The joys of riding a motorbike in the sun
HAVE you ever driven a motorbike? Last Friday week, more or less on a whim, I jumped up on my motorbike in Dublin at 17.15, destination Castlegregory in West Kerry. It was sort of crazy as I had to return the following day. It meant covering approximately 700 kilometres in 24 hours.Leaving Dublin at peak rush hour was unwise. Traffic was bumper-to-bumper, which was made worse with road widening works between Naas and Newbridge.
No doubt you have seen motorbikes zoom in and out between cars in long traffic jams. They make it look easy and are the envy of those sitting in stationary cars. I tried doing that on Friday but failed miserably. I attempted zigzagging but quickly grew scared and decided to drive sedately right on the edge of the hard shoulder. I’d say I looked sort of pathetic. I’m no Evel Knievel.
South of Newbridge it all changed and I was as free as a bird. But a motorway is always a motorway, it’s boring. There is the mouth-watering countryside to be seen and on a motorbike the vantage point is much better than in a car but a motorway always remains a motorway.
No, not to save the toll fee, rather for the peace and quiet of slower roads, I left the motorway before Portlaoise. It was surprisingly quiet with little or no traffic. It made for perfect motorbiking. I could sit up on the bike and scan the fabulous Irish scenery, though it was striking how burned the countryside looked. That lush greenness was not in evidence.
I had been dreading how hot and uncomfortable it would be wearing all that motorbike gear. But I was surprised, once out on the open road with my jacket partly open, how fresh and cool it was. I am reminded of this anonymous quote: ‘Only a biker knows why a dog sticks his head out of a car window.’
South of Limerick panic sets in. Petrol gauge is off the red. That sensation of running out of petrol on a motorbike in late evening is not pleasant. You look at the gauge and shout out an expletive. With your head encased in a helmet all your words remain silent. I was in a bit of a fix. A car pulls up outside a shop. I drive up to the parked car, raise the visor of my helmet and ask the driver how far away is the next petrol station. For a millisecond or so he looks at me, then smiles and says ‘ two or three miles, in Clarina’. Sounding apprehensive I ask him is it two or three. He gets the message and realises that I’m nervous. At that he says: ‘ You drive off and I’ll follow you.’ I was flabbergasted. I got to the filling station, the man turned around and drove back to where I met him. What a lovely act of kindness.
The views along the Shannon were spectacular. I could see over to Clare, the stacks at Moneypoint power station. There is an elegance about wind turbines that adds to the makeup of the Irish landscape. All the different smells, something you miss in a car. And then the setting sun. It was sensational. And certainly an experience of living in the now. It was my first time to see a cruise ship at Foynes.
With a few stops en route I arrived in Castlegregory close to 10.15 p.m. as high as a kite. Great fun and highly recommended.
IT’S a jungle in there. Jungle rules apply. We will come out on top… A pitiless sun. A tangle of unkempt plants all reaching for the sky in desperate competition with each other. A security fence confining the chaos. We who live in Medders Manor call this overgrown patch of anarchy The Gooseberry Plot, though the gooseberry bush has long since been squeezed out by leaner, meaner rivals.
We reckoned when we planted it that a bush endowed with such nasty thorns would be well able to defend itself but our gooseberry found itself choked and over-shadowed. Instead rampant raspberry canes have colonised much of the available area, while the rugged redcurrants fill in a sizeable corner and a batch of lolloping loganberries has taken advantage of wires strung up by Hermione several years ago.
In many ways the loganberry is the beastliest of the big beasts in this jungle, sending out prickly shoots so long extended that it is nigh impossible to trace back to where they are anchored to the ground. Though it has bulked out nicely, the loganberry struggles to make any significant impression away from the wiring, in much the same way as a locomotive is useless without train tracks.
Its cousin the raspberry is an altogether more nimble contender, as prolific as a weed, sprouting and fruiting in great numbers wherever it can. Knock down one raspberry cane and there are still scores of survivors to carry on the fight. Quite how the redcurrants manage to find a niche on the front line in the midst of this savage botanic warfare is something of a mystery but they too appear to be thriving.
The three species are so densely established that they have seen off almost all other competitors such as docks and grass and dandelions. Only a few nettles remain lurking in the undergrowth, as Hermione used to complain whenever she ventured into The Gooseberry Patch to pick fruit wearing her shorts. Now she prefers to spare the skin on her legs by commanding her husband to bring in the harvest.
Like gladiators fighting it out to the death on the bloody sands of the Coliseum, the raspberries, redcurrants and loganberries are confined to a set space. The fruit cage is an arrangement of timber posts across which is stretched netting, in order to preserve the berries and currants for the intended consumers.
Unfortunately, blackbirds have a craving for redcurrants and are also partial to raspberries, so they are keen to find a way past the defences and gorge themselves silly. Thus the scene is set for conflict between gardener and bird.
How exactly the feathered foe manages to squirm through the fence has never been apparent but squirm their way through they do. Dispatched to collect the makings of a fruit smoothie the other day, I found no less than five of the voracious beggars tucking in amongst the canes.
They all but laughed with contempt when challenged by a mere human as they thrashed around to find a way out. The intruders dodged my flailing arms and shot out through the cage door to safety.
Reinforcements were required. Send for The Pooch. Trespassers beware.
Our dog had been taking it easy in the summer heat. Our dog is a jack russell, with no trace of hunter in his makeup. Our dog has never been known to show any interest in catching rats or other vermin. It turns out that our dog was merely waiting for the blackbirds to bring out his killer instinct.
The body count has been alarming and the energy The Pooch has brought to the chase has been most impressive. He spots one of the foe inside the fence and cavorts around The Gooseberry Patch, tracking his unfortunate quarry around until it tires and eventually falls into his slavering jaws as though hypnotised. Surrender and death are practically simultantaneous.
There is no room for sentiment in this jungle. Me and The Pooch, we really will come out on top. Dear Hermione must have her breakfast smoothie.