the narrow roadways. Now considered a national nuisance because they invade the pastures uninvited and are poisonous to the sheep, they are far too lovely to think of removing them.
Reaching the uplands, we biked through the peat bogs, for which Ireland is well known. I found them flat, spongy, ugly landscapes devoid of any trees. These blanket bogs are fertile ground for fuel. Hand cut out of the ground in rectangles (like bars of gold) by bog cutters, the peat is shipped around Ireland to warm the country hearths.
Our bikes silently slid up to two old bog cutters who stood in their hip boots, knee-deep in muck, cutting the peat with shovels. Toothless grins smiled at us crazy bikers and waved us on, as if to say, don't stay too long or you'll end up getting sucked down like the cattle who stray.
We made a hasty retreat and hurried toward Clifden, a cheery 19th-century seaside resort, also called the capital of Connemara.
Irish spring and oysters
Around Clifden the Irish countryside was wrapped in a spring coat of colors. Everywhere we biked, hawthorn trees sprouted a profusion of white blossoms, draping an oversized bridal veil along the lanes.
We arrived in the evening at the Quay House next to the bay in Clifden. I'd heard that Irish superstition considers it bad luck to bring cut hawthorn into the house, but we found a generous bouquet smack dab on the Quay House's entry table. When I asked the lively proprietress, Julia Foyle, about this, she winked and said, "Oh, I don't believe in those old wives' tales."
I asked her where we could we find some fresh oysters.
"Mitchell Seafood a few blocks away has the best oysters around," she said. "Fresh from the bays of Ballyconneely, Cleggan and Claddaghduff, the trucks drive up while you sit there. They don't get any fresher than that, darlin'."
Fifteen minutes later we were happily eyeing the menu at Mitchell's.
A platter of two dozen oysters on the half shell arrived with an ice-cold Guinness and some Irish brown bread. All my fears about bad Irish food disappeared in a single slurp. The clear oyster liquor pooled around the translucent flesh as it slid into my mouth. Only a bay so clean and clear can produce this kind of perfection. The sweet, salty tang of the sea washed down by a thick, foamy sip from the earth was heaven to my taste buds. Sometimes I think I ride these many miles so I can eat and drink just like this.
Friendly smoke-free pubs, oysters and more Guinness, thank goodness, awaited us as we rode to our final destination of Westport.
"Did you miss me?" grinned Tony from Iron Donkey as we handed over our rental bikes and his cell phone, which we never needed.
As he lifted the bikes into his van, he looked over and asked, "Did you like being out on your own on the rural routes I planned for you?"
Indeed we did. As we told Tony, not being in a tour group gave us the flexibility to change our itinerary at the drop of a hat, eat with the locals and wander the countryside without a schedule.
"Well, I've got more self-guided trips in Ireland and now in England for you, next time you want to take another adventure."
The hills weren't as bad as I imagined, we never got lost, the food was heavenly and we lucked out, mostly, with the weather. This converted skeptic might just do it again.
If you go
Ireland
GO: To savor the more intimate experience of seeing Ireland on a bike
NO: If bus tours and a fixed itinerary are more to your liking
Need to know: Tourism Ireland, (800) 223-6470, www.tourismireland.com; Burren Visitor Information, www.burrenbeo.com/homepage.aspx
Getting there: Some prefer to fly into the Shannon Airport on the west coast of Ireland because it is 15 miles from Ennis. However, a stop in Dublin with a train ride to Ennis is an enjoyable alternative. Aer Lingus and American Airlines fly nonstop from O'Hare to Dublin; several airlines have one-stop service to Dublin and Shannon.
Tour companies: Many tour companies provide itineraries and all the bookings for this area of Ireland. Most provide bikes. You can transport your own, but be aware that finding parts are a problem:
Tony Boyd's Iron Donkey Tours, based in Belfast, are guided and self-guided, providing outstanding support and excellent maps: www.irondonkey.com, (866) 255-3637.
Backroads (800) 462-2848, www.backroads.com
Cycle Vermont (800) 257-2226, www.bikevt.com
CycleWest Tours offers guided and self-guided tours out of its Galway office, (800) 204-1452, www.cyclewest.com
REI Adventures features an Emerald Isle tour, (800) 622-2236, www.reiadventures.com
Where to stay:
In Ennis, the Old Ground Hotel with its surrounding gardens is where many of the tour companies stay: (011) (353-65) 682-8127, www.flynnhotels.com.
Gregans Castle Hotel is just up the road in Ballyvaughan, County Clare. Lovely grounds and stately decorations make this the perfect place to dress for dinner and dine in style: (011) (353-65) 707-7005, www.gregans.ie.
Cullinan's Seafood Restaurant & Guest House, in Doolin (011) (353-65) 707-4183, www.cullinansdoolin.com.
Most elegant is The Quay House on Beach Road in Clifton, run by Julia and Paddy Foyle with their little dogs: (011) (353-95) 21369, www.thequayhouse.com.
Where to eat:
On Inishmore, slightly out of town (about four miles) but well worth the effort, is the Man of Aran Historic Thatch Cottage with its lovely seaside view and vegetable and herb garden, (011) (353-99) 61301, www.manofarancottage.com.
In Doolin, both a great place to eat and stay is Cullinan's Seafood Restaurant & Guest House, (011) (353-65) 707-4183, www.cullinansdoolin.com.
There are a number of places to dine in Clifden, but Mitchell's Seafood House on Market offers the best local catch, (011) (353-95) 21867.
-- Stephanie Ager Kirz