IRELAND. . . .Ferry .. After a hot shower, I bypass the roulette wheel, lounges, packed dance floor, looking for the engine room or the bridge, but they're off-limits. British cyclists hunch over Irish Tourist Board maps, planning rides to hostels. One neophyte encourages me, "The farst seven days oi was roidin' with ex-croociatin' pine in me 'arms an' back. But Oi'm fit now." The ferry docks, I ride off to an International Youth Hostel. A penciled notice on the office door reads: "Homemade Irish Stew with soda bread 1 Ask the warden." I'll sleep here.
Previous Home Next