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We start with a short diversion to check out the local tidal pool, a wonderful facility that is strangely not being used at 8:00am. Nevertheless, as we are leaving, three intrepid warriors, who look well built for the activity are heading for the water, in spite of the mobile sauna not being open. Perhaps it will be busier later.
Our route south to Blacksod is over rolling bogs and sand dunes. We stop near Binghamstown, surprised to find that it was the site of a Norwegian whaling station. It’s right next to the place where 3,300 people rowed out in small boats to board a slightly larger vessel and emigrate to America. So whaling can’t have done much for local employment prospects.
Blacksod is noted for providing the weather report that delayed the D-day landings by 24 hours. It’s only 6 miles as the crow flies from Dugort, but it took us two days pedalling to get here and Achill Island feels like a lifetime ago.
At one point Blacksod looked the perfect place for trans-Atlantic crossings, and we enjoy looking at the plans they had for expanding the port and building a grand railway station, which looks like it was modelled on the Gare d’Orsay. Sadly these plans were shelved after “an unfortunate turn of events in Europe during 1914”.
We turn at the lighthouse, stopping at the Solas centre for coffee, snacks and second breakfasts for some. Nigel assures us that Solas stands for Safety Of Lives At Sea, but it transpires that it’s also Gaelic for light. There is a museum there all about life in the area and, while we don’t have time to go in, we find out about the Inishkea Islands, just off the tip of the peninsula. At one time these islands supported over 300 people, living a perilous life based on peat farming, fishing and whaling, which they were brave, or foolhardy, enough to do in traditional Irish curraghs. They also turned their hand to piracy when things got desperate. But sadly life on the islands was completely upset in 1937, when a great storm took the lives of ten of their young men (along with another 35 poor souls from the surrounding neighbourhoods). Slowly folk started to drift away and at the last count only two people remained (I trust they are friends) although a few others stay for spells in the summer.
Shortly after coffee, the peninsula narrows to less than 400 metres and we make a short diversion to look at the Atlantic side. It’s wild. And it makes me wonder how desperate you would need to be to pack up all your possessions and risk a 19th century crossing.
In no time at all, the wind pushes us back to base, where we run into a funeral cortège led by the pub owner of McDonnell’s who had introduced himself to us the night before. Clearly there are a lot of synergies in running a pub and an undertakers combined. Even if it wasn’t one of his regulars, he’s bound to get the job of organising the wake…
The second part of our ride, out to Portacloy, takes us round the delightful headland of Glengad, from where we can see our ultimate destination just across the bay. To get there just requires us to take a huge u-bend, which ends with an exhausting eight miles into strong gusty headwinds. The beach at Portacloy is gorgeous, but conversation is minimal as we load the car and head back to base in search of nourishment.
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