Thurs Aug 20 Streedagh Strand

It was blustery and cool. There would be no sunset tonight, too much cloud around. It was getting dark now and I was starting to feel cold so I gathered up my things and left the beach. As I climbed through the dunes back to the tent my phone began to ring. It was Mike G, a pleasant surprise as I wasn’t expecting any calls tonight. ‘Just phoning to wish you luck on the trip’ says Mike. ‘Ah good man, thanks a lot’. ‘You’ll never guess where I am now?’ ‘Well, by the sounds of that wind you’re outside’. ‘Yep, down at Streedagh for the first night on the road and just about to get into the tent.’ We got talking for a couple more minutes and then my phone went dead. I’m going to have to change that phone soon. I have it over five years now and the battery only lasts a few minutes on a call. I’m too feckin tight to get a new one for my travels. But it was good to talk to Mike even for a few short minutes. It dispelled the uncertainty and doubts that can cloud your mind at the start of something like this. He got me smiling again. Right, it was time to bed down for the night. I zipped up the tent, got into the sleeping bag and tried to make myself as comfortable as possible.

I’m staying at Streedagh strand for the night. The site where three ships of the Spanish Armada were wrecked in 1588 and the starting point for one of the survivor’s travels through Ireland as he tried, initially, to stay alive and, afterwards, to find his way home again. Over a thousand men died when the three ships went down but Captain Francisco De Cuellar was one of those who survived to tell the tale of his experiences after he staggered ashore on Streedagh strand half drowned and badly injured. In order to follow this guy’s footsteps I have to begin where he set foot in Ireland and so I’m down at Streedagh.

I cycled down from home earlier in the evening though, at one point, I didn’t think I’d make it this far at all. All afternoon heavy black clouds had come blowing in over Benbo mountain and swept over the town, the downpours falling in torrents as new storm clouds moved in to replace them. I’d intended heading for Streedagh in late afternoon but by six o’clock I still hadn’t ventured outside. I always get a bit uptight before the start of a journey but this evening I was in a foul humour mostly because of the terrible weather outside. I can take heat, wind and cold but not the wet, I detest it. As the angelus bell rang out it appeared I wouldn’t be venturing out on this occasion. On tv the World Athletics Championships were in full swing and later on Usain Bolt would be searching for another world record in the final of the 200m. It was a strong attraction for staying in but the rain eased off and there was even a hint of sunshine breaking through the clouds. I decided I’d better go now or I wouldn’t go at all.

I said a quick goodbye to Mum and Dad, ran out to the bike, it was already packed, and cycled up the old road, straight into the next torrential downpour. 300m up the road there’s a small rise from which you can see a good 10 miles down Glenade valley, the route I was about to take down to the coast. You could see the hazy veil of showers drifting across the bottom of the valley but behind Truskmore there were glimpses of clearer skies and some sunshine. It looked better down towards the coast.

The first downpour was the worst. But after that I got lucky. The showers mostly missed me after that and the rest of the evening was spent racing against the sunset to get down to Streedagh and get the tent up before darkness fell. I followed the old road down into the middle of Glenade. An ancient track, it follows the high, drier ground along the side of the valley heading for Kinlough and Bundoran. It’s been used by people for centuries until at some point a new modern road was built, winding its way through the lower boggy ground in the bottom of the valley. The old road doesn’t get used that much nowadays and a grassy tract lines the centre of the road. It’s quiet, great for cycling on. I pass by a number of old whitewashed farmers cottages built in the nineteenth century, modern family homes and a few large ‘Celtic Tiger’ mansions built a few years back when bank loans were still easy to acquire. I zip downhill past Mullies chapel where we used to go to Mass on Sundays. It used to be whitewashed but it’s been painted recently and now sports an odd two-tone shade of green almost blending in with the sodden, rush strewn fields that line the side of the road.

After Mullies chapel it’s great for a few miles. I freewheel downhill as the road gradually eases its way into the bottom of the valley. Rounding one bend a flock of sheep block the way. They’re being moved up the road by two redheaded brothers. These sheep obviously know where they’re going because the two lads are following behind them in a beat up old tractor. My sudden appearance hurtling round the bend brings the flock to a standstill as they all watch me nervously. I stop and move to the side of the road but the sheep turn to flee back in the direction they came from forcing one of the lads to jump out of the tractor cab to stop a headlong flight. After much whooping, whistling and frantic arm-waving the sheep are persuaded that I’m less of a threat than the hollerin farmboy jumping up and down behind them and they straggle past me gingerly. I continue on my way.

Down in the middle of the valley beside Glenade lake the old road joins the new main road and that’s where the fun ends…. or begins, depending on your point of view. There’s no hard shoulder on this road. It’s fast and winding and the passing traffic zips along. You don’t want to be caught on a bike on one of these blind bends when ‘one-a-da-boyz’ come flying down the road. I pushed hard along this stretch of six or seven miles. It’s actually gorgeous along here. Leaving the lake, where we used to fish for perch and pike, behind the valley broadens out under high vertical cliffs on either side. The skyline is normally dominated by Truskmore and its giant television mast but this evening with dark clouds bubbling over the tops of the mountains it was out of sight, shrouded in a grey mist.

Sweating under my waterproofs I kept one eye on the storm clouds above and an ear out for oncoming traffic. But it was grand, none of the speed merchants got me this time. I passed by Glenade chapel and a few hundred meters further on turned off the main road onto another old, mountain road which would take me over to Grange and the coast. When we were kids back in the seventies some IRA sympathizer climbed the mountain above the chapel and after painting a load of rocks arranged them into a crude ‘Brits Out’ slogan across the slope which passing drivers could see from the road. It stayed up there for years. Nobody seemed to be too bothered about dismantling it though perhaps it was safer to leave it alone. It remained blazing its defiant message until the rains finally washed it away. It must rank as one of the less subversive actions carried out in the area during the Troubles, only matched in its audacity by an action carried out by a local unit of the IRA during the War of Independence when attack was launched on a bank of turf in a bog near Kiltyclogher which had been cut to supply fuel for a local RIC barracks. The turf was destroyed by throwing the lot into the nearest boghole and those who carried out the famous attack were awarded with medals for their service to the cause after Independence. A true story!!

It was good to be out of Glenade. I was leaving the rain clouds behind and the mountain route to Grange is a beautiful route. The road runs along the base vertical face of the spectacular Benwiskin Mountain and overlooks the lowlying coastal plain that stretches between Ballyshannon and Sligo. In good weather you can look across Donegal Bay to the mountains beyond Killybegs but this evening there was no sign of them. Grey rainclouds sat low to the horizon. Looking out into the sea beyond Grange you could see Inishmurray, the low flat island that sits about five miles off the coast. A couple of miles away Classiebawn castle is a famous landmark, It’s dark silhouette standing clear on a low hill above Mullaghmore harbour. This was the summer home of Lord Mountbatten who was killed thirty years ago this week. That was one of those occasions you always remember where you were when you heard about it. We were in the car heading into Sligo when we heard the news and later that afternoon saw helicopters ferrying the dead and injured to Sligo hospital as we returned home.

I stopped by Benwiskin to check the time. It was 7.30pm, in 90 mins the sun would have gone down so I needed to keep moving in order to get down to Streedagh and have the tent up somewhere amont the dunes before it was dark. Out of the shelter of Glenade now there was a stiff breeze blowing head on making it slow going in a few places. There were a couple of stiff climbs but after Benwiskin the road leveled off. Nearing Grange the distinctive shape of Ben Bulben came into view. It’s an iconic mountain and a symbolic landmark of the northwest. I didn’t have much time for looking at it now as I was hurrying against a fast approaching dusk. The sun, now sinking towards the horizon, broke through the cloud cover creating a bright silvery haze over Inishmurray.

I arrived at Grange, a small village lining the busy highway that runs between Sligo and Donegal. Crossing this I took a side road down to Streedagh and 15 mins later I rolled into the car park behind the strand. I wasn’t sure if camping was allowed down here or not but I didn’t see any signs prohibiting it and, anyway, it was too late to be turning around now. There were still a number of people about so I quickly wheeled the bike in the direction of the dunes to get out of sight. Very soon I found my spot in a little hollow where the tent would be hidden from the heavy gusts that were blowing now. I got the tent up and after changing out of the sweaty clothes into some warm layers I went over to the beach to eat a bite of food.

The strand, about two miles long, arcs in a crescent shape between two dark rocky outcrops. When the tide is out the beach is a big, broad expanse of sand but the tide was fully in tonight, the waves rolling in and rattling through a protective layer of stones at the base of the dunes. The wind was whipping spray off the tops of the waves and two hardy surfers, covered head to toe in wet suits continued to ride the breakers as I munched on bread and cold spaghetti hoops. The light was fading fast, it was after 9pm now and it would be dark in a matter of minutes. The surfers paddled away towards their campervan in the car park. There was a sharp edge to the breeze and as my body was cooling down after my earlier exertions I began to feel the chill. I gathered up the leftovers of the food and made my way back to the tent. Just then the phone rang.