In typical English fashion the train was over thirty minutes late. My anxiety increased as it pulled slowly into the station, the doors opened and I struggled out with my bags and bike. Then came the tedious pace of the station lifts, and of course, the platform for my next train placed separately to its correlating numbers. Having just run in circles trying to find it, I could now breathe! Settling into my seat with just five minutes until departure. This was the final train of the evening, if I’d missed this I’d have missed my ferry, if I’d missed my ferry, I’d have missed the Xavier Rudd gig I’d been looking forward to for months! My 30th birthday present to myself.
It was finally happening, though it hadn’t yet completely kicked in. For longer than I can remember there had been images in my head of exploring the wonderful luscious green hills of Ireland. I had not toured on a bicycle since my original trip in New Zealand two years ago and could feel excitement begin to bubble inside me as my final train left the platform. This dream, this experience, was to begin in less than a day.
Day one
The ferry pulled into the port of Dublin in the early of hours of the morning. I waited upon the vehicle deck until all trucks had roared to life and rolled slowly into the brightening dawn before landing on Irish land for the very first time. The morning glittered with vehicle and street lights, the day still too fresh to provide its own light.
After what began to feel like a never-ending road through the port, I pulled out of large metallic gates and made my way towards the river, a central point of the city. I was in no rush, happy to coast along a cycle way beside the flowing water as commuters started bringing the streets to life as they weaved their way through the streets by foot, bike or car.
My hostel would not be open for several hours, and although I wanted to take this chance to enjoy the city, I realised that rush hour with a fully laden bike was not the best combination for a slow tourist-paced roam. Instead, I settled into a coffee shop a few doors from where my bed would be and peacefully watched the waking world, fighting the increasing tiredness from my near sleepless night.
Without a lot of cash spare there was little I could do in the capital city for the next few hours, except to wander around taking in the buildings, the colours, the mixture of tourists, locals, business folk and students. Parts of the centre were obviously focused on a celebration of the international Irish reputation, a key attraction to the city.
Finally the evening pulled around, followed shortly by the arrival of Danny, my Irish friend. Google Maps highlighting the wrong Academy led to us walking in the wrong direction, though allowing us to walk through the university grounds. Entering through The Campanile, the arched openings of the grand bell tower allowing us to walk beneath it. Dating back as far as 1592, the architecture of Trinity College was able to leave an impression even by the dim lights. Many of the decorative grey stone structures were fronted with a row of tall pillars, portraying the appropriate grandeur you would expect from a university of such high esteem.
Before the night was over I was certain that all I had been led to believe of the Irish character was true. The crowd we enjoyed the music with were heartily enthusiastic, their friendly eagerness convincing Xavier to play an extra song or two as the venue tried to end the event.
Back on the city streets we made our way to the Temple Bar area (also known as the Cultural Quarter) seemingly created to lure tourists. Numerous bars were still alive despite the late hour on a Tuesday night. Classic tunes floating through the air as live local bands played the hits that would draw the crowds. Standing in a busy bar with low ceilings, my first ever pint of Guinness in hand, I watched punters come to life as Galway Girl began to play.
