Burnt earth in the wind, stone moorlands, around the lakes, it’s for the living a bit of hell, Connemaraaaa […] You were all waiting for it a bit, weren’t you? Don’t thank me for putting it in your head, personally I hummed it all day.

Late departure, again, this time because I’m waiting for the owner to pay for the campsite. Big clouds have clung to the surrounding mountains, it’s cold and damp. I couldn’t secure the tent properly, lacking trees, so I took in water all night (yes, it rained, does that still surprise you?). I’ll dry the gear tonight, because my day promises to be very beautiful and sunny.

It’s confirmed as soon as I retake the bridge to leave Achill Island. I take off my jacket, the heat rises, the sun shows itself, the GPS indicates 25°. You’ll say I’m never satisfied, but after days of rain and cold, I struggle to adapt to this - relative - sudden heat.

Quick coffee stop at a service station; the Irish are in particularly good mood today, I’m told it’s been days, even weeks, since there’s been such weather. I go back down towards Connemara, going inland (sorry dad!). I’m on an incredibly beautiful greenway, which is rare enough to be pointed out. New and smooth asphalt, breathtaking landscapes, I take the opportunity to push the pace a bit, for once the wind isn’t bothering me. What a pleasant morning!

I buy some food in Newport and even find in a small hardware store… an Opinel. Believe it or not, I left without a knife, which partly explains my diet poor in fruits and vegetables (at least, whole ones). I finally push on to Westport because, like Judas in Jesus II, “I’m not… very hungry”; at the same time the meal doesn’t look very Catholic since I’m about to cut a Peruvian avocado with a knife (the plot of a bad mafia movie?).

I actually pass the town, because I’m really feeling great, I must say I’ve been well woken up by a sport that I believe I’m starting to master: farm dog avoidance. If the situation ever arises for you, know that it’s all about timing. When the dog sees you, it tends to naturally position itself in front of the bike. Don’t change course, you fool! It would take advantage. On the contrary, you must wait for it to move aside on its own, preparing to enjoy a cyclist’s thigh for its lunch. When it’s only a metre away (or even before), downshift and give it everything, that’s the moment to unleash your best sprint, enough to make the Slovenian Bear pale with jealousy. Once at a reasonable distance, take a moment to enjoy the crestfallen face of your opponent who, today, will go home empty-handed from his morning patrol. Otherwise you can try a kick when it’s within range, but be careful not to provoke the wrath of the owner who probably masters pitchfork throwing very well.

I thus end up arriving very close to the first summits of Connemara. I take my lunch break on a large flat stone, in front of a grandiose landscape. Bad luck, right after I go over my first pass of the day, with the big meal in my stomach, it’s more complicated. On the other side, I discover the famous large lakes. The mountains dipping their feet in them are verdant, covered in wet peat. I stop at a nice little café to drink my Americano by the water.

It’s already 4pm and I’m just starting to worry about how I’ll be able to get to one of the Aran Islands tonight. My lucky star tells me they are among the most beautiful to discover on the west coast. A quick look online informs me: last departure at 6:30pm, the terminal is 44 km away taking the shortest route. It’s within my capabilities, but I mustn’t dawdle, because I first have to get out of the basin I’m in, which necessarily involves a small “pass” crossing (all this is very relative, there’s no real big summit).

I quickly memorise the route and off I go, at a rather lively pace. I take advantage once again of the near absence of wind to fly along the departmental road leading to the coast. Quickly, a 10% segment shatters my speed dreams, but once it’s conquered, I happily discover other immense lakes, seen from above, like little blue spots in the marshes. I continue my road, gradually picking up speed; I let myself be carried away by my lightweight time trial.

However, around a big bend, a lake, much larger than the others, looks like the sea. I spotted it well on the map before leaving, but shouldn’t I be north of it rather than south? I stop, consult the oracles of Google. I discover with despair that I indeed made a mistake, I forgot to turn at the last village. At that moment, I realise three things: 1. Turning around, I notice that I indeed had the wind at my back. 2. I rode so unconsciously that I did 14 km from the junction. 3. I’m now 47 km from the pier and I only have 1h30 left to catch this damn boat.

I’m desperate, it’s my only chance to see the islands. A quick calculation later: I think it’s possible, riding really hard; I go for it. This time, pelvis glued to the saddle, aero position, curled up on the aero bars, I give it everything because I have to go against the wind. I quickly fall back on the 10% section, I devour it as fast as possible. At the top, no respite, I crush myself on the handlebars and take the best possible lines. The Japanese rubber of my tyres grips the tarmac without ever failing. I’m at the intersection, I have 33 km left, 1 hour. Being back in the 4pm basin, I must again cross a pass, by the real western road this time.

It’s much less arduous but very long. Once on the other side, it’s the same scenario, I arch my back and it’s all “to the pedal”. Thighs and tyres heat up. I don’t attempt the supertuck because I don’t want to forfeit all hope of offspring due to a badly placed top tube hit (we’re on Irish roads, remember, and potholes, allow me the expression, they’re more like turkey nests). 29, 32, 35 km/h, I push my limits to reach an average that will allow me to arrive on time. The pain quickly becomes unbearable, my thighs burn, not to mention my rear.

Finally, a saving sign announces the ferry at 2 km, after a right junction. Bad luck, the wind decided to join in. I scream a bit in despair (I must look a bit scary, I admit, with drool on my lips). Finally, I arrive at the terminal, I rush into the office, dripping with sweat. I’m greeted with laughter and appropriate applause, because everyone understands what just happened. It’s 6:31pm, the boat isn’t yet at the dock, I’m sold my ticket.

The crossing goes without a hitch: I instantly sink into a deep sleep after only managing to take a few photos. Arrival at sunset is a delight, the campsite is right next to the port, I set up. There is, as apparently quite often in Ireland, a common room where I find provisions left there by other travellers (and yes, with all this, I didn’t have time to buy dinner). Tomorrow, I’ll take a little tour of the island, before taking another ferry back to the mainland. Too bad Galway, it’ll be for next time!

Comments

Dad

Your story is like a boxing match: right, left, boom the rain, uppercut of the dog, to finish with a sprint swing… Breathless all this!! Aran: a customer in his day is enough. The course, his horse knows it by heart. We recognise him by his old vertically striped jumper with a trail of sedimentary soup… Incomprehensible, not very appetising but Jerry has a secret weapon… He’s got a roof!!!! Hi Jerry, come on son keep sunning.

Yann

Well! What suspense in your writing :D You must have lived a day at full speed, hard hard! Until pain… The landscapes are magnificent! Once again, it makes me want to travel in Ireland. I saw on the map the town of Louisburgh, which is twinned with my commune. I hope your brain, which I know is big and powerful, manages to imprint all these landscapes. I imagine a slow motion film of your entire route, it makes me dream again. So, continue this beautiful adventure! See you tomorrow, bises

Moum

You have definitely become a master in the art of dodging Ivan! I still remember your anecdotes with the Patous!! 🐶 What a race!! You’ll remember Connemara! What splendour! And 25° plus, wow! I predict a dream island for you today! Keep surfing on the road again! 😘