DAY 14 - Thursday / Blarney Caravan Park, Blarney, Cork - Mizen Head, County Cork - Dowlings Camping Park, Glengarriff, County Cork / 132 miles

31/07/2014 / Thursday / Blarney Caravan Park, Blarney, Cork - Mizen Head, County Cork - Dowlings Camping Park, Glengarriff, County Cork / 132 miles

Thursday 10am. After looking over the map and doing some mental calculations, as a check, and decide that, I do indeed need to extend my trips end date, to complete my route. Using Alex’s phone, I call the ferry company up and extend my return date by an extra 2 days. In defence of my initial plan, If I was running at just my own pace, for the duration of the trip, the two weeks would have been just enough time.

Once packed up, I say goodbye to my friends, it feels a little sad to be leaving them, but at the same time, I can’t wait to get back to my own pace of travel. Mike gives me the next campsite location, just in case I find myself in the area that evening and want to stop in with them the night.

I plot my course into the GPS and head out, filling up with fuel at the petrol station, in Blarney next to last night’s Chinese. In fact I still have a portion, in a box strapped to the bike, for that days lunch, waste not want not!

Fig. 1 - Kinsale Harbour with the memorial to lost sailors on the right.

I ride South through Cork then onto Kinsale, stopping only briefly, for a few quick photos of the harbour. Where I stop, to take a panoramic shot, there is a decked area, with a ships mast fully rigged, erected in the centre and just to one side is a cast bronze memorial, to lost sailors.

On the way into, Kinsale I spot a couple, clearly on a short tour, as their only carrying light luggage, park up their bike. I happen to ride past them again, following the one way system, as I was trying to find a place to safely stop, and take some photos. As a biker of course you notice other bikers and both, usually acknowledge each other, but there are those times that you just get the feeling that that’s not wanted from the other party and you just ride on, this was one of those times. Funny how you observe little nuances like this.

Fig. 2 - I follow the R600 past this 11th century Cistercian Abbey.

Leaving Kinsale, I following a ‘B-road’ the R600 to Clonakilty through Timoleague, with its ruined 11th century Cistercian Abbey. Joining the N71 at Clonakilty I then turn off onto the R597, at Rosscarberry. Somewhere along this road I’m stopped, in my tracks by an arctic lorry carrying a flatbed trailer that’s loaded up with steel girders. Which, happens, just as I arrived, to of turned onto my side of the road and is now coming slowly downhill towards me, leaving me nowhere to go but with plenty of time to think over my limited options. I move forward a little and bury myself, as best I can into the hedge. As the driver passes me by, we exchange a quick chuckle and I’m left alone with the remaining 40ft of trailer to finish passing me by, with only 5 inches or clearance, from the end of my handlebars.

Fig. 3 - Glendore Harbour, on the R597.

Continuing on the R597, through Glendore, a small fishing village with a tiny harbour, where I pass a local, shouting directions at a tourist, from within her food van, which somehow makes me chuckle.

Just a few miles further on I stop, in a small village, called Leap. I was feeling hungry and remembered I had a chocolate bar on me, so stopped to fish it out. I’d just stopped on the side of the road in a small village called Leap, just before I needed to turn left on the N71, and was rooting around in my pockets, when I look up, to find right in front of me a 'motorcycle café', what great timing. I ride the few metres to park out the front, which is on a gradient, giving me a little fun parking the bike. Before I could finish, though, the owner comes out and lends me a hand. There’s another bike parked next to mine and as I walk into the café I nod to its owner.

Fig. 4 - The Motorcycle Grill, good place to fuel up.

Fig. 5 - A little Honda C50, as cafe window dressing!

I grab a really good burger, chips and a pot of tea and chat with the owner for a while, who advises me on a really good route, through the Beara Peninsular, which is apparently a better ride than its coastal road.

Fig. 6 - Just tickled me.

I take a photo of the little Honda 6v C50 he has sat in the café and a photo of the café front for my blog. Now tanked up on food, I join the N71 again, through Skibbereen, leaving on the R592, at Ballydehob. Passing through a place called 'Skull', where I couldn’t help but stop to take a photo of the ‘Skull Dental Clinic’ sign and finally turn onto the R591, to Mizen Head, stopping to take a few quick flicks of the rugged coastline and beaches along the way.

Fig. 6 - Three photos of the rugged coastline on the way to Mizen Head.

Fig. 7 -

Fig. 8 -

'Mizen Head' is the furthest South-West you can get to, by road in Ireland.

Arriving around midday I park up in the busy visitor’s car park, with a little walk to the information centre. There’s an 8 Euro entry fee, for what I'm not certain as I think it’s a little daft to pay to see a natural site. My main mission here, is to take a photo of my foot, at the furthest bit of concrete or tarmac you can stand on, which is something, apart from circumnavigating islands, that I like to do. The previous year I visited the furthest North-West of Scotland you can drive to and took a photo of the same foot!

Fig. 9 - Next stop from here, West, the Americas.

Fig. 10 - A treat for you, my left foot, on the furthest South-West I can place it in Ireland, well we all need a hobby.

Even with the fee, I would highly recommend this place for, the mesmerising views across to the cliffs, especially as you cross the concrete foot bridge, and look through a V-gap, through the cathedral sized rocks. It’s a geologists dream, with multiple folds in the rock strata, having been produced by some unfathomably pressures.

After you walk over the bridge, there's a slight incline, to where there are a few buildings consisting of an old signal and weather station plus a lighthouse. Walking passed these brings you to the furthest you can go, where there is a small balcony of sorts to stand on, allowing you to look down over the cliffs and out towards the Atlantic ocean.

Fig. 11 - View to the North, from the viewing platform.

Fig. 12 - View from the concrete bridge, into the cathedral like void.

Looking over to the horizon, I couldn’t help but think that the next stop, is the Americas. There’s only enough room on the platform for one or two people, at any one time, so I quickly spent a few moments in contemplation, before making room for the next person, but not before I had them take my photo. With the feeling that I had spent enough time there, I happily head back to the bike.

Looking at the map, I felt that the campsite, Mike gave me that morning, fitted in well with my route and timings, so I plot in the Dowlings Camping Park Site, located just West of Glengerriff. I also add in two via-points following, the North side of the peninsula. I almost deciding not too in favour of a more direct route, but am so glad that I didn’t, as I was treated to some exciting roads and gorgeous views. Though towards the end I could tell I was getting a bit tired out as I had a harey few moments.

Fig. 13 - Dowlings Campsite, just West of Glengerriff.
You can just see where we have camped to the left, with the
site pub above and to the right.

Arriving at the campsite just after 6pm, I easily find where the others have pitched up, although the place was deserted. I pitch up beside their tents and settled in to catch up with my writing. Taking a little break, to ride into Glengarriff, and check out the restaurants, for any sign of the others but to no avail. So I went back and chilled out in my tent, luckily there’s a pub on site, although it didn’t open till 7:20, but as soon as it opens, I plan on ensconcing myself at the bar, to finish off my writing, whilst waiting for them to turn up.

(I write the following the morning after arriving home)

Around 8pm, I pop out of the pub to pick up my phone, I had left on charge with the campsite owner, who sat in her reception hut. Back in the pub ‘Nick’ the barman, a friendly and chatty Irishman, served me a Guinness and we passed the time of day nattering away. I remembered I was looking to get a Bodhrán, a traditional Irish skin drum and ask him where a good one might be found. Nick recommends that the best place to get a good one, from, is further North in Galway. I also mention that before this trip, I had a distinct lack of knowledge of Irish history and felt that I had to do some swatting up, before coming over. Nick suggests that I learn, about Michael Collins, who died on the 22nd August 1922. Shot in West County Cork, by the British in an ambush, as he had strongly believed he couldn’t be killed within his own county and knowing this snippet would get me along grand with folks.

A few local lads, stop in for a few jars and I soon engaged them in a bit of a chat about travel, as I overheard one of them was planning a journey on a bicycle through Thailand.

Nick, needs to nip off to run some errands and leaves the bar in the capable hands of Katy. She runs the bar for some extra cash in hand. I chat to her a bit and discover that she used to be really into her Irish dancing but is currently having a year out and greatly is missing it.

I jump onto the pubs Wi-Fi and find the others, have been uploading flicks to Facebook of their days adventures. I also find a photo of where there eating tonight. I lean over and ask the lads, showing them the photo, they tell me it’s in a village some 25 miles East, further along the coastal road. I've already had a pint, and since I don’t drink a lot, I decide its best to stay and have another rather, than chase them down.

An hour or so later I get, as I was half expecting, one of the group discovers me and tap’s me on the shoulder, its Alex. He sits down and I get him a pint in as he tells me of his day.

Alex is finding Mike and Alexa’s pace a bit slow going and decides he’s going to join me for the next few days. That's fine with me. Mike pops in and we have a brief catch up, as Alexa’s knees are causing her a lot of pain and she’s having to rest back in their tent.

Mike takes a few drinks back, with him leaving me and Alex stopping, in the pub till 1am. Fitting in a few games of pool which I consecutively win, even when I was trying to loose, so at least he could win, even just the once.

Live traditional music, is struck up around midnight, which is the first I've heard in a pub in Ireland, and it’s good. Another group of bikers touring Ireland enter the bar, and we all get chatting about our respective adventures. It turned that they were heading in the opposite direction to us and their main navigator interrogates me on the best routes and what’s good to see and likewise avoid. I return the favour, by interrogated her about their route, to get the heads up on which good roads to take and avoid. One of their group, who’s a native, cannot recommend enough that we travel through 'Joyces County', which, for himself, he usually just blast up straight there and spends a week simply criss-crossing around. 

I drift off to bed around 1pm, leaving Alex at the bar, presumably trying in vain to get the barmaids number.