9-9-9 Here we go again

Beautiful sunny weather this morning and more to follow over the next few days. A perfect opportunity to poke my head outside and scuttle up the road to Omagh. Finally, after all the heavy rain its great to have blue skies and no wind. Time to get back on the road.....
It's nearly two weeks since I turned for home on that rain sodden road on Boa Island. I didn't think I'd be at home for another fortnight But I have no regrets. From the moment I phoned home to say I was heading back I had no regrets. I'm well dressed for the bad weather now and, I suppose, the ironic thing is I'm heading up the road in bright warm sunshine.

As I cross the river Erne once more Belleek village looks a lot better than it did two weeks ago. A Triclour flies cheekily from the hill overlooking the village across the river on the Donegal side. Heading up the road I'm passing through countryside which, on the previous occasion had been invisible under a mist and sheets of rain. Off to the right green, rolling fields lead to high hills which are topped by wind generators. On the left good land gives way a few hundred yards away to moorland and bog which blankets the nearest hills. I'm heading for the village of Pettigo, a slightly different route to the last time which avoids Boa Island, best to avoid bad memories. As it turns out the road onto Boa is blocked either for road works or due to flooding. I settle into a rhythm on the pedals and push through the countryside.

Its very obvious when you've crossed into the north as the road signs and road markings are all very different to down south. Distances are in miles and not kilometers. So it was a big surprise for me at a junction a mile from Pettigo to see familiar looking road signs of the Republic in front of me. Somewhere along the way the road crosses back into the south but there's nothing to indicate this. Pettigo is in Donegal so. I always thought it was in Fermanagh.

It's a quaint enough wee cross roads village, a border village that featured in the War of Independence. There's a monument to locals who took part in the fighting. The village stradlles the border. It's built on a river which forms the border line so those living on the far side of the river live in the north. Immediately across the river the road markings, traffic and bus stop signs all change once more and its back into Northern Ireland. There's no looking back now.

The village of Kesh lies five miles down the road and the first tangible evidence of the different political jurisdiction is the sight of the local D.U.P party office. I'm heading for Omagh and from here there's two ways to go. Follow the main road down to Irvinestown and cross the lowlands up to Omagh or follow the quiet road over the mountains. I'm taking the scenic route. This road passes through the villages of Ederney and Lack on the way up to a mountain pass that divides counties Fermanagh and Tyrone. Ederney is the larger of the two, the gateway to the hills which rear up behind village a few miles away. Ederney was typically rural, quiet and sleepy. Only for there were a group of men working on some major road works the place would have been deserted.

Leaving the village I passed by the local Orange Lodge, the first one I've seen. Naturally I had to stop and get a photo. The Lodge itself was a pretty nondescript building but over the front it had a colourful depiction of Prince William of Orange in action at the Battle of the Boyne on 'The Glorious Twelfth', as its referred to by some of a political persuasion down here. Obviously there's a Unionist presence in this community. An Orange lodge is something so far removed from southern culture that you can look at them with a certain wonderment or, perhaps, hostility, if your politics so dictate. For me it was a curiosity, like looking at some old relic of the past, but representing something slightly sinister. Obviously I didn't get too close, God forbid! but I did take the photo. On the one hand the lodge is such an inoccuous building, the picture on its front so simple a child might have drawn it yet, the imagery and symbolism it displays is so potent in this part of the world. One element in an array of powerful tribal symbols that has defined the outlook and marked the dividing lines between one side and the other in these parts over generations. I left Ederney and its Orange lodge behind and travelled along the Queen's highway, as is my right and has been the right of my predecessors for generations.

I pushed on for the mountains and strained into the road as it began to rise up the slope. My legs aren't fit yet so I was sweating heavily in minutes. Two thirds of the way up the slope I entered Lack, a tiny village. 'What in the name of Jaysus had them building a village up here?' I wondered to myself. It was a real 'toad-in-the-hole', an 'in-the-middle-of-nowhere' kind of place. Beautifully kept, it had won awards in tidy town competitions but was virtually deserted and halfway up a mountain. 'What kind of folk live in this hill country?' Blue or Green? What kind of music, Queen or Country?? Then they appeared. Two young lads on bikes, watching me intently, bleached blonde crewcuts and dressed in Rangers tops. Noooooo!!!

As I approached the younger of the two, about 8 or 9yrs old, challenged me. 'Ya wanna race hai!! He probably thought I was a foreigner touring the country. Little did he know he was challenging a feckin southern Fenian taigue!!. This felt a bit like a twisted version of the film Deliverence. Swap the river for a mountain and the banjos for a BMX. I laughed warily. 'Go on so' - in a pseudo French drawl (No point in being rumbled just yet. 'Ah aint gonna be squeelin like no pig').

Cue the music!!. Without another word the two Rangers lads took off up the road furiously. I followed behind half-heartedly wondering what I was doing. The race was to the end of the village where two speed signs marked the open country. I let the two lads go ahead not really wanting to race these kids but at the same time not wanting to lose to the Rangers jersey either. What changed my mind was the point at which the road dipped into a hollow for 50-60 yards. My bike, with all its weight, took off on its own momentum. The gap closed and the race was on. I dropped the gears, pushed and very quickly caught the younger lad who'd challenged me. The older lad was still ahead, I was closing on him but he was closing in on the finish. I had to start pushing now. With about 10m to go I drew level. I had him. I lingered to let him think he had a chance, let him pedal as hard as he could, and then just eased in front as we crossed the line. 'Never in your dreams Sonny boy' . I pushed away from the village not noticing the last climb to the top of the mountain. I was too busy humming 'The fields of Athenry' and 'Ole, Ole, Ole' to notice. How juvenile can you get!! Still it certainly shortened the climb up that mountain. Minutes later I crossed into Tyrone and was free wheeling downhill towards Omagh.

Will continue this later........