A very wet day on the trail.

       A good nights rest followed by a 9:00 start was the beginning a very long and strenuous day. North for 24 miles to Westport, I was dressed with shoe covers, rain pants and jacket. Took the jacket off when it seemed the rain had stopped, put it on as the a shower resumed.  The jacket goes on only when it is raining sufficiently heavy enough to out weigh the trapped perspiration inside the rain gear generated by my exertion. It is a game where the fickleness of the rain can make me crazy with the off again on again of my jacket, in particular. 

      Westport, as my first stop, was a nice town in appearance only; full of nice restaurants, upscale stores, laid out tastefully with all the usual trappings but I though the people were unfriendly if not disdainful of the tourists.  The only people who were friendly were an out of town couple renting a house for a week.  They agreed with my observation.  The tourists  pump money into Westport's economy but locals, many appearing affluent, seemingly have lost sight of this benefit.  Moving right alone, I topped off the tank, suited up and pedaled out of town relieved to be rid of the place.  

       I came upon a rails to trails path which took me off the main drag away from the traffic.  It meander a bit but it was very pleasant given the countryside filled with fields of sheep and occasional horses and cattle. I bleated back to the sheep and greeted everyone else with various friendly greetings. 

       The rain picked up and the riding became less enjoyable as the miles clicked by. The hostel I had been told about was ten miles further along than I thought. Wet, cold and tired, I finally found the hostel, formally a railway station.  Fifty-three miles, much of it in the rain, was a bit over the top and more rain and wind is predicted for tomorrow and the next. I am thrilled. So here I am at the Achill Sound bridge wondering what my strategy will be for tomorrow and the next.  

     The owner of a convenience store across the bridge ran the hostel with his mother. He showed me in, lit the soft coal stove and left me on my own with no other guests, at least for a short while.

Sarina arrived bicycle in tow and we have  been holding down the fort

.  She is probably middle aged, works in an electronics factory in Cork, talks a blue streak, half of which I can't understand. Nice person, motherly, generous and somewhat peculiar.  In my exhausted stupor, I just sat back and listened.  Me, not talk!?