Day 8 continued…
If I had thought the wind was bad at the top of Corkscrew Hill, the gusts that met me as I neared the Cliffs of Moher were horrific! The further I got along the road the less protection there was from the elements. There were no trees and few houses, all of which were built low. Stormy weather, so it seemed, was not quite finished with Ireland. Winds so forceful making me push my bike instead of riding, were joined by a punishingly cold downpour. I could no longer see the sea, I could barely see a few inches in front of me!
As I trudged up the road, head down in determination, an old man heading back to his house shouted to question my destination. He seemed to think me a little mad (probably a fair observation in these conditions) and warned me not to continue for fear of being blown away atop the cliffs. Now what? Ignore a local who obviously knew what the weather could do here? No, I felt that would be foolish. And so back I turned to find a safe camp spot for the night.
It is a little disheartening to turn around to view a hill you have just made your way up, to know you have to go back down, only to come back up again! With the odd B&B dotted along this street and I decided to try my luck asking to camp in their gardens, rather than descending the whole way. The daughter of a B&B owner was just getting into her car as I made my way to the door, and after some conversation she asserted that I was indeed quite okay to continue forwards! The weather had now eased off, or at least the rain had stopped, she seemed confident, and I really didn’t want to give up yet. So there I was heading once again in the direction of the Cliffs of Moher, a little apprehensive due both to the warnings from the old man, and to being unable to see where the winding road was taking me. Sometimes it was possible to cycle, other times it still felt safer to push my bike along.
Eventually I rounded a corner where the winds eased, a rising cliff edge now acting as my protection. The road began to straighten out and down, and it suddenly hit me what a tourist hot spot the cliffs were. Huge grey squares to the left of the road were half filled with cars and coaches, and as I arrived at the main entrance a tourist information centre came into view. Walkways had been created along the cliffs for easy access. It was not quite the serene, empty cliffs I had envisioned, but I cannot deny the views were worth the effort and due to the late hour of my arrival, there were only a handful of other people I had to share with.
Leaving my bike down a tunnel leading to staff access, I walked to the top. The sun was setting, creating a low white glow over the sea. Jagged cliff edges were topped with green turf; pale grey mist cast a haze over the distant rocky features. I made my way to a single turret tower at the top of the paved pathway, panoramic vistas spread around me. The sky, marred by the haze in one direction, was brilliantly clear in the other.
As much as I wanted to stay for the sunset, I realised this would also mean having to make my way down from the cliffs in darkness, and with the force of the wind I did not want to risk it. So with one last look out to the horizon I made my way back to my bike. As I unlocked it one of the kindly staff assuring me that it was, at least, all downhill from here.
He wasn’t wrong, a large portion of the road led steeply downhill towards Lahinch. Flying along I almost missed the small turning onto a country lane, a route which allowed me to cut out a large coastline distance and gave me relief from the pounding wind. The thin road was lined with dry stone walls and seemed to be a network of access routes for the many farm properties I passed by.
Lahinch was on the other side of a wide river, which I had to cross on a stone, three arched bridge. By this time the sun had created neon orange strips through the sky, the bright colour contrasted by deep purple clouds. There was a small golden sand beach on the opposite side of the river, the force of the wind causing the top dry layers to be whisked through the air. It was an amazing sight, a mini sand storm which conjured images of the desert, placed beside the intensely rippling river. Small waves turned brilliant white as they met the sand, creating an almost magical, glowing barrier between water and land.
Of all the beauty and all the excitement that I’d encountered that day, this was by far the pinnacle. I stood alone on the bridge, enjoying the vibrant forces of nature, not caring as the wind blasted sand towards me. At least, not caring for a while, but there reaches a point when you feel that enough sand is enough!
It was either the sand in my face, or the recollection that I still had to find somewhere to sleep that night (maybe a mixture of the two) that made me drag myself away and continue towards Lahinch. Passed the vast, green, undulating golf course on the right and onto the small main street. On asking in one of the local bars about a place to camp, the barmaid could only advise somewhere in the next town over, a good 10km in the wrong direction!
I scoured any possibilities for camping as I made my way out of town, anywhere that looked like it would provide enough shelter from the storm. A few kilometres out I saw what seemed a winning location. A garden with walls which would help protect me from the elements and a house with a light on, which hopefully meant there was someone inside to ask. After a little confusion on the homeowner’s part everything was settled. I could camp no problem, though he thought that perhaps I should choose to go a little further round the back of the property under the protection of some trees. Proud in my victory, I thanked him profusely and went to prepare my shelter.
