Rosscarbery of the Swans

I assembled Mr. Raleigh in the parking lot at The Celtic Ross Hotel, adjusting the saddle, double checking her quick release hubs and brakes. We were itchy to roll. The Ross in Rosscarbery is a cyclist’s friend. They offer food, shelter, and free public Internet access. The staff is welcoming, even to old bicycle hobos like me. There is a pub and restaurant with table service on the patio in fine weather. The Ross is a venue for big weddings. If you enjoy seeing people puttin’ on the style, their veranda is an excellent perch; young men looking like James Bond, the young women like garden flowers in a summer breeze. You can hear me humming Chuck Berry’s tune, “C’est la vie say the old folks, it goes to show you never can tell.” The kids are grand!
Our test ride produced a flat tire and walk back from Rosscarbery Quay, but read on. Serendipity - this turned into good fortune. While in Bantry the following day I found Nigel’s Bike Shop. Nigel stocks wider tires for my good old bike’s 27” rims. With these 1.25” tires I do not need an all terrain bike, what the French call a VTT for “velo tout terrain”. Irish roads are mostly paved, not cobbled, and more bike friendly than the cobblestones of Paris. With wider tires inflated to 80 psi Ms. Raleigh takes the Irish roads very well indeed. So we rambled out for our first spin, a round trip from Rosscarbery to Galley Head Lighthouse along the coast.

Bees buzzed in the planta genesta, blackberries, and roadside wildflowers. Cows mooed sweet greetings and horses paused their meditations to look up and nicker hello. From a stone bridge I watched a Gray Heron foraging in the rushes just a couple of meters away. I stopped to pass the time of day with two or three dogs out socializing un-chaperoned. One, a portly gentleman poodle, came up while I was reading on a rock at Long Strand Beach. He leaned into me, accepting a scratch, and then walked off to elevate his leg against a pile of seaweed which was only slightly taller than long. Hey, where trees are rare and fire hydrants unknown, a fellow has to make do.

Just before Galley Head lighthouse the road winds through a farm built into the ruin of Dundready Castle, an ancient site, 10th Century I think. Dundready guards a narrow spot on the peninsula overlooking a cove. If stones could talk, this old warrior would tell bloody sagas of Viking raiders ransacking for food, women, and plunder, the “good things” in Viking life.

I headed home. The road was nearly empty, the beaches held only occasional family clutches with their heads bowed, looking for sea shells. I imagined them as 10th Century monks at prayer walking along the strand incanting “Protect us, oh Lord, from the wrath of the Northman.” No dragon ship bobbed off shore. On this bank holiday afternoon the beach is tranquil.

As I arrived at The Celtic Ross a wedding party spilled out onto the patio. I ordered fresh mussels from their starters menu which, washed down with chilled house white, was a nice light evening meal. As the sun was declining I sat on their veranda, smug in the knowledge that Rosscarbery is the next parish to paradise.

Rosscarbery of the Swans

Whiskey on the veranda and
Sun warmed swans laze on the lagoon.
Lonesome skyway calls as castellated ramparts
Gauge goose flights heading home.

If by some divine indulgence
I kenned my days and
They were few, I’d spend two
Sipping whiskey on the veranda

In Rosscarbery,
Rosscarbery of the Swans.