Biking from Wicklow to Dublin (Day 1)

The day after Jack & Holly’s wedding, a contingent of the IH Crew who were staying in Dublin for the night set off. Some went to the bus stop or waited for rides from other guests who had rented cars, and I got on my bike.

My ride back up the east coast was fast and uneventful, having familiarised myself with the route on the way down earlier that week and it being mostly on paved cycleways. I cut through many parks and fields with murders of crows (had to use that opportunity) pecking in the grass, doing their adorable one-two hops.

One night in Dublin (Night 1)

The 1-night-in-Dublin group had an AirBnB apartment for the night in Temple Bar, the most central tourist district/their equivalent of an old town. It wasn’t anything like the other European old towns I’d seen. It was full of cars and narrow busy walkways, with few pedestrianised spaces. There weren’t really any architectural buildings. There was one big orange brick building with a turret which George got excited about. I said (rather snootily in hindsight) that one small brick turret didn’t seem much to write home about, and hadn’t he been to continental Europe? (He hadn’t, I was chastened to learn) (fair enough that the grandeur of Budapest had not been the focus of the stag do). I had to remind myself that you can’t really compare countries that have been doing the colonising and exploiting, to the countries that have been colonised and exploited. This was also just Temple Bar; I didn’t get to visit anywhere else including Trinity College or St Stephen’s Green which I hear are very beautiful.

Fergus and Dillan, through some complicated logistics, had got a ride back to Dublin with other climbing enthusiasts from Christchurch (Holly had flatted with them while studying at Lincoln). They had hoped to go outdoor climbing, but had ended up at a climbing gym. When they joined us Temple Bar, Fergus was catatonic with tiredness and went straight to bed. The rest of us went out for dinner at the strip of bustling food places nearby. Helen, Dillan, Ryan, and I got pho, while Eliza, George, and Greg got pizza.

We wanted to make the most of our last night in Ireland, but everyone was pretty wrecked from the wedding festivities the night before. We sat outside a bar drinking Guinness, playing a game called splitting the G. On your first gulp, you have to try to get the water level looking like this:

I learnt of the existence of zero-alcohol Guinness, highly commended by the Irish bartender as very legit-tasting, and was able to participate. I did poorly. It also took me the entire evening to get through just half my glass, I found it so much more rich and filling than other liquids.

Later, inside, we watched the FIFA Norway vs. Brazil game. The whole bar was doing the “viking row”, Norway’s fanchant. It’s fun being in Europe during the world cup. Afterwards, the others stayed out chatting in the delightful late-night temperature. I gave in and went to bed for my very early start the next day. Some of these friends I won’t be seeing again for a long time! Greg will be going back to Chile, George to Quebec, Eliza to Melbourne, Helen & Ryan to London, Dillan & Donna to Berlin. Fortunately some are planning to visit/move back to NZ in the near-ish future.

Ferry from Dublin to Holyhead, Wales (Day 2)

I woke up a few hours later at 4:30am, after some absurd dreams about creative ways in which I would miss my ferry. My power bank hadn’t even fully charged (you and me both, buddy). I loaded my bike, gave Fergus a kiss (he’d valiantly got out of bed to help me load my bags and wave me off), and set off for the docks. Due to suboptimal planning, Fergus had booked a flight out of Dublin while I had bought tickets to a concert in London, so we weren’t able to spend his whole holiday in Europe together. So this was the start of my solo low-carbon leg from Ireland to Sweden, with lots of cycling and more tour de friends stops along the way.

I had hoped to be rewarded for my early start with a sunrise ride through a sleeping city. Instead, there was lots of litter and groups of drunk men from night before, plus already lots of cars on the road. I also had to ride along the footpath when entering the busy port full of trucks.

Despite a lovely green cycleway along the Irish Sea right at the end, the whole ferry-boarding process wasn’t really optimised for bikes. The signage around the check-in area was confusing, and I had to bike up a steep gangway in the same lane as the cars.

On the ferry, there was only one bike rack with three wheel rings very close together. I had booked a bike slot along with my ferry ticket months ago, so that wasn’t an issue, but it was surprising that in this ship of hundreds of passengers, they only had space for three bikes. Also, those bike racks with the circular wheel rings aren’t great for heavily loaded bikes a) they’re often too narrowly spaced for bikes with big bags on both sides, and b) the weight will tilt your bike sideways, putting a lot of strain on the wheel. Anyway, what can you do.

The ferry was a similar layout to one of the smaller Cook Strait ferries, except it also had pokies machines, duty free shopping, a buffet, a kid’s play area, and a “pet den” where there was a floppy-eared doberman was cheerfully chewing a toy. Panoramic views were also reserved for club lounge members. Free wifi was for 20 minutes only and didn’t work all that well. I could have brought food from a supermarket, but only a small handful of brain cells had been firing over the past 24 hours, so I hadn’t had the foresight. I bought the two cheapest things in the ferry cafeteria, a chia overnight oat pottle and a scone (ft. Cornish Clotted Cream, how exotic) for 9 Euros.

When disembarking, I met the other cycle travellers whose bikes occupied the two other slots. One was a slick all-black shrine to Ortlieb (a fancy cycle accessories brand), and the other was a retro steel-frame with a homemade frame bag of tarpaulin, a heavy-looking sleeping bag, some tent poles, and a 2L disposable bottle of water dangling precariously from the seat post where it was strapped.

They belonged to a young university-age couple coming back from the 105 mile Isle of Kerry race (the fancy Ortlieb gear had been borrowed from a parent). It had been their first time doing something like that, and they had been “super scared” of the hills and the racing element. Look at us all, doing things that scare us! When I noticed upon the ferry’s arrival in Holyhead that I’d lost one of my pannier straps, one of them kindly gave me one of their own since they were on their way home (edit: three weeks and about 1000 km hence, this strap has been crucial!).

Disembarking took one hour. The three of us had to wait for all the trucks, tour buses, and cars to get off first, then walk our bikes onto a shuttle bus. Not a bike rack, not an undercarriage, just literally hauling it onto the bus. Its interior was exactly like a normal bus, so it really did only fit three bikes down the aisle. We were driven about 10 minutes to the terminal with customs etc. Truly suboptimal for bikes.

Train from Holyhead to London (Day 2)

Holyhead is on the Isle of Anglesea. The hour taken to disembark had scuttled my plans to bike down to one of the lighthouses on this western edge of Wales. It was fortunate that my transfer time on my SailRail ticket was two hours to get from ferry to my connecting train.

Not! As I was heading to print off my paper ticket from the machine (which you apparently need to do for SailRail, booking reference is not enough), I saw on the live departures board that my train had been cancelled! I’d had no email or any indication on my Transport for Wales app about this (why tell everyone to download the app if it’s not going to do the basics?). The customer service desk was empty so I asked platform conductor. He pointed to the train in front of us and said “get on this one quick and transfer at Chester”, then leapt towards the train doors to open them for me. I hauled my bike on, yelling back at him “Chester? Chester? Is there a bike-specific carriage? It said I needed to print off a paper ticket at the machine, do I still need to do that?” (Answers: yes, yes, no, unintelligible).

Once on board and my bike strapped into the luggage space (no bike-specific space), I felt surprisingly relaxed, confident that I’ll be able to state my case for being on a different train to my reservation. It was indeed totally fine and the friendly on-board conductor gave me additional instructions for my transfer in Chester (including to print off my paper ticket).

The train from Holyhead to Chester was very comfortable and modern, although became totally packed due to the cancellation. The views of Wales were foggy, but in a desaturated moody sort of way. At one point after alternating open fields and dense hedges packed tight against the train tracks, we opened up to a view over a magnificent high bridge on the Menai Strait that separates the Isle of Anglesey from the rest of Britain. I could see another bridge with picturesque stone arches down the river-like strait, and green steep banks on either side with white cottages perched on either side. It felt a shame to not have had any more time on this island which seems to be quite a destination in itself.

At Chester I was to transfer from the Transport for Wales train to the Avanti West Coast line to London. To print off my ticket as instructed, I had to get to the ticket machines near the station entrance across an airbridge. Naturally, the lift at the station was broken. So my choices were to lock my laden bike and leave it unattended (among the many “do not leave bags unattended” signs), or to lift my 30kg+ bike up and then down the airbridge and back again. I chose the former, and came back to find my bike and bags being towed away by a platform conductor - I had to run to intervene and apologise.

On the Avanti West Coast train, bike storage was a vertical hook high that was barely wide enough for my (not very wide) tires, up in a narrow closet. After some swearing and help from a train conductor, I got settled. My first (ever!) views of England were hay fields, some solar farms, and brick houses.

London Euston to Ealing via Little Venice by bike, 15 km (still Day 2)

I didn’t know what to expect getting off the train at London Euston station. It was my first time in the UK, let alone London. I was pretty tired by this point, having woken up at 4:30am that morning in Dublin and taken a ferry and two trains since. But as I walked out of the station, I felt that same grin spread slowly across my face. It was the same one I’d had when I’d arrived at the train stations in Frankfurt, Berlin, and Warsaw. I think I just like big, diverse cities; the energy feels infectious.

I would be staying with my friend Ola here in London. Her place was on the other side of town in Ealing. This seemed like a tantalising opportunity to get my first taste of London by bike on this glorious summer’s day, rather than via the sweaty underground Tube.

I found a route on Komoot that went through Regent’s Park and the Little Venice cycle network. Regent’s Park was about what I expected, but Little Venice surprised me - I didn’t know there were canals in London!

The path was narrow and paved, right next to the water, and coursed through a variety of areas. It started in quite a fancy suburb with well-kempt, colourful houseboats. It then progressed through grungy neighbourhoods, areas where it was a bit run-down with clutter spilling out of dwellings, then through industrial zones, then suburban.

The last few kilometres were off the canal path down another cycleway, which basically took me to Ola’s front door. I’d be spending the next few days here, getting a glimpse into the London-OE life that I had forgone.

Fergie’s adventures in Ireland

During my time in London, here’s how Fergus spent his remaining days before his flight home out of Dublin. He rented a car and went on an ancestry adventure, this time for his Irish side. He drove to Belfast with Greg and dropped him off with some relations. Then he drove on to Fahan near Londonderry where he found the church (Parish of Fahan) where his great-great-grandfather had been a Presbyterian minister. He ran around in the hills, and encountered some sheep farmers around Belfast; he was sure they had been speaking English but he could not understand them at all. He went for long trail runs in the heather, immersed in some magnificent views. Here are some photos he sent me: