Issue 134 : April - May 2004
Fred Hill Remembered
David Short
Kawasaki Z750
London to Galway
West Oxon Bike Show
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Fred Hill Remembered
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Beyond the Pale
The road stretched ahead, running beneath the wheels of the Superglide as the cold steadily bit into our bodies with increasing intensity as each mile went by. The cold! It was difficult to stop thinking about fingers growing numb and Jack Frost easing his way between multiple layers of motorcycle clothing. Only our heated waistcoats stopped us from entertaining thoughts of abandoning the quest and heading home for London, with tails between our legs. Indifferent to the elements, the 1450cc Vee-Twin thundered on with a promise of trouble free days ahead wile a resolve to reach journey's end sustained us against the promise of a thousand frost-bitten miles. London to Galway in January by motorcycle, what possessed us to venture forth like this? It had all started a few days before with a sombre phone call from David French in Cork, giving me the shattering news that an old friend and confidant had been killed in an accident while servicing her car. Ciara Fox, whose acerbic wit had fuelled a long series of motorcycling stories in diverse international publications, had met an untimely and terrible end. It was unbelievable. I had immediately resolved to attend her funeral near her home in the Connemara of Galway, but various mix-ups and misinformation had put paid to the that Plan. Instead Dave and I agreed to meet the following weekend and visit her grave. Barbara had felt that she would like to come and pay her respects as well, so the two of us had set out on our lonely pilgrimage on a dull and cold Friday, heading northward to the ferry in Holyhead. Finally, the motorway was behind us, though not after a moment of high drama as the tyres let go of the salty, slime covered surface on the high-speed junction of the M6 and M54. Cold forgotten for a brief sphincter-tightening moment, the episode brought home to us the need to take it steady through the mountainous stretch ahead. A weak sun appeared after a torrent of rain swept past, revealing the snow covered mountains of Mid Wales and we stopped for a brief moment to check the map and to force scalding coffee down out throats before setting out once more on the icy roads. The A5 slowly climbed through some of the most beautiful country which Wales had to offer and as the 'Glide went on reserve, we cruised into a lonely petrol station where time had stood still in 1960 on the untidy forecourt. A tank of fuel dispensed by a character who clearly spent his time lurking beneath a variety of ancient trucks and we set out once more. A few miles further and the Harley started to protest, presenting all the symptoms of carburettor icing, though with the ominous addition of black smoke and a strong smell of diesel. There was little we could do but press on given that the light was starting to fail and the engine seemed to be just about able to hold its own against the unwelcome brew of diesel and unleaded which it was now being forced to ingest. A stop for some food at Betws-Y-Coed and a final blast through spectacular, sheer mountains before hitting the final stretch - the lonely dual carriageway on Anglesey. We arrived at Holyhead, Harley spluttering, stinking and coughing to a stop at the head of the ferry queue. Relief of arrival quickly gave way to exhausted sighs as we learned that Irish Sea storms had delayed our passage, but a few hours later we were able to relax for a pint of well earned beer as the car-laden vessel left storm swept Welsh shores behind and headed west towards the Emerald Isle. Arriving in Dublin in the early hours, we headed to our hotel, only stopping for a quick bite to eat at historic O'Connell Street and gratefully retired to the warmth of our room to thaw out, dry damp clothing and sleep. The morning greeted us with wide blue skies and a hoar frost, the like of which wouldn't have looked out of place gracing a yuletide scene, but in the cold light of a winter Dublin morning, instead filled us with dread at the prospect of 150 miles on uneven and poorly gritted Irish roads. The Superglide also chose this moment to protest with greater vigour -- the symptoms of contaminated fuel enhanced by a genuine dose of carb icing. However, there was nothing for it but to set forth over the frost-sheened surface of the N4, to see what adventures the day held. A few miles later and it was clear that the Harley had had enough. Clouds of smoke marked our passage as the long suffering engine belched black fumes which would have put Stephenson's Rocket to shame. We pulled into a service station and held a conference. I was all for dumping the remains of the fuel on the forecourt, but didn't have the tools. Fortunately, the gauge read less than a quarter full, so refuelling the bike to the gunnels with some untainted unleaded, we took a gamble that this would provide relief to the protesting motor. It did. Once the fuel lines had been cleared out by Saudi's finest, the 'Glide once again settled to the familiar deep roar which has accompanied me across thousands of fault free miles in Europe. Although we continued to suffer from periodic carb icing and for about the next four tank-full's of fuel, the bike emanated a faint smell of truck-stops, there were no further problems. The N4 from Dublin to Galway isn't exactly one of Ireland's most picturesque rides. Fairly dull, though reminiscent of 1950's Britain's rural landscape, with rolling countryside littered haphazardly with a variety of buildings and agricultural equipment. The road winds it way westwards, ranging from fairly decent, to hair-raising, with ruts, potholes and gravel to trap the unwary. Ice treatment was sporadic, with frozen stretches interspersed with road treated with a highly corrosive salt compound which quickly started voraciously eating into any exposed aluminium. With the bike no longer a problem and little to stir the senses as we rode, the now familiar sensations, which come from sub-zero temperatures, bit even deeper and it was with some relief that we saw the mountainous countryside of the Irish western counties rise in the distance. Dave was waiting for us at the appointed crossroads outside Galway town and after some coffee and a light lunch we headed out west for the final stretch of our sad journey to Ciara.
Bikes silent, peace surrounded us, only broken by the faint sound of the sea gently lapping on the nearby shore and the distant call of Curlews. As the shadows lengthened we stood in silence with Ciara, remembered the good times and thought about what had been lost. An old woman came over and after saying her own words of peace, she told us quietly about her own lost son. Other thoughts and feelings at Tra Bhain remain my own, but I do feel that if she could have known what was going to happen I think she would have chosen this wild and peaceful corner of Ireland to take her time of rest, so near to where she had chosen to spend her life with her partner Pat. Quietly gathering our things we gently rode away from this beautiful place and turned out thoughts to the remaining miles we were to travel before our day's end. As the gloom of dusk gathered we headed north to Westport in County Mayo, stopping only to take a last photograph of the fading daylight reflecting the mountains off the Connemaran Loughs and bidding a last silent farewell to Ciara. Darkness quickly fell and with it a frozen fog, making our journey along dubious mountain roads ever more treacherous. The last 20 miles of chill, mist and dubious roadholding, broken only by a short stop In Westport to buy food and ask for directions, left us all yearning for journey's end. Arriving at our destination, a cottage, lent to us by one of Barbara's work colleagues, we gratefully parked our bikes for the night and thawed ourselves out in front of a welcome fire. A meal later and Dave and I took a taxi into Westport where over many pints of Guinness both of us celebrated Ciara's life, recalled our memories and cursed her untimely death. Morning brought bad heads for Dave and myself and for the three of us, a heart stirring view from the windows which had been hidden from us the previous night. Breakfast was quickly followed by a long walk around the small peninsular that we found ourselves upon. The mountains of County Mayo tumbled into the sea and the coastline offered inspirational promise of days of exploration which we didn't have. The view from the top of the hill behind our cottage was enough to make us forget that the dull everyday of traffic congestion, noise and work-routine way back in London even existed. So it was with heavy hearts that we packed the bikes later that day and headed east back to Dublin. Dave, who lives in rural West Cork, kept us company on the Dublin road, though he could have headed south to his home. Barbara and I welcomed his continued company as it delayed farewells that none of us wanted to make and we weren't really sure how far we would get given the late hour that we'd set off. The more northern route eastwards along the N5 offered more visual promise than the previous day's journey had. The road was better in some stretches and County Roscommon, with its rugged countryside and multitude of derelict buildings allowed for good photo settings. The weather was also much milder and the Harley purred happily along the changeable road surface. Stopping about an hour short of Dublin at a small town on one the confluence of two of Ireland's busiest roads, we found accommodation and spent a pleasant evening of food and beer, hoping against hope that one of the dreadful country and western combines which the Irish Midlands are infamous for, wouldn't strike up from across the bar. Dave took his leave the following morning and we headed east to our morning ferry. Bike stashed away, we stood on the deck of the Isle of Inishmore and watched Dublin and the Wicklow hills slowly sink astern as we headed away from the city in the Pale of Ireland. The rest of the journey was frightful. An hour after Holyhead, we rode into torrential rain which didn't stop until we weren't far short of London. The Superglide didn't even flinch throughout the entire downpour, though it was two utterly drenched and exhausted folk who squelched their way through the front door of their home later that evening. Looking back on the strange and eventful trip in the comfort of my living room, I can only feel lasting sadness for Ciara and what had happened to her and eternal gratitude that we were able to take that strange journey beyond the Pale and pay a final visit to a person who I shall always miss. Though if Ciara had been able to comment on our trip, I'm sure she would have said in her inimitable way; "London to Connemara in January on a feckin' Harley? Ye must be feckin' mad ye feckin' eeeeejits!!" Farewell Ciara Nic an Sionnaigh (Fox), 1970-2004. Beidh uaigneas orainn nuair a bheidh tu imithe mar gheall ar do chraic Craig Carey-Clinch
Note:- The Pale of Ireland is the region which has Dublin at its centre. During British rule, it was considered that the empire often only had full control of the Pale, with Irish nationalism expressing itself outside the Pale in different rebellious ways. Hence the term 'Beyond the Pale' as a description of actions or opinions which are considered outrageous difficult, or unacceptable. |
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London to Galway in January by motorcycle, what possessed us to venture forth like this? 
We journeyed along ever more picturesque coastline until the road gave way to a moorland lane, which wound its way towards the Joyce Mountains and the 'Twelve Pins' in the distance. A side turn took us off the mainland and across a series of wild lonely causeways to Lettermoor Island and then onto tiny Lettermullen Island. The scenery was spectacular. The clear frosty sky and low sun giving a quality of light which enhanced the mountains in the distance, so providing a dramatic backdrop to the rugged moorland and broken rocks near to hand. Gentle slopes led into the sea in all directions, with small coves sheltering the occasional small fishing smack from the heavy seas which sometimes pounded these shores. The westering sun shone in our faces as we slowly rode the last few miles, finally turning down a small track to Ciara's final resting place at the Tra Bhain Cemetary.