Ireland Day 10 – Slava Ukraini

The coach driver was right, Saturday brought rain. The roads shone as I attended to my first cigarette of the day, not rain at that point, more dew with attitude. Like the first black at the end of a lucky streak of reds, not welcome but not unexpected.

I set my sights for the sightseeing of Donegal intending to take in the cliffs of the Slieve League. Making progress with little regard to my vague Veglia speedometer which waves enthusiastically at anything close to the speedo limit. There are many speed camera signs and, it appears, no cameras save those mounted in vans for which the signs are supplemented by oncoming motorists flashing their headlights in helpful notification.

I met Bob at what passes for services in Laghy, a gas station with a coffee machine, chairs and tables. A born again, after retirement and divorce, biker Bob was, like me, over from England seeing the country on his Suzuki Intruder. An ugly name for an ugly bike, sorry Bob, but serving him well. On through Sligo and Donegal to Killybegs, my satnav target for the day and in good time to go ‘off piste’ and follow my nose. The trawlers draw my awe, impressive in their robust scale yet dwarfed by the ocean in their element.

Bob had seen the cliffs and was unimpressed, Bob rode an Intruder so aesthetics were not his forte. I sought them out and missed, finding instead a rainy Malin Beg and a car park of tourists taking in the view condensed in the frame of their windscreens. It was time to seek out a campsite, Dungloe promised ‘camping’ close to town, I read cheap accommodation and pubs.

I rocked up to Dungloe to find that ‘camping’ is yet another misappropriated word, met with a ‘No Tents’ sign I sheltered by the wall of the Indian takeaway and competed with the rain to control my smart phone. One ‘no room at the inn’ call then I got through to Jack who directed me to the River House Hostel by standing in the road an waving. That was handy. Jack has about 125 Ukrainian guests staying. “Would they do it for us? Yes they would.” He told me and my heart broke a little, we all feel the plight of others but few actually step up to do something about it. We know that bad things are happening but not in our back yards, globalising profit but not humanity. I headed to the pub.

Patrick Johnnie Sallys had a view to die for. In London I bemoan the brick walls that block every outlook, always overlooked and never an overlook to enjoy with a pint and a smoke. Here I met Gerry a barman who’d had a motorcycle accident at Henley’s Corner around the corner from me at home, Chaz and Shaun kept me company and gave me filters for my roll-ups and directed me to the Bridge Inn for the second half of my second Manchester City final of the trip.