Colombia

“Ladies and gentlement, I am delighted to announce that we are flying to New York today”. It’s five o’clock in the afternoon, and the air hostess’s message is met with somewhat sarcastic but very much relieved clapping and cheering, as we had been waiting to depart since 10 o’clock that morning. Some indistinct technical issue with the brakes was eventually solved by flying in a miraculous rivet from London and we were finally allowed to go. Weary from waiting in slots of “we should know more in ten minutes” and “we’ll be back to you shortly” but all the more comforted by the thought that we were going to cross the Atlantic after all that day, the crowd shuffled around gate 301 in the by now completely deserted departure lounge. Oh no, wait. It’s six o’clock by now. The Delta staff would exceed their legally maximum of continuous working hours if we were still to leave. Flight cancelled. Please go home and come back tomorrow. We should be leaving around noon. Never mind your hotel booking in Bogota, or your booked and paid for domestic flight to the Caribbean coast. And unfortunately all hotels in Dublin are booked, so we can’t offer you a night’s lodging either. Gaelic football game tomorrow at Croke Park, you know. Hugely popular with the Irish, they flock to Dublin from all over the island. Well, see you tomorrow. And do keep you taxi receipts.

Such was the start of our three week adventure. Ill boded one might say. A day lost, that’s for sure. But now, having returned from a dynamic, memorable and above all most rewarding backpacking adventure in Colombia, I am happy to conclude that the first day of our holidays was by far the worst one. Oh well, perhaps the drive from Pereira to Neiva was the worst day. But more of that later. Let’s not rattle off the slides of the past weeks in chronological order, as this blog post is already long enough as it is. The well-tried approach of capturing different events by topic should pose a more palatable reading. What shall we start with? Food? Sure, why not, food it is!

Food

I had been warned beforehand that one should not be allured by Spanish or, more broadly, Mediterranean food, as an indicator of what to expect of the Colombian cuisine. Colombian food was supposed to be plain, unseasoned and without much variety. After three weeks in the country I can conclude that this rather drab portrayal pretty much fits the bill. Almost every meal features either rice or arepa, or, more frequently, both. Road-sided eateries display signs indicating they serve arroz con pollo, which also happens to be the specialty of many a hotel chef. It is therefore all the more ironic that the best chicken with rice that I got to enjoy over the past weeks was served on the cross-Atlantic flight from NY to Paris, while I wasn’t even hungry. On a more positive note, the absence of a rich national cuisine implies that it is the traveller’s prerogative to order whatever imported dish he or she craves at that moment, without being haunted by a conscience that insists that you should explore all the culinary richnesses a new culture has to offer. And so it was Thai curries, Western-style granola with yoghurt and North American (still American, eh?) burgers whenever we had the chance. Which still implied we had a lot of rice. With chicken. And arepas.

A few outstanding winners deserve mentioning however. First of all there is the mixed grill for two, served with a bottle of decent red wine, in a tastefully designed restaurant in Getsemani (Cartagena). A great selection of superb beef, sausages and pork made for a much relished food experience, especially since we had just returned from four days in the rain forest, with all the dietary implications you can imagine. Another winner, also from Getsemani, and a few ranks lower on the budget ladder, was the hugely tasty burger we bought from a street vendor at our favourite square in the neighbourhood. Along with a cold beer from the convenience store across the road, this meal earns a well deserved second place in the rankings of food experiences in Colombia. And to be fair to the Colombians, they do a good job with all the fresh fruits they produce and serve with every meal. Except for the road-side vendor who sprinkled his slices of mango with salt. Not good, especially when his clients are left in the unknown until their first bite.

Cities

“To get here, you’ll have to pass through Neiva, the hot sleepy capital of the Huila department. There’s nothing in Neiva of interest”. As per the Lonely Planet guidebook, which proved again to be an indispensible wealth of information and an absolute prerequisite to explore this new country. However, even the LP has it wrong at times (refer to our Goris experience in Armenia) as Neiva turned out to be one of my favourite cities in Colombia. One has to admit that the higher the expectations, the more difficult it is for a place to live up to it. And irreversibly, the opposite holds true as well, as we expected Neiva to be a conglomeration of buildings not to be lingered in. Well, truth is, we scheduled an additional day and night in Neiva on our way back from the desert, at the expense of Bogota (Bogota turned out to suck anyway, see below), that’s how much we liked it! In Neiva there are no hostels, a handful of hotels that cater mainly to Colombian business travellers, no particular sights of interest, nobody speaks English and thus, blissfully, no tourists. We didn’t spot a single backpacker in town. But what a hidden gem! The streets were full of people from early morning until about nine in the evening, with street vendors selling all sorts of stuff, market places packed with people, shop-lined squares buzzing with life and countless places to chill out with a coffee or a cold beer. On our second visit to Neiva in two days we roamed the city centre, ate a whole chicken straight from grill in a random restaurant next to a mechanic shop specialising in motors (they hadn’t bothered to put up a wall in between which made for the interesting mixed scent of grilled chicken and engine lube), and bought loads of new clothing. Boarding a bus at random in an effort to get to the bus terminal by public transport got us a scenic ride through the suburbs, which gave me the impression that the inhabitants of Neiva (and most urban Colombians) were rather well off, with neat, well maintained houses lined up close to the road. Neiva was a surprise in a nice way, defeating sombre expectations, and as such being quite the opposite of Colombia’s capital.

From reaching the outsets of Bogota it took at least another two hours to reach our final destination for the day, which was a lovely hostel in one of the safer neighbourhoods. A city roughly the size of London, Bogota desperately lacks proper public transport, as it fully relies on taxis and buses to get people from A to B. No trams, no trains, and, astonishingly, no metro. The “Trans millennium” bus system that was put in place to improve the city’s dire infrastructure is no doubt an improvement, yet the half a million people who use the system on a daily basis on top of its capacity make that a ride on one of these units isn’t for the claustrophobic. Apart from the struggle to get around, Bogota is cold, wet, grey and dangerous in all but a few places. After three weeks of warm and adventurous bliss, I was delighted that we had cut short our time in the capital, and was very much relieved to leave the place shortly after we had arrived.

From the depths of despair in Bogota we make another swing up to one of the country’s finer places. Explicitly heralded by the LP as Colombia’s highlight, Cartagena lived up to my high expectations. While the walled old town is pretty with all its Spanish-style balconies and alleys (it made me think a bit of Seville), and the skyline of the “new city” is visible from the centuries-old walls, the real winner to me was Getsemani, an equally old but less fancy neighbourhood bordering the walled centre. Getsemani is on the rise, with many a hip restaurant or cool bar having only recently opened its doors, combining the colonial architectural charm with the opportunities that come with a part of the city that was until recently perceived as somewhat edgy and a no-go area after dark. Nowadays more and more backpackers leave the walled city for what it is, and gather in the cheaper hostels and price-quality superior eateries here. The street vendors here aren’t selling touristy tat but rather push barrows full of bananas down the street, and among the small businesses in the narrow streets you find tailors and carpenters instead of the inner-town museums and luxurious hotels. Cheap, cheerful and upcoming, Getsemani was an absolute winner.

Fear

Irrevocably backpacking through South America leaves you in situations in which you’re worried if not scared if not fearing for your life. Well, overall the whole safety-experience was rather positive, but I wouldn’t want to withhold my top 3 of scariest moments from you.

1.    The bus ride from Armenia to Neiva. We had heard stories about buses in Latin America falling off cliffs due to mudslides and poor roads. Well, in this instance the roads were perfectly fine and there were no mudslides or avalanches to be seen. Our bus driver however would be a lethal participant in any morbid, road-staged play, as he drove our van as crazily as I’m said to ride my bike through Dublin city centre. This man took over any vehicle in front of him, regardless of whether we approached a turn in the road without visibility or if he would be able to gather enough speed to be back on his own lane in time. The first three hours of the journey featured quite a climb (and descend), as we had to cross a streak of the Andes that saw us exceed altitude levels of 3,200 meters. While going up was quite scary already (as any initially invisible, descending trucks wouldn’t have a lot of leeway breaking if they found our van on their side of the road), the speed with which we raced down was simply nauseous. Reaching the flat plains east of the Andes left us initially complacent at having crossed the mountains alive, however the fun wasn’t over yet with plenty of new lethal dangers to be exposed to on flat terrain. Seven hours of horror later I came to appreciate the small things in life again, having reaching Neiva in one piece. Now I understand why domestic flights are so popular in Colombia.

2.    Thunder and lightning in the Sierra Nevada. While our hike had commenced that afternoon with a bleak sun and the odd cloud in the sky, at around 3 pm hell broke loose. The lashing rain turned the red, sun-dried clay into an avalanche of slippery, ankle-deep mud and after an hour everything but the stuff in my dry-bag was soaked. While this was all part of the experience, the cracking thunder and blinding lighting raging straight above us wasn’t so much enjoyed. The voice in my head recalling that you should be indoors when there’s a thunderstorm grew more and more desperate, and especially the parts of the route where we had to cross bare mountaintops without trees for cover and nothing but a fence with barbed wire on our side to distract the lightning were quite scary. Rephrase, very scary.

3.  Bogota. I wouldn’t describe the prickling feeling in your neck or the involuntary quivers as an altogether fearsome experience, yet Bogota isn’t the place to feel at ease. A worthy number three.

Nature

Wow! Colombia combines some of the coolest and most diverse landscapes you can imagine in a single country. From bone-dry deserts to lush green and moist Caribbean coasts to snow-covered Andean peaks; Colombia has it all. And it was up to us to explore all of these treasures in a three week window.

One of the absolute highlights of the trip –come to think of it, perhaps the highlight – was our four day trek through the Sierra Nevada rain forest, back and forth to Ciudad Perdida, aka the lost city. While our destination was kind of cool, being a (way) less spectacular version of Machu Picchu, the trip was really about getting there. The remnants of what was once a thriving civilisation can only be reached on foot (or by helicopter, as that’s how the Colombian military get their soldiers in), and involves wading through rivers, climbing rocks and a lot of hiking through dense rain forest. This is my thing. I got to walk from early morning to late afternoon, gazing at valleys full of lush green tropical forest, jumping from rock to rock crossing rivers, breathing the thick, moist air… eating, sleeping and hiking through the most magical of landscapes; what more can you wish for? Being in the middle of nowhere we went to sleep not long after dark (around 8pm) and woke up as the sun was about to rise (5am), took cold showers or bathed in the river, and ate the fruits and food that the mules carried for us. The Sierra Nevada made a lasting impression on me and definitely ranks among the cooler landscapes I have been privileged to experience close hand.

It was around noon and the temperature had risen to well above 40 C. At least, going by Bo’s once-solid stick of sunscreen that was now melting, and the water in our bottles that was getting hot (not warm, hot), it must have been that warm. The Tatacoa desert is very close to the equator and as such I didn’t have any shadow beyond what was straight beneath me, and, for that matter, there was no shadow at all to be found except for the roofed viewpoint that we had just reached. Drinking chilled ice-tea and gazing out over a spectacular landscape of red rock formations, parch-dry patches of earth and loads of cactuses, I couldn’t resist the urge to go out and explore. While Bo opted out of the rather mental idea of going for a hike in these conditions, I folded my waterproof scarf around my head to protect me from the sun, filled my water container to the rim, and set off to find a trail that the LP described as the beginning of a 45 minute walk that would eventually bring me back to the main road. I had the time of my life, following what I thought was the trail, inspecting cactuses at close range, marvelling at scenery I wasn’t used to at all, and meanwhile bearing the heat surprisingly well. It was only after an hour or so that my gnawing doubts about the “trail” I was following led me to stop and trace back my steps all the way to where I had started. With the hills, cactuses and dead trees looking all alike and the sun at its peak I didn’t dare rely on my sense of direction, and I was by then quite sure that I wasn’t following the route the LP had talked about. That night I realised a simple wrong interpretation at the beginning of the description had led me astray and that I hadn’t even been close to the described route, yet being in the middle of nowhere with little water left and no phone as a reassuring back-up I somewhat feverishly reversed my steps until the familiar sight of the viewpoint popped up again. The right trail or not, I experienced the desert close hand in an exciting enough way!

People

Lodging

…

The best and the worst of our trip:

·         Coolest city / neighbourhood (1): Getsemani

·         Coolest city / neighbourhood (2): Neiva

·         Worst city: Bogota

·         Favourite pre-historic animal: armadillo

·         Warmest shower: “cold” water in the desert

·         Coldest shower: day 1 in the Sierra Nevada

·         Best driver: bus driver Neiva – Bogota

·         Worst driver: bus driver Armenia – Neiva

·         Person who should never be allowed to drive again: bus driver Armenia – Neiva

·         Best food: Getsemani

·         Best hostel: La Guaca in Santa Marta

·         Ugliest airport: Pereira

·         Coolest dog (1): I-pod

·         Coolest dog (2): Scarface

·         Coolest dog (3): hostel dog in Bogota

·         Most futile two hours: on a boat in Cartagena

·         Coolest bus drive: from Santa Marta airport to the city centre

·         Hottest girl (1): British on the Ciudad Perdida

·         Hottest girl (2): British in La Guaca

·         Best beach: Tayrona National Park

·         Worst weather (1): general climate in Bogota

·         Worst weather (2): downpour in the lost city trek

·         Worst weather (3): surprise storm in Tayrona National Park

·         Highest palm tree: wax palm in Valle de Cocoa

·         Worst mood on a bike: Bo

Miscellaneous II

Evidenced by another extensive absence of fresh stories, I must admit that the writer’s zeal is hard to find these days. And as I’ve become even lazier than last time we’ll have to make so with pictures only to eternalise the past month!

Cycling tour Belfast – Dublin

Anja and Tommie visiting

Papa mama Jette Robby visiting

Dinner at Fallon & Byrne's

Birthday house party

Pieter’s goodbye weekend in Cork

Miscellaneous

It may have gone unnoticed, but I haven’t posted any stories for a while. For more than a month to be precise, while so much stuff has happened in the meantime! The urge just hasn’t really been there. And while I still do not feel the need to scribble down lengthy narratives about all the bliss I have experienced, I don’t want to lose out on all the memories either. Thus, a paragraph and a photograph each; that should do the job!

 Kalkaji reunion in Lisbon

Six years after I last saw Elisabeth, in Kalkaji (New Delhi, India), we met up again. The venue was gorgeous Lisbon where Johan and I had started our week-long Portugal trip that very morning. Our trip turned out to be a success, and the reunion between three former India dwellers even better. Meeting old friends while exploring a new country; a splendid combination indeed.

Rabobank tournament in Valkenswaard

As tradition prescribes ACC bank was yet again present at the annual Rabobank tournament in the Netherlands. And to pay homage to former Irish teams and their impressive track record we again secured the runners-up cup for the second time in a row. With Koen and Tommie as defensive reinforcements we managed to push through all the way to the final. Apart from a successful weekend on the pitch, the pints of beer on Friday and Saturday night also guaranteed a socially enjoyable weekend. More and better next year!

Taste of Dublin

Another annual winner, and I was so close to securing that EUR 50 bottle of champagne! Can’t imagine that someone beat that record of mine (89x) with keepy uppy with all those people swarming around. Ah well, the lad organising the whole thing might have drunk the bottle himself, and I can’t blame him!

Koen visiting

For the third time already since I moved here, Koen’s visit made for yet another splendid weekend. Off to Derry Friday afternoon, where we crawled some pubs, walked the city walls, and slept in a house-turned-hostel. We kept a lid on the number of pints as the next morning featured an early wake up as the Causeway walk was awaiting us; 20 km of sandy beaches and rough cliffs making for mesmerising views. The evening was spent in a 700 year old hotel in Carrickfergus, whereas we played a decent game of chess in the keep of the town’s famous castle the next morning. Great weather, great music in the car, and the best company made for a wonderful road trip that won’t be forgotten!

Birthday surprise

With Bo in Zurich and not too many people in Dublin aware of it my turning-28 seemed to go by rather unnoticed (despite all the lovely and much appreciated digital congratulations), until I got a phone call walking home from Pieter asking whether I’d be up to watch the Belgium football game. Arriving at the destined bar the lads surprised me with some cool presents and what would have been a rather uneventful Tuesday evening all of a sudden turned into a great night!

Sports sports sports

The rhythm goes unopposed with football twice a week, tennis once a week, and some decent cycling and running whenever I manage to squeeze it in! In the picture Jesus and I after our game at Rings end. 

Budapest

It is Saturday, a quarter past eleven in the morning. I wake up in a dorm room in Budapest. My mouth is gut dry and feels like a dead rodent has been stored in there for a considerable period of time, my body feels battered as if I barely survived a rugby debut in the Heineken Cup final. I find myself in the upper unit of a bunk bed and am instantly relieved that I didn’t topple out while sleeping. My right upper leg prominently displays a long drawn, deep bruise, red contrasting the white background of bare skin, throbbing awkwardly. My head doesn’t feel much better. Raymon, already awake and in considerably better shape, accuses me of having blown my nose in his shirt last night before going to sleep, among many other things. The nuisance I had been to Karine was at least at par – although she didn’t seem to mind as much. About 700 Euros in Hungarian Forint is scattered throughout my bag. Slowly memories start drifting in. What happened?! I blame Air Lingus and Irish stag parties.

Our trainee-reunion to Budapest had been scheduled for months and was eagerly anticipated as the date drew closer. Everyone would fly from the Netherlands whereas I would fly from Ireland – the other foreign-placed were too far away to make the journey for the weekend. My flight was neatly scheduled to arrive circa half an hour later than the main throng, just enough for David and Raymon to promise to wait for me so that we could take a joint cab to the city centre. Unfortunately, at the time that they had landed and I was supposed to have touched Hungarian soil as well, I found myself still at Dublin airport. The reason? Just after having taken my seat 3 hours earlier we were informed by the pilot that air traffic control wouldn’t allow us to depart for five minutes. And another five. And another. After half an hour we were finally given the go-ahead, but now the plane gave in. Despite various engineers pulling their best tricks the “technical problem” couldn’t be solved and two hours after we had boarded we were ordered out of the airplane and back into the departure hall. Another 45 minutes later and we were guided onto a unit that was supposed to fly to Barcelona but wasn’t in the end. Random story but at least we could leave! As the Barcelona flight was destined for at least 1.5 times our number of passengers, the previous seating got messed up, and I found myself in the middle of a group of 30-odd Northern Irish on their way to Hungary to celebrate a stag party. Sitting right next to two chatty and considerably drunk lads I had to make a choice; get up and seek another seat in order to catch some sleep, or join in and make the best of a lousy start of what should be a great weekend. When I was asked by “Cham” –the least drunk of the two- whether I would like to join in the celebrations, I gave in. Cham had bought a large bottle of gin and a number of smaller 7-up bottles at the airport, along with three big plastic cups from some coffee bar. Before reaching Budapest the bottle was empty, the better part of its content shared between the three of us, and I had become the best of friends with the two lads beside me. I wasn’t quite aware yet of how drunk I was, as gin and 7up make a drink as smooth as lemonade. Well, the air hostesses were aware of that. So aware that they issued a “verbal warning” and threatened a follow-up with police on the ground. Luckily the reception on arrival was grumpy ground force rather than angry policemen and I bade my new friends farewell only to make my way to the taxi stand. Oh wait, money. I had no idea of the exchange rate so picked a random figure on the ATM screen, not aware that 200,000 Forint translated to about 700 Euro, way more than I would ever spend on such a weekend and quite the amount to be carrying in your pockets when roaming the streets of Budapest at midnight. Anyway, I stuffed the banknotes in my pockets, caused a scene at the taxi stand because I thought I was being ripped off, and was driven to the hostel where David welcomed me and took me to the others who were enjoying their drinks in a bar around the corner. Hugs and slaps on the shoulder and a new drink in my hand signified officially the beginning of a new day –as it was just after midnight- and really and truly the beginning of an eventful night. Too bad I can’t remember too much of it.

The next day featured strolls through what is, after four visits, without a doubt one of my most favourite cities in the world. Being together with what are in theory colleagues but in essence very much friends was delightful and I enjoyed their presence tremendously. A visit to the parliament, sipping from drinks and eating Goulash out in the sun, roaming through gorgeous streets that breathe history, and of course catching up with all the stories and experiences that everyone had to share made for a fantastic Saturday. Dinner was organised in one of the city’s many hidden secrets; a cool venue with looks and atmosphere that were definitely superior to the quality of its food. Luckily Lian had the best meal she had ever had, making up for some other people’s lesser experiences. While not many people were in the party mood after an eventful Friday night and a full day of city-strolling, the club we ended up in was so thrilling that even the most reluctant of us were instantly convinced that this was something that couldn’t be missed out on. Budapest features many apartment blocks that have a square courtyard, surrounded by about five stories of rugged but classy exterior with wood panelled shutters and arched windows. Well, this club was located in one such courtyard, albeit with a roof placed on top of it, generating the experience that you’re outside as well as indoors at the same time. The music was excellent, the crowd featuring fewer scumbags than outside, and the vibe in our group enticing to say the least, with enthusiastic dancing drawing the eyes of many a square-faced local. Again the clock hit five when the day ended and my Sunday was largely spent on sleeping and strolling through gorgeous Budapest, having said goodbye to the others early in the afternoon, as the time left until my flight departed didn’t quite allow me to join in the afternoon activity to visit the spa. Well, I knew what I was missing out on. The return flight went a whole lot smoother than the way there and it didn’t take long for me to fall asleep when I finally touched my pillow at ten pm that evening. Budapest, you were quite exhausting, but totally worth the trip. Exquisite company and a gorgeous venue; it doesn’t get much better than that. Thanks all for a wonderful weekend!!

Dingle

Expectations were high, especially after the bliss & beauty of county Donegal. Dingle is often said to be (one of) Ireland’s prettiest place(s), where the ocean dominates the land and Irish is the lingua franca. To be honest, it was an enjoyable trip. But we have plenty of proof by now that the weather is quite the decisive factor in Ireland. In the west, it rains a lot. As it did last weekend.

 The trip was to be car-less. Like the Wexford – New Ross – Waterford trip. We would take the train to Tralee and from there cycle to Dingle Town on day one, doing the Slea Head drive on day two, and back to Tralee and indeed to Dublin on day three. The first challenge already presented itself when we tried to book train tickets two days in advance. No designated bike spaces available for the way back. We decided to risk it, bearing in mind that the backup option –taking the 4:30 am train on Tuesday morning- wasn’t wholly appealing. Ah well, a bit of uncertainty only adds to the adventure, doesn’t it?

Overbooked trains weren’t the only challenge to deal with however, as the humid, sticky weather on Saturday appeared to have quite the restrictive effect on Bo’s ability to climb mountains on her brand new Giant. And even though she was grand keeping up on Sunday through the pouring rain, the Connor Pass on the way back was deemed too much of an obstacle that she opted for the bus from Dingle back to Tralee. The Lonely Planet, though generally a reliable guide, wasn’t confidence inspiring as it described the pass as “very narrow and very steep”. Also the guy working in the hostel in Dingle wasn’t helping, answering Bo’s concerns about being afraid of the Connor Pass by stating that the pass “is indeed something to be scared of”. As the weather had only grown worse this made Monday morning a decent work-out for me, battering through the rain, ascending the Connor Pass, and pounding on relentlessly on the descent in an effort to reach Tralee before Bo did – whose bus had left an hour after my take-off. The quasi-nonchalant text message I sent upon arrival said it all: “Mooi. Ik ben al in Tralee. Pasje was prima te doen” (Good, I’m already in Tralee, the pass wasn’t too hard).  

Dingle Town itself is quite the treat, with a handful of cosy pubs and many a restaurant with fresh seafood. One of the most remarkably moments occurred in Dick Mack, a store-turned-pub, where random people would start singing every so often, with the entire crowd joining in, returning to their respective conversations afterwards as if nothing had happened. Touristy but definitely Irish as well, Dingle Town is!

The loop on Sunday offered some nice but foggy views from Europe’s westernmost point, where the remnants of some thousands-year old castles can be found. The audio-video show that we watched at the remnants of the Dunbeg Promontory Fort fits in perfectly with earlier shows at the butter museum in Cork and at the rock of Cashel in Cashel. Mismatched wooden chairs, a big white wall with a projector aimed at it, a squeaky sound system, an amateur movie shot in the early nineties, and a proud hostess guiding us to the “cinema room”. This particular movie was about a lady, let’s call her Ann, who worked as a archaeologist at the ancient site. Movie begins. Camera isn’t held steady. Ann is recorded, pretending to be reading a history book. “This is Ann. She works as an archaeologist at the Promontory Fort”. Ann looks up at the camera, piercing eyes through her black rimmed glasses. Just a few seconds too long to make it awkward. Ah well, you get the picture. As the ruins had been adversely affected by last autumn’s storms we couldn’t actually visit the fortress itself, “but you can walk down the path and look at it from afar”. Well, we did walk down the path and gazed down at some stones that could hardly be discerned as being different from the dry stone walls covering the grassy hills around us. With some red tape, indicating we couldn’t go further. Time to get on the bike again!

 The views over the Blasket Islands from Slea Head were inspiring though, in spite of the wind that was increasingly picking up and preceding the heavy showers that accompanied us over the last quarter of the journey. That night we enjoyed a well-deserved rich meal at what is arguably the best fish restaurant in Dingle Town, where only the day’s catch is served and where chips are banned from the menu. Great value!

 So after a weekend of singing songs in the pub, cycling through wind and rain, lovely fish dishes and the always appreciated daily Guinness, the challenge was to get back to Dublin, with our bikes. Well, the first challenge was for Bo to get her bike on the bus she was taking to Tralee, which the bus company officially doesn’t oblige itself to if the bus is too full. Well, the bus was quite full. But here I start recognising a favourable trend among the Irish that I get more and more appreciative of. Rather than the Dutch, who generally stick to the rules blindly, I find the Irish bending the rules a bit if they can help out others. This pragmatic attitude generally gets things done if you try hard enough by just being kind and assertive. Also here Bo got herself and her bike on the bus, foregoing the additional charge the bus company usually charges. Back in Tralee I had arranged for the hostel where we stayed the first night to let me have a shower there for a fiver, another example of hospitality and pragmatism. And subsequently, off to the train station. We knew there weren’t any trains that had two bike spaces left available, but nonetheless we had to try, how else to get back home? As we assumed the person selling tickets would be a guy, Bo went up to the counter while I guarded our bikes just around the corner. As Bo took uncomfortably long I decided to have a look about 10 minutes later, only to find her looking for later trains on her phone. “She’s very surly. She says there’s no bike spaces and I have to look for other options” Bo complained. Wrong strategy. Instead of the jovial old man we had expected behind the counter, I spotted a stern looking girl, about my age. “Why don’t you look after the bikes for a while?” Bo nodded. Five minutes later the initially unyielding girl was heading off towards the platform where the train would arrive, talked to a few people including the ticket collector, walked back with resolute, determined steps, took place behind the counter again, and told me it had been arranged for. Bending the rules a little, but you need to have them on your side! Our relief for being able to board the first train back –and a direct train even, what a luxury!- was only slightly diminished by the outrageous price of €149 for the two of us and our two bikes, coming down at 68 cents per minute on board. Ah well, it only adds to the story, and you can’t have it all!

Back in Dublin I can conclude that my new Giant has proved himself a reliable partner, having withstood a few rides through the Wicklow Mountains and around Dingle peninsula without the slightest hint of discomfort. Dingle is a lovely little village, and the surrounding country side is gorgeous, but we have to go back some time, when the sun is shining!

red pants farming

A few weeks ago Bo and I spent the Sunday at the farm of Padraic’s parents. Roaming around fields lined with hedges and dry stone walls, feeding the sheep and climbing bales of hay made for a lovely morning out and about, accompanied by Lassie and Jess. After a filling brunch prepared by Padraic we settled in one of the house’s living rooms and flicked on the television to see Liverpool beat Man City and continue their road to the first PL title in 24 years. Liverpool fans all around with even Lassie barking enthusiastically when Gerrard’s corner kick made for the 2-0. A visit to the Hill of Slane on the way back to Dublin guaranteed the cultural aspect of the day and surely I’ll be back at this welcoming and cosy farm house, not in the last place to see Lassie again! 

“If you get the weather, there’s no place like it” - “We are so lucky with the weather!” - “I think Donegal is my new favourite place in Ireland”

The above pretty much summarises our experience over the past four days in county Donegal. Connected to the rest of Ireland by only a sliver of land, Donegal is often regarded as ‘different’ by most people here in Dublin. The prevailing comments however suggested that Ireland’s most north-western county is worth the 3.5 hour drive up, “if you get the weather”. As the forecast here is as reliable as an alcoholic’s vow to abstain from further drinking, I decided to ignore the hopeful whispers and ominous muttering alike, and packed the entire range from rain jacket and scarf to shorts and t-shirts. As we had the spacious Volkswagen Passat at our disposal, luggage for once wasn’t subject to the usual impediments of weight and size, and Bo and I both stowed two big bags each into the car’s trunk. Clothing for four seasons and enough food to last a week; let’s go!

At the time of writing it’s Monday evening. The weather has been cooperative to say the least with pretty much uninterrupted sunshine and more than pleasant temperatures. We have covered 800 km and seen the world. To be frank I have seen some pretty cool scenery in my life, not in the least the panoramas from four days of trekking through the Himalayas, Kerala’s jungle, Morocco’s Atlantic coast, and the holy temple mountain of Hua Shan in China. But what Donegal has to offer is really quite something spectacular and ranks among the most impressive sights and scenery I have ever got to enjoy. The interplay between wild ocean and sheer rock formation, with cliffs soaring up from the waters, only to give way to the most unperturbed and virgin beaches, and the entire absence of mass tourism make this place almost magical. Nigh everywhere we ventured there was the temptation to linger and stay longer, and many new ‘favourites’ were born. In the end it has been a hugely satisfying journey, and if anything, I know I’ll be back again, to each and every one of the places we have experienced. Well, enough of the indistinct reminiscence, let’s get down to a more tangible description in chronological order.

Day 1.

Day 1 was largely spent in the office as really it was just another day at work, bar me leaving at four in the afternoon and starting the engine of our fully equipped car at half four. The journey up took about 4 hours, but in the end I savoured my first Guiness of the weekend in one of Donegal Town’s few bars, listening to some mediocre live music, and I knew the fun had started. In what has become a cherished tradition by now, we started our journey with the cheapest half-decent  accommodation we could find, only to increase our standards gradually over the course of the trip. To be honest the bed in Donegal Town Independent Hostel made for a great night’s sleep and the shower was warm in the morning. But wait, that’s already day 2.

Day 2.

Day 2 featured an early rise that became the standard throughout our trip. However much we like sleeping in, there was simply too much to see and do. Our half an hour hike from the car park to Slieve League was dominated by roaming sheep and ominous clouds, and the views from “Europe’s highest sea cliffs” were enjoyable but not altogether much impressive. Maybe it was the weather that took away a bit of the magic, as we couldn’t even see the top of the cliffs across the sea inlet, given that these were covered in grey clouds. Luckily those were the last clouds to be seen and before Morning had conveyed its responsibilities to Afternoon we found ourselves in brilliant sunshine hiking up the hills surrounding Glencolumbcille.

The Lonely Planet was once again of invaluable help by recommending the Tower Loop, which indeed provided great views over the cliffs and Atlantic ocean from the top of the bog-covered heights. All this exercise warranted some food-related reward and not much later we indeed devoured a decent fish chowder in Ardara, a few kilometres up the coast. The small village signifies the gateway to Loughrea Peninsula, which ended up being the first place in the county that truly released our “oooh’s and aahhh’s”. Our stay at Carnaween House was a concoction of magnificent flavours, scents, sights and sounds. Based at one of Donegal’s many white beaches, our home for the night was tastefully decorated in a style that breathed “summer” and “sand” altogether. After half an hour in the lounge chairs in front of the house, by now under a radiant sun, we couldn’t resist the temptation any longer and rushed towards the sea. Iniskeel island, which can be reached on foot when the tide is low, makes for waves coming from two sides at hide tide, as it splits up the flow of water streaming in from the ocean. The result is a peculiar interplay between moving water, with waves crossing each other as they reach the shore, creating an ephemeral chessboard of blue and white.  Iniskeel island isn’t the only pearl enhancing the view from the beach however, as the horizon is dotted with tops of mountains making you want to stare in the distance for hours. With the weather being such an unexpected treat we spent all time left until dusk at the sea shore, tossing the frisbee and running through the ankle deep water, feeling more child than ever. In the end our reservation at our host’s restaurant made us leave the spoils of salt and freedom, only to take place at the best table with the best view over the bay with the best fish dish I had had in ages. A late evening stroll with a glass of the Green Spot after dinner, and off to bed, as really all we wanted to do was to be awake when the sun shone. Tucking in for the night at eleven pm on a Friday really was an easy sacrifice given the day-time bounties that lay ahead.

Day 3.

The first half of the next day wasn’t the best part of our trip, as the “scenic drives”, despite the obvious scenery that comes with them, do take up a lot of time and do not quite grant the same experience as being outside our moving prison of glass and steel. Reconfirming that position after an hour of “scenic drive” detour past holiday-home covered coast line we drove straight on to our next destination and parked the car early in the afternoon at Corcreggan Mill B&B. Amicably instructed by our host Brendan we set off towards another winning combination of exercise and sightseeing. The afternoon’s three hour hike was truly spectacular, starting off at what has become my new favourite beach (in the world) and reaching to the top of the cliffs from where the views over the ocean and the islands off the coast are breath-taking. Rolling waves crash incessantly against the rock formations that guard Ireland’s main land against the ocean’s perils and make for a spectacular sight, especially when watched from high above. Unfortunately the mapped walking loop appears to be closed these days, which forced us to climb over some fences and dodge a number of sheep to reach the main road again, only to be confronted with an angry farmer who must be telling about a dozen hikers each day to stay off his land. Not ideal. That evening we gratefully made use of the self-catering kitchen in an effort to stave off the mounting costs that come with enjoying life so thoroughly, especially given the eccentricities that lay ahead at Loch Eske Castle. My usual recipe of pasta and pesto made for a tasty evening meal, and after some reading in the hostel’s cosy common room we opted for another early night’s sleep, as we hadn’t seen the true treasure of the area yet. Horn Head.

Day 4.

Day 4 was arguably the best day. Relying again on Bo to follow through on the previous evening’s decision to rise and shine before 8 am we enjoyed a decent breakfast at the B&B and set off towards Horn Head just when most people were drowsily making their way downstairs. Even against the background of all the previous treats of the trip, even when compared with the most beautiful and impressive gifs of nature I have been given to enjoy in my life, Horn Head is AMAZING. Bliss. Pure bliss. I tell you, go there, get a day with a brilliant blue sky, go early in order to have the entire area for yourself, and soak up the immense feeling of wonder and amazement of how beautiful this world can be. Imagine yourself on the very top of the highest cliffs, with the ocean left and right, the thundering sound of crashing waves below and the quiet of the main land behind you, with the coastline and islands disappearing in the mist beyond. Seagulls soaring in the depths below, tiny spiders crawling in the moss just below your face, while you are lying flat on your belly, peeking over the edge, defying feelings of vertigo and instead soaking up the adrenaline that is rushing through your body. Need I say more?

A morning that starts so overwhelming must get a decent follow-up. How often would you soak up the salty water of the Atlantic Ocean as well as the chlorine of one of the country’s best spas in one day? Not often. As we hadn’t been properly equipped to pay homage to my new favourite beach upon discovery the previous day, Bo and I decided to nibble at some of the day’s available time to get some early spring swimming under our belt. The water was freezing and the current pulling us away from the beach surprisingly strong, but the twenty-odd seconds in the water were an experience well worth it. More running and splashing through shallow waters, wearily observed by hikers in jeans and sweaters, and back to the car for the afternoon programme, off to Loch Eske.

The last night of our trip was responsible for about half the entire journey’s expenses. The reason why was well worth it however. As we were told by Rachel, our chatty and attentive waitress over dinner, Loch Eske Castle was all ruins from an 18^th century sacking from which the former times’ stronghold never recovered... until six years ago, when the entire castle was rebuilt in the old style. When Michael, the butler, opened the oak wooden doors to our room for the night, there was no need to look at Bo to know that she was thinking the exact same as I was. I had never stayed in such a luxurious place before. Apart from the hotel room and all that it entailed (we guestimated that it was bigger than Bo’s former apartment in The Hague), the castle grounds boast a luxurious spa and top notch restaurant. Furthermore there are numerous lounge rooms decorated with oak wood tables, plush chairs, walls covered with shells full of books, ornate mirrors, soft carpets, huge paintings in gilded frames, elegant side tables, thick curtains, wooden panels covering the walls, open fires burning in the hearths… all you need and more to pick up a book and soak up the atmosphere around you. Breakfast was delicious and filling, dinner even better with oysters and lamb. The 21 hours we spent on the grounds were the 21 most lavish hours of my life, and are well worth the upcoming week of living off white rice and uncooked beans to make this month's budget close.