From Graiguenamanagh to Borris via the river Barrow

It had been a while ago since our last trip away from Dublin and into the mainland of the Emerald Island. Come to think of it, the relaxing but rather uneventful city trip to Limerick must have been the last time either of us left Dublin for a non-foreign bound destination. High time for some good old road trip into a region we haven't made our own yet. Again the LP proved an invaluable contribution by suggestion the riverside walk as mentioned in the title. Appearing rather random, as Borris as well as Graiguenamanagh (try pronouncing that) are both tiny, tucked away villages in the country side of counties Carlow and Kilkenny. We would never ever have found these hidden gems let alone the pretty river side walk that connects them on our own. 

The itinerary worked out according to plan; early rise on Saturday to drive to Borris, light lunch in a cozy tea house with a lovely warm open fire, where after we managed to get hold of the second and last bus of the day to Graig. 'A tenner will do for the both of you'  the elderly gentlemen behind the wheel said when we mounted the massive but nigh empty touring car. Twenty minutes later we disembarked in the very pretty riverside village of Graig, where an old lady running a convenience store made sure we understood where to leave the trail in order not to bypass Borris. At the golf course, OK, let's do that. Tempted to explore the place further but urged on by the looming knowledge that we didn't have too much leeway to get to our destination before dusk we set off walking, quickly leaving the last riverside houses behind us where after there was nothing but water and multicoloured vegetation surrounding us. It was absolutely lovely to be outdoors for a full day, and I very consciously enjoyed the peaceful winter landscapes, the fresh air, the exercise of wading through ankle high grass, and the variety of tangible artifacts of Irish history we came across. The latter include a giant rusty pulley that must have been used at some point for moving boats along the canal (the path we walked is called the towpath), ruins of riverside houses, and remains of what used to be a small harbour just off the waterway. When after a good two hours'  worth of sturdy walking we reached the bridge depicted below, we knew we had advanced too far as Borris was already behind us. No golf course to be seen and anyway there weren't any trails to cut through the meadows and forest separating the river from the heritage town. So after some scenic chilling all that was left to complete the loop was to walk the remaining half an hour on road, after which we checked in at the very cozy Step House in Borris town. 

Going back a few centuries, along with the majority of the historic village that counts barely 600 people, the Step House was a lovely place to reminisce the day out and to enjoy a hearty burger with a few pints. Our destined pub crawl was cut short to a glass of baileys in a bar down the road where after we decided we were better off by buying a bottle of the creamy treat in the local store and nourishing that in bed. Well, nourishing some of that in our awesome bed in our awesome room and watching some match of the day to top it all off a great Saturday came to an end. One of the best breakfasts I've had in ages this morning and a relaxed drive back to Dublin, where the afternoon awaited us to be enjoyed at home and the remainder to the baileys is being taken care of as we speak. Another very satisfying and most rewarding weekend away in Ireland, whose variety of astounding destinations and natural and cultural wonders still keeps us going even after almost two years in the country. 

The youngest Sinterklaas ever

10 days in the Netherlands

After 10 days in the Netherlands two things have been reconfirmed. Firstly, the only thing that really sucks about living abroad is to be so far away from most of your better friends. Seeing so many of them in such a short time span, with the recurring feeling that almost each reunion is too short, makes painfully clear that (semi-)annual get-togethers often don’t really suffice. Secondly, I’m growing fonder and fonder of Amsterdam.

 10 days on the move, with 5 nights in situ at the training venue, with the remaining nights spent in as many different places, made me feel a bit like a nomad. In chronological order there was the initial get-together with Koen and Stefan and Inge on Thursday night, followed by a night of sturdy drinking on Friday with David. The image of a crowded, sweaty bar full of people drinking and dancing and chatting, with two guys at the bar debating in depth the possible scenarios China faces in an economic-political spectrum, drawing on historical stats to support their own views and scepticisms, has become a cherished memory already. Saturday morning there was the hangover whereas Saturday afternoon featured tea with Noortje and more tea with Brenda. Now we zoom out of Utrecht and via train and car we move to Oosterhout where a bountiful dinner was enjoyed with the family and add-ons. One night in my own bed and on Sunday back to Utrecht to meet Alex for dinner with 45 minutes at Utrecht central station cherished with the gf who was on her way back to Dublin. The Greek restaurant Alex had singled out was a new kid on the block and definitely a winner when it comes to value. Smelling of garlic and red wine I subsequently took a train to Bergen for a 1-week work-related course. Apart from all the new skills and insights I have gathered, the week was a winner in terms of catching up with old pals as well as Gijs (refer to my first blog posts in Dublin) happened to be on the same course which guaranteed plenty of diversion from the course materials. After 5 days in situ I packed by bags again only to travel to Amsterdam where a surprise dinner awaited me, attended and organised by Julia, Manon, Alex, Danielle, Quin, Roelant and Bob. A lovely evening again ended in one drink too many which resulted in a morning spent in bed with a dry mouth and a throbbing head. No more time for lingering however as I was to call by Pieter’s new apartment for a quick cup of coffee before I headed to Johan’s place to drop my bags on the way to the newly opened food halls. The location was an old tram terminal, completely done up and transformed into a large food market with freshly made quiches, smoothies, and a mouth-watering selection of food. Needless to say Johan and I had an enjoyable afternoon which allowed for plenty of catch-up since our Portugal trip early summer. Staying away from the variety of cakes, noodles and burgers watching me from the stands I managed to save my appetite for the evening as Inge, Koen and Stefan had prepared a great dinner which was also attended by Paal and Jamie, with plenty of tales to tell after their 15 months of globe-trotting. A few more drinks in town thereafter and I must by then have exceeded the weekly average in Ireland which is quite a dubious achievement. 10 days as a nomad were finished in style as Koen D picked me up at Koen M’s house and after some random driving around we had lunch at a posh place somewhere halfway Breukelen and Maarsen of all places. I consider myself lucky and Koen very courteous as he didn’t mind driving me all the way to Schiphol where I now use my laptop for the first time in 10 days by writing down this week’s impressions. Luckily I didn’t carry it around criss-cross the Netherlands only to switch it on for the first time back in Dublin. Mixed feelings but definitely glad to go back home as well, to one of my favourite cities in the world, with its snug lanes, green parks, warm pubs and nature galore. And all that just a bike-ride or a stroll away from home.

The Wicklow Way with Dana

In a sequence that is slowly turning into a tradition, Dana and I set off on what promised to be a spectacular hike this Saturday morning. Our first such joint walk was November two years ago in the Peak district near Sheffield, whereas last November we walked in a wide loop around Winsor Castle and Eton. Naively we thought to keep on pushing our luck by scheduling a third consecutive daylong stroll this time of the year, in Ireland of all places. Well, let’s say our next outdoor activity will be in summer.

  

Gale-force winds nearly pushed me off the wooden beams that kept us a foot above the swampy bog below. The landscape was truly unforgiving as it did not provide any shelter from the howling wind and sharp rain that made your face feel sunburnt after half an hour. Later the bristly rain turned heavy, first drenching my shorts and not long thereafter seeping into my shoes which made them soggy, heavy, and very cold. Whereas we had been our usual chatty selves for the first two hours of the walk, during which we enjoyed acceptable weather and stunning vistas, Dana noticed out loud at some point that we had kept silent for a good while, ploughing through the rain, cold and wet and miserable. It was as if your mind was set on the next step, and the next one, and the next one, and this sole focus and determination didn’t leave any room for conversation.

Well. That was quite tough. But the final destination, a cosy cottage at the end of a dead-end street a few kilometres off the Wicklow way, was all the more appreciated for its open fire, warm showers, warm tea, warm dinner and welcoming hosts. Speaking for myself I have to say that I enjoyed the evening tremendously. Chatting in the common room with Gijs from the Netherlands, thereafter over dinner and wine with Simon from Australia, and lastly some quality time with Dana and the table topics cards I got from Koen a while ago, in front of the smouldering ashes of what was left of the fire. The deprivations of the day made a splendid combination with the warm soft beds and made me sleep even better that normal. I couldn’t believe my eyes the next morning with blue skies and radiant sunlight pouring through the window. Well, at least we got to enjoy some of the views from the car on the way back to Dublin! All in all a tremendous weekend despite the challenging weather conditions... Dana thanks so much for coming over, and, quoting my Erasmus-era friend Carlos, soon more and better!!

5 counties in 2 days: The southern loop of the Kingfisher trail

“So where are you going tomorrow?”

“Back to Carrick-on-Shannon. Look, here’s our route”. I point my index finger to the green line on Mark’s smartphone.

“You’ll be passing by Ballinagh.. Arvagh.. you don’t need to go via Redhills you now, that’s a detour!”

“Well look we mean to take the scenic route, the country lanes… to avoid the traffic. Not necessarily the shortest route”.

“I see I see.. you’ll be travelling via Ballinagh… Arvagh.. you know when I used to work in Sligo I drove that road every day. Let me have a look. Ey, Redhills? You need not travel by Redhills you know that don’t you?

It is six o’clock and we’re having a well-deserved pint of Guiness in “Clones’ best pub” according to the female teenager Mark had asked for advice in the streets. Along with us and the furniture we counted the lad behind the bar and a few locals who seemed part and parcel of the pub’s routine of warming up for the busy night ahead. Along with a certain fondness of the “holy water” they shared a habit for asking the same questions and seemingly forgetting about the answers. The bloke I was talking to, “the happy one” according to Mark, was eyeing me curiously while asking questions, whereas his facial expression changed to a peaceful gaze whenever I did the talking, followed up by a broad smile and twinkling eyes when I finished speaking. According to the lad behind the bar the place would be buzzing with people and live music later that night. I knew for a given that we would be sound asleep by then, resting our legs for another 120km on the bikes the following day. Clones was proving a suitable stop for us to spend the night; a small village (circa 3k inhabitants) with a few pubs and restaurants hugging a snug street leading to the village square where a church told tales hundreds of years back. The hotel we stayed at was full of people eating drinking and, naturally, spending the night. Clones was hosting a film festival and appeared bustling with life, a welcome change after a day on the road with an aggregate of 5 cars counted.

To be honest, the Kingfisher trail (green = described route, blue = our take), with its winding country lanes and absence of cars was exactly what we had been looking for. Our previous long distance cycle in Ireland had been from Belfast to Dublin; a tale of cars and lorries thundering past us on N- and R-roads whenever we stuck to the route. Diversions into the unknown were not needed this time as the route, perfectly displayed on Mark’s phone which he had attached to his bike, was proving exactly what it promised to be; low-traffic density roads through rural Ireland. Climbing hills overlooking a landscape dotted with lakes, thundering down gravel roads lined with farms and ruins of barns and houses that might trace all the way back to the famine 150 years ago, through pine forests and past hedge-lined meadows, dodging dogs and avoiding confused sheep, leading us through counties Roscommon, Leitrim, Fermanagh, Cavan and Moneghan, over a road surface that made me cherish my choice for a hybrid and Mark silently regret the vulnerability of his racing bike, the trail was all you wish for when discovering Ireland on two wheels. But of course not everything went well. That would be too easy.

When climbing a hill to a particularly pretty viewpoint I was distracted by a twig being stuck between my mudguard and tyre. When I stopped and attempted to remove it, along with the twig appeared a large thorn that had found its way through my outer tyre into the inner tube. Pssssccchhhhhhh. It took us (read Mark) not overly long to fix the puncture, only to find out that Mark’s tyre had undergone a similar fate. After ruining his only spare tube we set about to fixing the one that had been punctured and well over an hour later we finally moved on. Frozen, we were. Cold. Very cold, from the wind and the standing still and more wind. “At least it’s not raining” I had said repeatedly while looking at Mark struggling with his tyre. 5 minutes down the road a drizzle started, and 10 minutes later we found ourselves in a rain shower that the Colombian rain forests would take pride in. We ploughed on. The ferry the route described could only be booked during weekends, but the girl on the phone told us (during our lunch break) that the rangers who operated the unit only worked during the week. So, no ferry, but an N-road flavoured detour. Let’s say we were happy to arrive in Clones that evening.

Day 2 we managed to stick to the route, with some gorgeous scenery rewarding us for that choice. Whereas a mild tailwind had been a welcome help on day 1, that wind had turned stormy and we were facing strong gusts head first when completing the route from east to west on day 2. Exhausted but satisfied we arrived in Carrick-on-Shannon, nurtured a pint of Guiness, and got on the train back to Dublin. And the best part of the Kingfisher route? There’s a northern loop as well. But let’s save that one for next summer. 

Milan

“Ok I think we’ve done enough sightseeing. Let’s go for lunch and a glass of red wine”. It was about 1 o‘clock in the afternoon and Koen, Luijkx and I had just walked from our apartment, via a great breakfast place with even better breakfast, to the centre of Milan, where we stood gazing at the Duomo. Well, gazing.. we were talking about other buildings in other countries that the Duomo reminded us of. Like the duomo in Firenze, and that Firenze really was too touristy. And the Jesus statue in Brazil, and how hungover Luijkx had been visiting that icon. Our yearning for a good get-together with loads of catching up obviously exceeded our appetite for a day of sightseeing in the business capital of Italy. Which isn’t to say that we abstained from any sort of cultural exposure. Oh no, unless you would classify a ballet performance of Romeo and Juliet at La Scala as something not cultural. But then you know as much about culture, or La Scala for that matter, as an Irishman about snow.

The bottle of great Sicilian wine nourished shortly afterwards wasn’t  the first drink to celebrate our weekend together. Technically speaking, not even of the day, as it was after midnight that Friday when we finally got to raise our glasses. The venue, a karaoke bar full of chanting teenagers, might have been a little ill chosen, but that didn’t suppress our joyful mood. It felt as if only a few days had passed since that last bucket of 10 ice cold beers that sunny Sunday afternoon last October in Madrid.  And of course the weekend was too short, much too short. The better hours of Friday night (or Saturday morning), a full Saturday minus the morning spent asleep in our stylish apartment in the middle of town, and a few hours on Sunday before I had to board the bus back to the airport (in Bergamo!).  Too little time but all the more cherished. A weekend filled with pasta, wine, cocktails, hot Italian girls, rain, great food, ballet, Italian speaking taxi drivers, English speaking waiters, wine-spilling waiters, did I say great food?, espresso, fresh orange juices, and promises for the next get-together to be sooner. And longer.

Apart from enjoying the excellent company of two of my best friends, I also enjoyed Milan. To be more precise, I felt elevated. I was enthralled, captivated, alternately energised by gushes of adrenaline and dreamy moments of reminiscence. The old world, with the typical architecture found in central / southern Europe, exhaling history at every street corner, with the facades of 5 storey houses with their omnipresent balconies, elegant lamp posts and cobbled streets, the vibe that moves cities like Budapest and Vienna and Milan forward, that very vibe carried me on for the whole weekend. Pretty girls in elegant attire looking you in the eyes in the street, rather than staring away or at the ground. Ancient churches casually hidden behind trees or apartments, squares filled with people, fancy stores exhibiting stylish garb. And as on many a trip, I could imagine myself living there, descending the staircase of one of those old apartments, boarding the passing tram in the morning, grabbing an espresso on the way to work… Weekends like these cost energy in a way, from the hours of travelling to the loads of drinking. But they definitely energise as well, and leave me with inspiration for future adventures.  

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!