posted by Guest blogger - Kris Goodbody | 0 Comments
The first part of our journey was finding our way up the slightly inclined road outside my house to the N11. All of us were hoping against hope that we’d at least make it round the corner and out of sight before we collapsed in a heap. To our surprise we began to make good time, and as we swung onto the long straight road that was going to lead us out of Ireland, uncertainty turned to excitement and the sense of adventure swelled – we realised that we might actually have a chance of pulling this off.
To everyone’s surprise (not least my own) we completed the first 85 kilometres in a reasonable five and a half hours. Exhausted and with a renewed appreciation for the number of dead things on the sides of Irish roads, we pulled into Courtown for our first night.
After a fitful sleep and a minor sexual assault by a bulldog, I woke up the next day ready to begin the leg of the journey that would take us to Rosslare Harbour and onto a boat bound for France.
The second day saw the beginning of the plague of sore arses that would hound us until Athens. But our minds seemed to relax and wander as our legs surrendered to the monotonous robotic motion they’d be adopting for the coming six weeks.
As the boat pulled out from the harbour, we sat there drinking a few well earned cans not knowing what a self-powered, two wheeled excursion through Europe was ahead of us. We lay on the tiled floor of the ferry’s bar listening to the strange lullaby of Latvian Truck drivers drunkenly smashing bottles over each other. This caused that rare and brilliant combination of dread and adrenaline that helped us fell into a deep sleep.
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Marta Wilkerson said
Bill Strain said