The Mourne Wall Challenge: Bested by a Wall

I was excited at undertaking and defeating the Mourne Wall Challenge; unfortunately, the weather had other ideas. It was my second day in Northern Ireland and the sun had barely dawned when I beaved my way out of tent. Heavy rain, high winds, limited visibility set me up for a real test of character. I loaded myself up with all my wet weather gear and set off. My camera suffered water damage after 5 minutes and I met three other intrepid adventures all who had turned back on the national park and strongly advised I do the same (the phrase idiot came up a lot). 

My first view of the wall. Admittedly, the weather also gave me lots of warnings not to partake this particular adventure which I dutifully ignored!

I alternated sides of the wall to best protect myself from wind as well as walking on the wall of the ground became to marshy. I soon learnt that slippery/greasy grass had a hidden bonus, and it was much easier to slide down the slopes on my bum then actually run the downhills. Admittedly, I probably slid through a load of sheep poo, but the rain washed that right off. My brief meal breaks were spent hunkering down in the wall corners for the best protection from the elements. All in all, the challenge, despite the exteme conditions, seemed achievable. I got to the top if Slieve Donard, traipsed through Silent Valley, and clambered through forest. 

Silent Valley was surprisingly quiet.

Then I hit the river. I do not know what it is called, and I cannot remember exactly where it was, but it seemed as though all the rain was collecting in one place and been forced down the one waterway. Ohhh, I tried crossing. I tried crossing four times; yet four times I was nearly washed away like president-masked bank robber on a surfboard. It was here that I had to concede defeat, and with a heavy, waterlogged heart I trudged to the nearest service station and called for a taxi. He also thought I was an idiot.

The reservoir at Silent Valley. From my expereince this area was in no need of conserving water.

I do not have many photos. The rain destroyed my camera as shown by the fuzzy photo from the start of the trek. It randomly started working again in Silent Valley (which was remarkably silent and free of bad weather!) but ceased functioning once I had returned to camp. And, to add a little bit of stinging salt to my open wound, I lost my pocket watch while trying to cross the river. Ultimartely is was this that sent me home. Without a watch to keep track of the time, I did not feel confident completeing the run/trek.There was a vast chunk of trek which was a bit too far from civilisation that I did not want to get stuck in come sun down, and my watch was the only methof I had of keeping time and ensuring I was not out after dark.

The night day before my challenge looking up at the mountains; eerily calm and dry. Oh, how that was to change.

Summer Holiday: Northern Ireland

So, in the summer of 2015 I went on my first European motorcyle tour. My recently purchased Bandit was loaded up and one Friday evening in July I slogged through a deluge that is the archetype of British weather and the jammed motorways which is quintessential to any British holiday to catch a ferry from Liverpool to Belfast (kinda hoping that the ferry wasn't made in Belfast if you know what i mean), and thus my adventure began...

Another adventurer I met in my hostel in Derry.

Now, if there is anything I leant from this little jaunt across the Irish sea is that law-maker Murphy was, indeed, right on the nose with his adage about fortunes and timings and that the stereotypical British climate is not really sympathetic to the poor motorcyclist. Especially when a tiny tent is one's evenings abode.

Baiky in Belfast at the Titanic Museum.

You see, even though I carefully planned my trip for the height of summer I seemed to have hit upon a, well, let's call it a wetspell. I had even carefully checked historical weather reports for added security but not even this could save me from Murphy's pervasive law.

A fine sunnt day! This was the first day and the last I saw of the sun.

The first day dawned delightfully. I puttered off the ferry into Belfast and cruised along the coast of of Ards peninsula through Comber and their titanic memorials, past Donaghadee and a left-of-centre kids festival, and across to the monastic ruins of Mahee Island.

Snake charming in Donaghadee.

The Portaferry ferry ferried me across Strangford Lough and I followed the Antrim Coast road towards Newcastle and the Morne Mountains for my first night camping. Yes, it was truly delighful. I set up my tent and prepared for my next day, the Mourne Wall Challenge; 12 hours to follow the 22 mile loop of the Mourne Wall. It was cold, it was wet, it was incredibly fun, but ultimately I was defeated by the weather gods - perhaps this is a short story for another time...

Just a tittle in of rain in Ireland!

I briefly pottered into Republic of Ireland to visit the Hill of Tara (and by pottered I mean raced 100 kms through driving rain), the seat of the High King of Ireland. It was a landmark missed on my previous vist to Ireland, Following this I spent a couple days riding up to Derry by circling Lower Lough Erne and visiting for St Patricks Cathedral in Amargh and St Patricks Cathedral in Amargh. Nope that's not a typo and yes there are two, about a half mile from each other. I am sure purists would tell you things like one is catholic and one is anglican, but all I can say is that as an outsider this is hilarious.

St Patricks Cathedral.

The hilarity, of course, tapers pretty quickly once I got to Derry and Belfast and began to understand the significance of religious conflict in the area (which I know was not between Anglicans and Catholics but is representative of the segregration caused through religious beliefs can fortify political conflict). 

As typified by the Bloody Sunday memorial in Derry.

I also took the challenge of sussing out St Paticks Chair and St Patricks Well, conveneintly located next to each other in Altadeven Wood, but still not particularly easy to find.

Baiky sitting in St Patrick's Chair, not too sure of the detour and hunt through the forest was worth it...

I arrived in Derry and the weather had started to improve. Derry; it was, by far, my favourite part of the trip (although the Chair and Well were pretty hard to beat), but it was here that I finally began to understand the Troubles in Northern Ireland.

The Peace Bridge in Derry; some rude tourist told the locals just to huild a bridge to get over it...so they did!

I then spent a couple of days following the Causeway Coast stopping off at places like the Giant's Causeway, Musseden Temple, and the Old Bushmill's Brewery (I broke my free sample taster in my bag; tears were shed but my clothes now had a hint of honey whiskey). 

The Musseden Temple as seen from the coast.

It was a spectacular ride, but I admittedly found the Giant's Causeway disappointing. I then wandered off the beaten path to visit the Dunlop memorial and the Dark Hedges in Ballymoney, ran around the Glens of Atrim, and strolled through Cushendun Caves. 

The Joey Dunlop Memorial in Balleymoney.

All in time to arrive in Belfast just as the heavens once again opened up, just to remind that I was in Ireland, and if I was not wet, then clearly I was not having fun.

The Musseden temple from cliff. 

I think after Derry, the impact of the conflict in Belfast did not have the same impact factor. I spent half a day in a black cab tour, which was excellent, and we spent quite a bit of time visiting significant murals and the Peace Wall as well as looking at other ways in which the population have chosen to remember the conflict. 

The Peace Wall in Belfast.

I also managed to find the time to drop by the Titanic musem, Donegall Quay, City Hall, and go on an organised bar crawl, which, in tru Gatt fashion turned out to be much much more, as all the other participants were having a going away party for a mate of theirs who was moving toooooooo......Australia. I didn't want to, but felt obliged to honor the Irish tradition of getting outrageously drunk.

Baiky sneking my whiskey at Bushmill's.