A brief ride for a day of rest

      The Railway hostel by the Achill Bridge did the job but was not somewhere I cared to be for my day off the road.  Being in a good size house alone for the night with a very escentric, type A, strident woman was challenging if not bizarre.  Wet, cold and tired, I was sat back and listened or pretended to listen to her monologue in a thick Irish  accent. Havin a photo of her would have told the story but she wouldn't allow it, fearing "it would end up on Facebook". As for the living arrangement, thank God her room was on one side of the house, mine on the other. I had three doors firmly shut between me and her. This morning she strapped her gear, packed in shopping bags, on to her bike, a close resemblance to a bag lady on wheels. She insisted on hugging me twice before leaving.  Do you remember the twilight zone?

     With the weather looking miserable, I bicycled over the bridge to Achill Island and rode nine miles to a hostel in Keel.  I checked in at 11:30 and switch off the go button.  The break was overdue.  This hostel has a truly world class view; the largest cliffs in Europe taking the fullfury of the Atlantic pounding away at them.  After a hot shower, shave and an hour nap, I walk to town and made a beeline for the beach. Surf, wind and a sunny sky (which miraculously appeared) made one of those romantic settings you see in chick-flick movies.  Four guys were there with their hurling sticks batting the ball around. One of them gave me the lowdown on the game. It's only played in Ireland and is somewhat of a tribal sport between regions.  The Irish are more passionate about it than soccer!  No death yet but the passion is deep.  After a early dinner in town, I am back at the hostel ready for the land of nod.  Tomorrow, I need to back track over ground already covered in order to N57 north.  My thought is to bum a ride to save twenty miles.