sijohnston
Registered user
They happen twice a year – Jged’s* permit of absence from ‘darlin’ (or at least that’s what he claims – I know it to be otherwise), and the day when the earth’s axis is most inclined toward or away from the sun. Perhaps momentously, both converged this year.
*david Gibson and I are at odds as to how to spell Glynn’s nickname. I say it begins with a ‘J’ and david with a soft ‘G’. Like grown men, but unlike Ulstermen, we’ve reached a compromise: Jged, or indeed, Gjed?
Jged and Lorna kindly invited me around for lasagne (main, courtesy of Lorna), and Werthers originals (desert, courtesy of Jged - the ‘hairless bikers’ are the culinary inverse of the more often-spotted hirsute breed). After a bottle of wine, the conversation got onto bikes:
J: we should go for a ride this weekend.
S: yes, let’s go somewhere tomorrow.
J: great, let’s go to Achill island, the missionaries haven’t reached there yet.
S: fantastic, that means there’ll still be druids, and it is summer solstice this weekend.
J: so we should camp, I can try my new tent out, and we can pile some old stones into a rough henge-like shape, dance around in white robes before the slowly setting sun whilst licking the hot edge of bronze taken from the rowan-tree faggot.
S: Brilliant, and maybe we can barbeque some meat and find some trails for our bikes?
J: Let us make way following your finishing work at 3pm tomorrow. I shall arise early, alert the rest of the Craft of our plans, and we will ride west.
And so the story begins.
After a compelling ride down through Gortin Glen…and some other roads, we arrived in Achill island. We scarred the land for any other signs of Druidic activity, but it would soon become apparent that there would be pagan gatherings of other kinds there that weekend - namely, loads of what they were calling 'hen-do's', which, from what I could see, were nowt but covens of witches. We ride into the campsite, and ride back out. We need remote landscape, solitude, grandeur and Keel would not provide that. On it was to Keem (if we keep going, will we get to Keeq, or Keez?). Jged had visited Keem as a young druid some 160 years ago (btw, he’s also a vampire and in spite of his aging and degenerating body, has been blessed (or cursed) with immortality.
We ride along the top looking down into Keem beach being visited by a turquoise blue tide and low clouds. We found enough of a grass flat to put up our tents, unpacked, and found a sheltered spot to spark up our ritual fire (mini disposable bbq) for cooking our sacrifice (well, a few lamb kebabs and sausages, but something had to be slaughtered somewhere for it!). Jged said he’d give anything for a a beer accompaniment. And as Esau lost his birthrite to Jacob, Jged lost his bike to me. Knowing Peroni was his beer of preference (recently voted as such on a trip to Sorrento last week), I suggested that if I could produce a large bottle of it, he would in turn, give me his bike A deal was struck and a covenant was declared.
I unholstered the druidic nectar, we built a henge, donned our druidic headgear (forgot our robes), the fire was lit, the chanting began, and Jged mourned the loss of his steed.
After a while we got tired of the solstice tomfullery and decided we’d be better served sampling the local nightlife. Before we did that though, Jged had been pining about the fact that he'd always wanted to do a river crossing, but had never had the kahoonas. With some gentle persuasion and encouragement, he set off, intrepid, and full of, eh, 1 peroni's worth of dutch courage. He was buoyed up by the fact that there were lifeguards 'patrolling ends' however, although this was more myth than substance owing to the fact I cudnee spot them. Anyway, give Jged a round of applause! Not much left on the bucketlist now boyo huh?
You can imagine our surprise when we discovered Elvis was alive, living and performing in Achill. I suppose it isn’t a bad place to retire to after a busy life on tour and the heady heights of Graceland. Relative anonymity on a lesser known Irish out-post which in spite of its remoteness remains sophisticated and edgy would be attractive to anyone.
We did a bit of a pub-crawl, on the hunt for Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain, and Jeff Buckley, but they were elsewhere. No matter, Arthur Guinness was there, and a pair of eejits who wanted to take on the northerners at pool. After we walloped them, they were obviously offended and so it was time for us to move to the next village.
Some of the locals thought we were interesting specimens, and insisted on having photos taken with us. As you can see, I was just glad that he was glad...weirdo!
The night drew to a close. We rode back in the rain along the coast road, got to our tents, and retreated for the evening.
The next morning Jged looked tired; and strangely, so did the curious sheep around our tents. He claims the noise of the sea kept him awake, even though he had ‘poppers’? I’m assuming he meant ear plugs. There was one sheep that was particularly interested in 'Big Mary'. I'm sure if sheep could think (I used to work on a mate's farm and know them to be at least as dense as our own government...collectively), it was saying to itself 'I could run faster than this creature', and I'm prettier. Poor Mary.
We packed up our stuff, headed to a local damn that Jged remembered from years ago. As is his custom, he engaged in a moment of wanton vandalism by etching ‘spikerjack’ onto the wall of an outhouse. Will this make it onto your photo rally Gerry?
We jumped back on the bikes, and pointed them towards Pontoon, via borreens, trails, and beautiful twisties.
We arrived at Healy’s, which Jged had reason to believe – from this site which I’m now going to sue for perjury – served good eats. Certainly the location was a winner and offered great promise if the food was to be commensurate. We ordered scampi and fries, and were presented with a variant of trough-swill. They asked us if it was ‘ok’ when they collected the plates, at which point I politely told our waitress that I think they’ve put me off food for the rest of my life. ‘Oh, ok, that’s not so good then’, she mustered, before tootling off absolutely unperturbed that she and her chef had offended my pallet..and wallet to the tune of 30 euros. Note to all, don’t be fooled by the look, but this place has the appeal of a thoroughbred eating establishment, and the quality of my primary school’s canteen; I’m sorry Grange Park Primary School, Bangor – I’m sure you’ve improved, and you only charged my mum and dad £1 per meal, so all is forgiven! I can’t help but think if we weren’t bikers and I had turned up in my suit and a polished jeep, they might have taken us a little more seriously. Anyway, a druidic jihad upon Healy’s!
It was back to the borreens to give us more happiness. After several hours of driving in conditions ranging from heavy rain to baking hot temperatures, we arrived back in Loughan Village, 500 miles later, tired but satisfied that we’d done summer solstice 2009 justice. Keep an eye out for next year, as we’ll likely extend the invite to other druids, UKgser’s, and Elvis fans who fancy sitting hand in hand, chanting ‘Island of Love’.
Peace out.
ps., i have no use for my winnings. anyone want to make me an offer for an antiquated big yellow 1150? ;-)
*david Gibson and I are at odds as to how to spell Glynn’s nickname. I say it begins with a ‘J’ and david with a soft ‘G’. Like grown men, but unlike Ulstermen, we’ve reached a compromise: Jged, or indeed, Gjed?
Jged and Lorna kindly invited me around for lasagne (main, courtesy of Lorna), and Werthers originals (desert, courtesy of Jged - the ‘hairless bikers’ are the culinary inverse of the more often-spotted hirsute breed). After a bottle of wine, the conversation got onto bikes:
J: we should go for a ride this weekend.
S: yes, let’s go somewhere tomorrow.
J: great, let’s go to Achill island, the missionaries haven’t reached there yet.
S: fantastic, that means there’ll still be druids, and it is summer solstice this weekend.
J: so we should camp, I can try my new tent out, and we can pile some old stones into a rough henge-like shape, dance around in white robes before the slowly setting sun whilst licking the hot edge of bronze taken from the rowan-tree faggot.
S: Brilliant, and maybe we can barbeque some meat and find some trails for our bikes?
J: Let us make way following your finishing work at 3pm tomorrow. I shall arise early, alert the rest of the Craft of our plans, and we will ride west.
And so the story begins.
After a compelling ride down through Gortin Glen…and some other roads, we arrived in Achill island. We scarred the land for any other signs of Druidic activity, but it would soon become apparent that there would be pagan gatherings of other kinds there that weekend - namely, loads of what they were calling 'hen-do's', which, from what I could see, were nowt but covens of witches. We ride into the campsite, and ride back out. We need remote landscape, solitude, grandeur and Keel would not provide that. On it was to Keem (if we keep going, will we get to Keeq, or Keez?). Jged had visited Keem as a young druid some 160 years ago (btw, he’s also a vampire and in spite of his aging and degenerating body, has been blessed (or cursed) with immortality.
We ride along the top looking down into Keem beach being visited by a turquoise blue tide and low clouds. We found enough of a grass flat to put up our tents, unpacked, and found a sheltered spot to spark up our ritual fire (mini disposable bbq) for cooking our sacrifice (well, a few lamb kebabs and sausages, but something had to be slaughtered somewhere for it!). Jged said he’d give anything for a a beer accompaniment. And as Esau lost his birthrite to Jacob, Jged lost his bike to me. Knowing Peroni was his beer of preference (recently voted as such on a trip to Sorrento last week), I suggested that if I could produce a large bottle of it, he would in turn, give me his bike A deal was struck and a covenant was declared.
I unholstered the druidic nectar, we built a henge, donned our druidic headgear (forgot our robes), the fire was lit, the chanting began, and Jged mourned the loss of his steed.
After a while we got tired of the solstice tomfullery and decided we’d be better served sampling the local nightlife. Before we did that though, Jged had been pining about the fact that he'd always wanted to do a river crossing, but had never had the kahoonas. With some gentle persuasion and encouragement, he set off, intrepid, and full of, eh, 1 peroni's worth of dutch courage. He was buoyed up by the fact that there were lifeguards 'patrolling ends' however, although this was more myth than substance owing to the fact I cudnee spot them. Anyway, give Jged a round of applause! Not much left on the bucketlist now boyo huh?
You can imagine our surprise when we discovered Elvis was alive, living and performing in Achill. I suppose it isn’t a bad place to retire to after a busy life on tour and the heady heights of Graceland. Relative anonymity on a lesser known Irish out-post which in spite of its remoteness remains sophisticated and edgy would be attractive to anyone.
We did a bit of a pub-crawl, on the hunt for Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain, and Jeff Buckley, but they were elsewhere. No matter, Arthur Guinness was there, and a pair of eejits who wanted to take on the northerners at pool. After we walloped them, they were obviously offended and so it was time for us to move to the next village.
Some of the locals thought we were interesting specimens, and insisted on having photos taken with us. As you can see, I was just glad that he was glad...weirdo!
The night drew to a close. We rode back in the rain along the coast road, got to our tents, and retreated for the evening.
The next morning Jged looked tired; and strangely, so did the curious sheep around our tents. He claims the noise of the sea kept him awake, even though he had ‘poppers’? I’m assuming he meant ear plugs. There was one sheep that was particularly interested in 'Big Mary'. I'm sure if sheep could think (I used to work on a mate's farm and know them to be at least as dense as our own government...collectively), it was saying to itself 'I could run faster than this creature', and I'm prettier. Poor Mary.
We packed up our stuff, headed to a local damn that Jged remembered from years ago. As is his custom, he engaged in a moment of wanton vandalism by etching ‘spikerjack’ onto the wall of an outhouse. Will this make it onto your photo rally Gerry?
We jumped back on the bikes, and pointed them towards Pontoon, via borreens, trails, and beautiful twisties.
We arrived at Healy’s, which Jged had reason to believe – from this site which I’m now going to sue for perjury – served good eats. Certainly the location was a winner and offered great promise if the food was to be commensurate. We ordered scampi and fries, and were presented with a variant of trough-swill. They asked us if it was ‘ok’ when they collected the plates, at which point I politely told our waitress that I think they’ve put me off food for the rest of my life. ‘Oh, ok, that’s not so good then’, she mustered, before tootling off absolutely unperturbed that she and her chef had offended my pallet..and wallet to the tune of 30 euros. Note to all, don’t be fooled by the look, but this place has the appeal of a thoroughbred eating establishment, and the quality of my primary school’s canteen; I’m sorry Grange Park Primary School, Bangor – I’m sure you’ve improved, and you only charged my mum and dad £1 per meal, so all is forgiven! I can’t help but think if we weren’t bikers and I had turned up in my suit and a polished jeep, they might have taken us a little more seriously. Anyway, a druidic jihad upon Healy’s!
It was back to the borreens to give us more happiness. After several hours of driving in conditions ranging from heavy rain to baking hot temperatures, we arrived back in Loughan Village, 500 miles later, tired but satisfied that we’d done summer solstice 2009 justice. Keep an eye out for next year, as we’ll likely extend the invite to other druids, UKgser’s, and Elvis fans who fancy sitting hand in hand, chanting ‘Island of Love’.
Peace out.
ps., i have no use for my winnings. anyone want to make me an offer for an antiquated big yellow 1150? ;-)
