On the road, as in life, there is pressure to keep moving, to crest the next peak, perfect the next apex, endure the next endurance. I felt no such pressure here, perhaps because my fellow guests were not moving on. Nothing to prove, no one to impress, only you good people to entertain I pleased myself by deciding to remain here, north of Kinsale, another day. Not fussy, not twee just solid functional accommodation stripped to the bare bones but rich in facilities, easy on the mind’s eye. I caught up on my days and tried to recreate the starter issue to no avail.

I popped out for petrol and a little explore, the roads were jammed with Bank Holiday traffic, a good day for just pottering . Old Head caught my eye for some reason and surprised me by having a memorial to the Lusitania torpedoed off the point in 1015. My Grandfather, a ships cook (chef sounds too grand these days) had, I believe, sailed on her, but not on that voyage. It felt like a happy and sad coincidence had brought me there.

Back at the site Krystal, from California had arrived on a leg of her impressive, endless adventure which started in Bulgaria. I felt a bit of a novice in the company of so many independent travellers, I didn’t mention Margate. Thomas was laid low with a headache, his Ural sidecar still awaiting parts but still spectacular in pieces.

Kevin was refurbishing a gas BBQ and fabricating a fat tray for it from a piece of scrap aluminium checker plate. Kelly, of little faith the Kevin would finish in time for a meal that evening, tempted me down to the Huntsman pub for some food and, almost as expected, some live music from Tony Davis Singer/Guitarist (I have his card). We took the bike so just the one slow pint, my first in a pub in Ireland, not the last.

No pint picture here, I feel bad that on my return to the site Kevin had finished the job and was, I suspect a little disappointed that we had bailed on the meal. Here instead is Kevin hard at work. The day wound up nicely with beers around the campfire chatting to Sonia and Yuan (I hope I have that right) very Social Workers from Switzerland who were camping that night. Here are Kelly and I by the fire, I’m the fat one, happy days.

I decamped early eager to escape the blissful family holiday memories being laid down all around me and my own missing recollections. My departure would have been more impressive had I secured the top of the top box before bouncing across the top field, no harm done and nothing discarded, as far as I could tell.

Westward bound I followed my nose to Arthurstown where it turned out there was a ferry. Kelly, a cabinetmaker from Newfoundland, was waiting there with his BMW so I made his acquaintance. I found out that owning an Irish registered bike was a thing for many international bikers wanting to ride Europe on their holidays. He was on his way back from Spain and recommended the camping at his motorcycle storage place, Motofeirme.

We crossed together then parted, riding alone is a pleasure not to be denied a fellow. Sole attention on the solo experience, careless and care free not irresponsible but not responsible. I pottered on down to Dunmore East where the holiday weekend was in full swing, I didn’t stop for long. Meandering done I headed towards Cork, stopping for breakfast at an old workhouse then later at a ‘Diner’ where I discovered the source of my oily boot. Once again the nut holding the spanner had underperformed, distracted by the issue with my choke lever, I’d omitted to tighten the rocker cover down, doh!

Cork was chaotic, a marathon had just completed and the Garda directed me through miles of traffic cones until I tired and stopped to look up the location of Motofierme. The internet told me that the camping was restricted so I phoned ahead and spoke with Martin who’d met Kelly earlier on the road and gave me permission to land. I hovered around getting lost, stopping at one point to check my phone and then the bike would not start. My heart sank but adrenaline cut through the despair and I ran through all the reasons why clicking the starter button gave no click from the starter solenoid. Kill switch in, nope, loose connection, nope, ignition off, nope, irrationally I turned the lights off and, yup, she started!

There was a warm welcome at the campsite, Kelly was here and Thomas from Germany, then Kevin and Maree from Western Australia. Adventurers all with more stories to tell and miles under their belts than I could do justice to here. Disturbingly both Thomas and Kelly had experienced head on collisions in the surrounding roads. Kelly’s a while ago but persisting in memory and a sizeable skin graft where an exhaust pipe burned its own reminder. Thomas, on an Ural sidecar unit, just the last week and now awaiting parts to be sent across Europe, more on his site here https://sidecaronworldtrip.eu/

Kevin, a man who knows what it means to work hard on machines, and Maree, a nurse for the elderly on a 3 month sabbatical, were held up here awaiting the untangling of their motorcycle insurance necessary for re-registering their bike. From the ‘see a job and do it’ generation that I admire they had turned their hands to upgrading the site, helping Martin our host. Kelly and I rode down to the supermarket for food and beer and we all drank and talked and listened around the fire pit until we were done.

Breakfast at the Mariners was included and welcome. Afterwards I sat outside and digested the Stenna Line’s timetable then booked us onto the 13:00 sailing for the princely sum of £69. I’d noticed the night before that my left boot was oily, doom laden deja vu disregarded I departed, perhaps a little more gingerly with mechanical empathy, perhaps a little hung over.

Pembrokeshire is glorious and I hope to return another day. Today was all about ticking the big box of this adventure and actually getting to Ireland. I was insanely early for the ferry and ventured back up over the headland to find a pretty cove and latte in Fishguard Lower Town.

In the ferry queue I met Michael and Roberta (apologies if I have that wrong) from Düsseldorf and tapped away at this nonsense. The sea was millpond smooth and a pleasant crossing was had by all, save perhaps the Manchester United fans who got to watch the first half before we landed. Straight off the boat and finally into Ireland in the middle of a bank holiday weekend, I pootled around, searched for “pub and campsite” there were none so I settling for one on the coast.

Camping is not my special skill. Despite having had a ‘dry run’ in the garden back home with my mate Steve, a childish delight, the camping not Steve, I managed to pitch between cow pats and rocks in the top field. My host had told me they had a band and ‘chipper’ meaning, apparently, a couple of blokes with a keyboard and a burger van. Scenic but too noisy with family friendliness I wandered along the shore to enjoy my burger with a couple of quiet cans.

Not so quiet later when Bohdan (Богдан) and his equally friendly group of Polish pals kicked off a campfire party next door. Not that it bothered me, tired from the travelling and refreshed by the tin of Zubr proffered as appeasement I slept well.

Simon was up early, opening up the community centre for a market, returning later to take his BMW motorcycle for a MOT. This allowed me a little time to waffle on for your entertainment, hopefully. I’m trying not to get behind but forgive me dear readers if life gets in the way

Bruton, in Somerset was almost on my way, perhaps a bit too close for my meandering ways. Continuing the tenuous theme of revisiting my past I decided to go see the institution where I’d spent some formative years, learning the things that they couldn’t teach me. School was out thankfully, seeing my latter day equivalents might have triggered stronger feelings, as it was the stench of my teenage loneliness and despair still lingered in the air. It might have been the maggot farm on Creech Hill.

On to Chippenham to visit another friend from that different country, temporally remote and strange in its customs. He’d laid on a spread and was understandably miffed that my indirect progress made me later than expected. A relaxed and rare opportunity to eat well and catch up, another reminder that there is life outside London and it dances to a different tune.

My hip was giving me grief, a dull ache building to stabbing, screaming pain after 30 mins or so in the saddle. Nothing to be done for it, I stopped frequently on the long and congested haul down the M4 meeting the same group of friends on bikes (Andrew, Stuart and Michael from Minehead I think). I had considered heading up to Brecon for some more scenic action and perhaps to camp but in the end I gritted my teeth and did the miles to Haverfordwest where the Hotel Mariners provided a bed, bath and base for bar crawling.

Crawl I did, experiencing karaoke at the Farmers Arms, banter with the bouncer JD at the Three Crowns (where Guinness was cheeper than 3 crowns) and on to the Greyhound where I befriended Karim. Apologies if I’ve got his name wrong it was late. He bought me a pint and shared his rum and coke ( literally a bottle of rum and a can of coke) and stories, on the bench outside and then later back at his place around the corner. So late was I back to the hotel that I had to ring the bell, I slept well.

I’d underestimated the decompression required to ascend from the depths of my vocation to the surface. Home was where I found myself thinking of other homes, some comfortable, some austere, all fleeting

A backlog of house and book keeping to clear, the delays awaiting top box catches were helpful to me but eating into the 3 weeks that I’d set aside. Cometh the package, cometh the departure, ParcelFarce tired of disappointing and delivered. I fitted the catches and headed for a very very late breakfast at the Ace.

Never one for the direct route I headed down to my childhood home in New Alresford, where the house that I once lived in is now a twee estate and the malt house converted into flats. I stopped in the broad street where the fair used to be every year and marvelled at how little had changed. Time is an arrow and returning to the place is a poor substitute for the impossible journey that we sometimes long for.

Onwards, ever onwards, on the A31 I ploughed on to Wimborne where I was long overdue to visit my university friend Simon. Pictured here out on a spree in a land far far away/ago.

Simon has a fantastic bungalow filled with automative and acoustic accumulations. He made me very welcome, fed and watered (beered) I began to shake off the seemingly ever present, so unnoticed, background stress of living and working in London.

Deliciously irrational as a first leg of a journey to Ireland, I decided that my first destination should be Margate. The Bank Holiday Monday is a traditional ‘run’ from the Ace Cafe to the seaside town that they forgot to bomb (Ed: It’s actually quite charming).

The idea was to load up the bike ready for the journey, get to Margate and make a call on whether to stop over then continue on down the south coast, stop over and return to London or just return to London. Not yet sure of the bike or my readiness for a bigger trip I elected to return.

The bike appeared to be running well, my navigation less so. My Beeline device (shameless plug) has a compass mode where the handlebar display just shows the direction and distance to the destination leaving the decisions to the rider. I like this level of autonomy because it leaves room for error and discovery. I discovered that I’m not good at reading road signs. I also discovered that the toolbox, cunningly located by me inside the pannier rack, was within range of the swinging rear drive. They met and disagreed, PVC yielded to cast aluminium and transitioned from utility to useless but remained loosely attached.

The next day (0.1) I removed the box and checked the bike over. The spark plugs were very sooty, sweeping indication that she was running rich. I’d noticed that the carburettors would spill fuel if I left her overnight with the taps open so I pulled them and replaced the floats and associated valves with more modern ones (Viton rubber tipped for ethanol sensitivity). For good measure I lowered the needles that meter the midrange mixture and screwed the idle screws in a little, rich is better than lean but you can be too rich.

Despite my friend Bill’s advice (if it is running leave it along) I checked the tappets and found them worn flat by the 50,000 miles and poor oil she’d endured in the past. 0.22 mm inlet and exhaust at Top Dead Centre (TDC – when the piston has risen as far as it can) is the spec but the uneven wear makes accuracy tricky, I did my best. Aforementioned oil was precariously scarce, black and tired but free from any metal, I drained and replaced.

The final dry run revelation was that tightening a tank bag down had brought the petrol tank into contact with my newly fitted choke remote. Thankfully the conflict had not escalated to the point of penetration and I refined the fit with the aid of a bench grinder and more spatial awareness than previously employed. Now at last I was ready, well nearly. I’d picked up a Rimowa top box for my camping gear, rarely are they available so broken catches and a single worn out key didn’t put me off. I jury rigged the catch with a clip from a picture frame and ordered replacements from Germany. The first delivery contained, randomly, only two spark plugs. ParcelFarce had the package with replacements sitting in the North London depot their online portal frustrating informed me. I waited.