As someone that suffers quite a bit from the dark English winter, for few years now I’ve tried to make a point of doing something interesting that makes the most of the longest day of the year. In the past this has included long motorbike rides as far as I can get, so on the spur of the moment this time I decided I’d try to see how far West I could get in a single day.

I also wanted to check out my camping gear and see if I could put up with some wild camping. As luck would have it the weather looked ace for the next few days so at the crack of dawn – 4am – I jumped on the bike and blasted South West from Hull to Fishguard for the Ireland ferry.

Once I’d managed to clear the traffic through the midlands, I had a lovely ride through Wales. But one thing was starting to make me nervous.. I had the sat nav set to to “time of arrival” to make sure I made the ferry and for some reason the buffer I had ahead of the ferry departure seemed to be reducing. No matter, the roads seemed to be getting better and better! Instead of crowded A roads, I was now on lovely windy B roads through the Welsh countryside. Red Kite’s soaring overhead, I was loving every minute. But wait a second, the 45 minute buffer before the ferry departs was now down to 20 minutes… what’s going on here..!? I started to ride a but quicker, trying to see if I could build that buffer back up, but it was still reducing. Then the sat-nav indicated a side ride that was nothing more than a track, I was in two minds whether to take it, but the sat-nav knows best right? Apparently not. After a windy little loop up a hill, the sat-nav put my right back on the road that I’d left, my buffer now down to 5 minutes!

Then it dawned on me… the sat-nav must be in “Adventurous Routing” mode. When you set the route you have the option to press this button and the sat-nav will direct you to the more scenic, better biking roads rather than the most direct route. I must have done this by mistake. I mean, the roads were lovely and it’s a great feature at times, but not when you’re flat out for a ferry! I reset the route made sure it was the most direct and hit go, straight away a 30 minute buffer returned.

The Fishguard ferry is all very easy and civilised partly because you don’t need a passport and there’s no immigration/customs check. It’s one of the (several) benefits of the Good Friday Peace settlement that travel between Britain and Ireland must be passport free. Even Brexit didn’t scupper this.

And so off the ferry on into Ireland. It doesn’t take long to realise that these are some the best condition roads I’ve ever ridden. Smooth, new, well signposted, polite drivers blimey what a treat after the snarled up motorways and A roads of England. So head down and chasing the setting sun I blasted west to the little bit of hidden forest I’d earmarked for my wild camp. I made it just before sunset and started setting up my tent quickly while there was still light. It didn’t take long to realise that I had company. Lots of company. In the shape of the tiny terrors they call midges. FFS! These are thee scourge of me, I must be so tasty to them. Thankfully I did anticipate this so had a midge face net to hand, but bloody hell, when you’re knackered from a massive ride and just want to chill, they are an absolute nightmare.

I felt pretty proud though for the distance I’d been able to cover in a single, long, glorious summer’s day.

I survived the night and the bright sunshine of the following morning was so regenerative. I’d spotted a little place by the sea nearby so headed there for a morning dip to wash off off the crusty camping sleep from my eyes. How lovely it was. This part of Ireland appears to be very up market. Lots of golf courses and fine dining gastro pubs, tourist coaches with fat-walleted Americans. Not particularly my cup of tea but it is nice and worthy of a longer explore another time. I worked my way south west to place called Cahersiveen and set up camp in one of the best campsites I’ve ever been to. Right on the banks of the sea inlet. Thankfully with enough breeze to keep the midges at bay. A lovely host and an idyllic location with all the necessary facilities, including a common room with the usual board games but guitars and other stringed instruments hanging on the walls, lovely.

I took a stroll into town and visited as many of the pubs as I could squeeze in… and there’s a lot! When I got talking to some locals they explained that in fact there used to be about twice as many in the past. One place stood out in my mind. I’d already made a promise to myself that I wouldn’t be intimidated my a locals local, walking in as an English tourist. I’d try every pub on the route even those that looked or were uninviting. In one such place I boldly walked in to find silence, 2 locals and a scouring landlord. Nevertheless I ordered my pint and sat down. After a few moments the locals started up their conversation again in Gaelic. I actually find it quite easy when you’re in another country and people speak their own language it means you don’t have to try to block out their conversation. I sat their quietly minding my own business until one of the locals turned round and spoke to me in a very thick Irish accent, I had to ask him to repeat himself and he did. He was just being polite asking where I’d come from. I replied and he carried on talking. It was that hard to decipher his accent that I took the risky path of just nodding or shaking my head at what seemed appropriate moments, hoping to hell that it wasn’t a question. I managed to scrape through the conversation with lots of smiling. He then turned back to his mate and carried on talking. It was only then that I realised he’d been talking in English all along, only in such a strong accent that I didn’t even recognise it as English! The night finished in a raucous pub with half the people at the bar joining together in several rebel songs.

The following day, once the hangover had cleared in the fresh Irish air I biked some more. Working my way back to a lovely campsite near Fishguard ready for the ferry the following morning. I think I’d read somewhere that the Irish are some the sweariest people on the planet and that fuck is just another conjuction to them. The lovely and friendly woman checking me into the campsite proved this point in the idle checking in chit chat “where have you come from?” – “awww Jesus, that’s a fucking long way isn’t it!?” I almost laughed out loud. It reminded me of the League of Gentlemen scene where Roy Chubby Brown is getting interviewed for TV as the Mayor of Roysten Vasey and is told that it will be broadcast live so not to swear… with predictable results.

Back on the ferry the following day, the little jaunt over to the Emerald Isle had been a blast and something I’d like to do more of in the future.