Vicky from work texted kindly offering to extend my unpaid leave. It was time to go back. To face the music and put this House in order. Irish Ferries sensible option sails to Holyhead at 08:00, there is a ‘swift’ service at 13:50 and a cheaper, mainly lorries, option at 14:30 that lands at 18:00. I chose the latter, later, intending to camp on Anglesey ahead of a morning run down through Wales.

Insanely early at the ferry terminal I chatted with Stephen and John, brothers on nearly identical BMW GS motorcycles, John had a piercing, a 2 inch self tapping screw lodged luckily and unluckily right through the tread of his rear type. Dripping with technology, the bike’s tire pressure sensors where sounding no alarm. Sensibly they were taking it a little easy and the earlier ‘Dublin Swift’ ferry. A ‘breakdown’ of Triumph Stag sports cars arrived in convoy and we mused, amused, at how retired all the travellers we’d met were. Perhaps a quirk of term times or the distribution of disposable income in our times.

Ferried across the Irish Sea uneventfully the bike and I were the first off the boat. No customary delay, no queue of motor homes clogging the A5 artery south, the sun was shining, I made hay.

Motorcycling in the rain brings a watershed moment, a tipping point, beyond which stopping to don wet weather gear will do no good. You’ve gone too far, hope evaporated, jeans saturated, you carry on. So it was on the glorious dry empty roads, the campsites that we passed, incrementally luring me less, we were going home.

A day waiting for and riding the ferry spared me the energy for this long haul and I got in just after midnight. Louise was pleased to see me and rubbed herself enthusiastically into my face, pretty friendly, for a cat.

Bird delayed my departure, curious and friendly he was all over me and into everything especially the worm like yellow strings on my tent. I was sorry to leave him, a rare encounter with a plucky feathered orphan. He was fed on mushed up puppy food, I fared a little better at Maloney’s Diner.

Eventually leaving, the previous day posted to the internet, I encountered Noel, a fellow biker and better writer than I, who contributes to madornomad.com and generously gave me pointers for my goal of seeing the Mountains of Mourne. I still got lost but that is part of the fun.

Thirsting for refreshment I headed south across the border, stopped near Blackrock and booked the ‘D Hotel’ in Drogheda where they kindly let me park my bike on-site beside the conference room. Showered and still not refreshed I sought relief in The Mariner, the Noel Nugent, the Hole in the wall and, finally Ollie’s. Somewhere along the way I found it and unsurprisingly slept well that night.

A pilgrimage is blessed with suffering, self flagellation savoured in the service of devotion. Mine started with the saga of the missing post, my departure delayed I pressed on. Increased velocity improved my face’s effectiveness as a fly swatter and standing up on the pegs from time to time, off road style, relieved my hip pain. The bike is hip apparently, drawing attention in motion and stationary. More attention than I gave to the border not noticing immediately that the road signs had all changed and 40 meant mph now not kph.

Joey Dunlop was a hero and is now legend. I saw him race once at the Isle of Man TT, where he made the 38 miles circuit his own with 26 victories. I headed to Ballymoney to pay my respects and marvel at the memorabilia in his families pub by the station. Down to earth, like the man.

I headed south to a campsite near a pub, go figure, through roads and streets that now looked so familiar, strange that the same land can have these two characters. Characters there were at the campsite, Ann gave me the gate code over the phone, Trevor, Jim and Susan were enjoying supper around the back. I graciously, hopefully, declined an offer to join them as a cold Guinness was on the cards. Lurking in the barn was a 1950’s Alvis Stalwart, a menacing and magnificent relic of the Cold War still seeing occasional service in the nearby lough.

The Bridge Inn backed onto the lough. It appeared to be the headquarters for the mystery motorists who doodle on the roads with tyre rubber, doughnuts and burnouts their release. A fun crowd, they’d drunk all the Guinness so I moved on, to Tennent’s and Jameson’s. Some confusion on leaving when I thought that I was ordering a large bottle of Budvar and left with Bukfast Tonic wine. They laughed back at the campsite. We drank and talked and I met ‘bird’ a five week old crow rescued after falling from its nest. It sat on my hand and blessed my trousers, I headed to my nest.

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.

I have no idea how I managed to remove this post, a pox on this software. Here is my attempt to resuscitate it.

I have a theory that the Wild Atlantic Way route is a cynical attempt to keep the tourists off the good roads and too some extent that was proven correct by the road from Galway to Clifden. Don’t tell anyone else.

In Clifden I was making a pigs ear of negotiating a roundabout when embarrassing spotted by Michael and Bernarda whom I’d met on the ferry. Made more embarrassing by my previously getting Bernarda’s name wrong, they were gracious in their correction and pointed me in the direction of the Sky road. I wound my way around the coast and coasted into Dooneen for a coffee at an attractive stop, the bike stopped.

Starting was an issue, the button, whose one job is to power the starter motor, transitioned from utility to ornament. I took off my helmet, gloves, rucksack, jacket, side covers, headlight and sense of invulnerability. Eventually diagnosed, although with no authority, as being a bad connection below the relay, my GoPro captured the moment of revelation and re-energised revolution.

Attempting to make up for lost time I pressed on and stopped less, stopping eventually too late to find a campsite, they are sparse, I booked into the Loft Ballina where I ate and stabbed at the crossword and drank. Venturing across the road to Rouses where the welcoming host Pat wisely garnished my 12 year old Redbreast with a small ice cube. Proper pub, I chased 2 pints of Guinness appropriately

It has been brought to my attention (thanks Etch) that things have been going far too smoothly for one of my adventures. I’m riding a 45 year old motorcycle that I mostly assembled myself, I’m camping for the first time in decades, I’m a drinker in Ireland, I have no plan and nothing pre-booked, I’ve never been here before and, once again, I’m on my own.

Yet here I am, still going, no idea where but with the general idea of seeing new things, meeting new people, riding new roads for the joy of it, not just laying down my snail trail on the map and counting counties. There are 32 North and south, I checked.

I’m falling into a routine that saves me stress, humdrum habits holding me back from the precipice. Balanced between boredom and chaos I’ll teeter from time to time. This day I decided to mix it up a bit and treat myself to a hotel, specifically the Galway Bay Hotel. I had to get there first.

The wind blew cold on the ferry across the Shannon, a coach driver told me a dodgy joke and that the weather was due to break on Saturday. It stayed intact mostly for the morning and pulled itself together in the afternoon.

Click bait warning, something did go wrong, I ordered a ‘Cloud cone’ from an ice cream parlour in Lahinch, not knowing what it was and alarmed that the assistant then donned latex gloves. I’d made a mistake, hurrah!

The hotel had a room free on the second floor, I was not expecting to be overlooked, stripped shaved and showered, I may have provided entertainment.

Smoking and tapping away at this nonsense I met Barbara from Maryland, we drank together then hit the restaurant for supper then on to O’Connor’s Famous Pub for Redbreast and Guinness. As evening cusped into morning we met Stephen and Steven and bantered our way home.

I do not have the words to describe how fair this land is as it meets the sea. I’ll attempt to compensate with images and imagine that you might, have you not already, come see for yourselves.

I rose after the Sun, delayed by nightmarish dreams of a previous partner tendering gifts of love and damnation in seemingly equivalent and almost simultaneous offerings. Time away, like this, creates head space, not the crass newspeak, “can I get more blood before you bleed out?”, but the honest combined meaning of the words. Into that space the subconscious creeps whispering truths in dreams.

On a lighter note, I wonder whether you think that I save you from the mundane details like showering in the interests of brevity? This morning I took a shower, armed with two tokens, take one token into the shower? I just washed and went, after packing up.

I aimed high setting my destination beyond my expectations and then followed my nose, stopping whenever I felt. Lunch at Inch beach was a treat, potato soup and a sandwich gazing out over the sands.

Not having any power at the campsite last night focussed my attention on recharging my physical batteries. The Guzzi has notoriously low alternator output and although I have a device that tells me the battery voltage and has USB sockets. I’ve been loathe to use it. Needs must so I plugged in a power pack and watched the volts with interest. No need to have worried apparently as I charged the pack, my phone and revived my GoPro on the go. One less thing to fret about. How tenuous our dependence, how fragile our lifelines.

Tralee has more bars than you could, should you so choose, throw a stick at. There’s also a campsite within easy walking distance. Guess where I pitched up? The Brogue fed me and the Munster Arms (after the regiment not the TV show) served me well. I returned to base for a quick chat with German bikers Michael and Sabine and now it’s bedtime.

Martin recommended a route over the mountains, Martin has a kick ass adventure bike. I digress, that was around the campfire the night before. I woke early, daylight attracts me like a moth to the flame. Kevin was up too, he’d had a night disrupted by leg pains brought on by recent back surgery. He was more concerned that he’d disturbed Maree, I made coffee for us both on my trangia stove (cheating by boiling the water in an electric kettle) and we chewed the fat. I packed up and said or commissioned my farewells and hit the road again.

Martin’s route did not disappoint it surprised and petrified me, the lane prescribed from Kealkill was single track mindless to the niceties of having tarmac in the middle, it settled for grass or gravel and rose abruptly towards the pass. I sweated and cursed the popularity of ‘go anywhere’ adventure bikes that rarely go anywhere save in the hands of my recent campmates. It appeared that the first mile was the most daunting, perhaps to dissuade the faint of heart, after that it settled to a lower level of alert, perhaps defcon 3. I marvelled at the beauty, the bike plodded on, arrested in the case of occasional oncoming vehicals by its linked braking system that applies the back brake with a degree of front when the pedal is pressed. Off road riders have a saying “front brake, fall off” because too much front brake without grip can result long periods in traction, healing the bones (Ed: surely they got that one?).

I crested the pass, impressing none bar (Ed: surely ‘baa’) the attendant flocks of sheep. My descent was smooth as I built momentum and confidence in my 45 year old companions’s ability. We’re not going to win any prizes, they seem for, and important too, someone else. In Sneem I was approached once more by a previous Guzzi owner keen to share their appreciation of the marque with a mark so obviously committed. Sneem has the most picturesque rocks in the river that are nearly impossible to photograph without the inclusion of modern blight, between the new builds and the caravan park I gave it a go.

Tiring fast, having not eaten, I headed on down glorious winding roads with breath taking vistas, absorbed I overshot and had to retrace my steps to find, at second time of asking, a campsite that met my needs. Well most of them, the pitch is spectacular but so well organised that we sit in our own islands of privacy, although I did chat to Steve who had a T3 and sent a selfie of himself with mine to his brother Dave.

The site shop closed at 7 and only sold wine, I bought a panic bottle and after a well aerated beaker felt no inclination to walk to the nearest tourist bar 1km away. I sat in my ‘desert island luxury’ ground chair and typed this message to you eating Babybel cheese and Belvita biscuits (it’s not a good shop). It’s getting cold again now, and so to bed.