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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.
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