This time it's all happening...
...I promise.
Discipline. That’s the key. This was all supposed to have been done, (a) on a daily basis (in July!) and (b) in a book. My litany of excuses is lame and makes for personally embarrassing reading, so I’ll leave it to one side.
Anyway…
Tuesday, 5th July, 1029am.
101337 on the speedo at Strontian village car park. An uneventful and swift drive to Old Kilpatrick before the real business of the day – getting stuck in traffic. After a spot of shopping, what should have been a 20 minute trip to the south side of Glasgow turned into a marathon two hour slog in soaring temperatures due to an overturned whisky lorry. The superstitious would read something into that…
A dreadful night’s sleep was alleviated somewhat by a fairly civilised departure hour, avoiding the early morning rush hour(s) we slipped onto the motorway trying not to look too much like anti G8 protestors. Police were everywhere…looking for what exactly? Not us it appeared as we sped (yes, really) south, making it the 60 or so miles to Girvan in about 90 minutes, which is alright for a fully laden, 23 year old ‘bus.’
Girvan was to be our first pit stop and we forsook the comforting delights of a brew in the van for a trip to a café. The “Minerva” is a 1950’s relic complete with booths, formica and Tunnock’s tea cakes; sadly it adheres to 1950’s opening hours too, closing, as it does, for lunch.
Not to worry, across the road to the chippy for some saturated fat and stodge, washed down with copious amounts of fairly excellent tea. Whilst the others munched on, Ben and I popped into the Tourist Information place, which looked entirely unofficial – perhaps the first recorded case of counterfeit tourism. Nonetheless, they had a lovely touchscreen “infopoint” facility which also allowed one the unbridled luxury of sending an e-card with (in my case) a lovely shot of Girvan harbour. I wanted to mail it to this here blog but a memory lapse lost me the email address. Instead it went to my own account, though I’ve yet to check. Given the slightly dubious nature of the whole enterprise, it’s entirely possible the terminal isn’t even connected. Imagine the crushing disappointment felt by, oh, dozens of holidaymakers when they discover their work colleagues didn’t get that snap of the lighthouse or the fishing museum.
Onwards, then, towards Cairnryan where an overestimate of the distance and an underestimate of the bus’ capabilities meant we were there some 75 minutes prior to check in time. Taking this in our stride we motored down to Stranraer to pick up vital supplies in the form of cakes and some tablet – both of which go incredibly well with tea in the van and indeed both of which feature prominently in this blog as a whole. Suitably stocked up we returned to port where the question, “is your gas cylinder turned off?” failed to raise alarm bells until Gail realised that meant we couldn’t brew up in the ferry queue (though we did spot some campers doing just that on the return journey three weeks later, gits). No tea = no cakes. Disaster.
Fortunately not, for P&O have thoughtfully provided (or decided to cash in, take your pick) a tea bar in the terminal building. This stroke of good fortune provided what I hoped would be the first of many holiday encounters with what is often euphemistically called a “colourful character.” Today’s took the form of a “catering assistant” (I saw the badge) whose name now sadly escapes me. In attempting to pacify Ben who had spied the small soft-play area in the corner, I asked if he wanted fresh orange juice. Cue CATERING ASSISTANT, stage left (adopts slightly camp Belfast accent if you can imagine such an incongruity) “I don’t mean to be cheeky but those are awfully expensive, £1.60 I think, maybe even £1.80 (don’t you know your stock man?), it’s a lot to pay.” Indeed it is, so I decided not to bother and thanked him for his kindness, “all part of the service,” he assured me and I’m sure the bean counters at P&O would wholeheartedly share his passion for pleasing the punters.
A pleasant enough, if late-departing (35 minutes) crossing was memorable only for the barman’s assertion that “we’ll make up the time no problem, we’re using all four engines now,” (why not use them all the time and speed up the crossing, eh?) and a crazy dash from the bar/seating area to the lower car deck with a pensioner in a wheelchair – my gran, don’t fret, she was with us, it’s not as if we’d just grabbed a random wrinkly from the cafeteria – who managed an almost miraculous leap into the van just as the bow doors (how’s that for a VW modification?) opened.
One other thing that did strike me, though, was the space – or lack thereof – onboard. I can clearly remember, on countless Stranraer to Larne crossings as a child, wandering from airline-seat type lounge to airline-seat type lounge via a string of gift shops, sweet shops (I nearly typed “sweat shops” but I’m sure they were only on the Holyhead – Dun Laoghrie route) and cafeterias, trying to find somewhere to sit. Now all there is is a bar, a “restaurant,” a tiny “quiet room” (no mobiles, no children, no breathing) and a huge video lounge. There also seems to be no-one aboard despite the full car-deck. Where do they all go? Is everyone else watching the film? Is there a car-swap scheme operating between Ulster and southwest Scotland, with hundreds of bored Toyota Carinas and Ford Mondeos enjoying daily jaunts across the Irish sea, driven on at one end and left to take in the trip before being collected at the other? I think we should be told.
Steady progress was made through the majestic – if steep! – Glens of Antrim, passing many pre-12th of July flags and decorations. It seemed curious to note what appeared to be a decline, since my last visit, in the number of areas with painted kerbstones of either allegiance.
A poorly signposted junction at Maghera aside – a common phenomenon in the days and weeks ahead – we arrived unimpeded in Draperstown. Draperstown is near Cookstown, it has a wide main street and lots of pubs but other than that I’m afraid I don’t know. We dropped Gran off and stayed over with her hosts, who fed us mightily with an impressive impromptu spread of cold cuts and soda bread, washed down with what seemed to be bottomless tea. I’m sensing a pattern here.
Thankfully they were kind enough to allow us not only to park in the drive but to use the toilet too, for I fear too much tea may have been taken.
A hearty breakfast, courtesy of our hosts, set us up for the beginning – in an official “Irish Soil” sense – of our epic trip. The first leg of the journey took us high into spectacular mountain scenery in the form of the Sperrins. These peaks rise to over 2000ft at their highest and straddle counties Tyrone and Derry. Or Londonderry, depending on which side one’s bread is buttered. Climbing through the forest park in a light drizzle we were initially amused by the slightly listless, directionless ramblings of the BBC Radio Ulster presenter who made repeated references to having torn up his script and having no idea what to say. As the 11o’clock news arrived, the reason was clear. How odd it felt to be driving into County (London) Derry – formerly – and indeed currently, albeit to a somewhat lesser extent – a scene of many of the Troubles’ flashpoints and hearing of a series of bomb explosions in the city of London itself. As with any news one hears from “home” whilst on holiday, there was somethng of the unreal about it. Heightened, I’ve no doubt by our location at the time. The sense of the bizarre was – is – overpowering.
Pushing on into what careful locals call Stoke City (Derry/Londonderry, no doubt soon to be named “Slash City” in these www dot times, though perhaps that has some unfortunate connotations) we indulged in a brief bout of retail therapy punctuated by a spot of playpark avoidance, due to the fact that it lookked a bit on the dodgy side. I should mention again that we had a see-saw and climbing-frame obsessed toddler with us, it’s not as if we just drive around looking for playparks not to go into. Playparks were to become something of a recurring theme or bone of contention over the coming weeks.
Leaving Obliquesville behind we went – in time honoured fashion – North but “South” into County Donegal, in the Irish Republic. Following the main road we quickly came to the uninspiring village of Muff, whose comedy name singularly failed to redeem it though we did manage a feeble chuckle as we realised we’d managed a wrong turn and that our first experience of Muff driving wasn’t going too smoothly.
“The roads in the South are terrible, you’ll see a difference straight away,” my Police Force of Northern Ireland cousin had told me a couple of weeks earlier. It took a whole 4 miles of driving in the Republic to bring these words right to the front of my mind. On what – from the map – appeared to be the main Muff – Buncrana road, we seemed to be on someone’s (narrow, overgrown) driveway. At least on a driveway you’d get some sort of sign, a house name, a number. Here we were forced to navigate heavily wooded backroads by guesswork – our E-Bayed Michelin map of “Irlande” already proving hopelessly inadequate – alone.
Having already abandoned our intended overnighter in Moville when we realised we’d be there by 2pm and that that didn’t seem like an awful lot of progress for day one, we had decided to head towards Buncrana for some lunch, though this too was revised on reaing our “Rough Guide” which informed us that “…[Buncrana] is packed out during the summer.” Pesky tourists no doubt. So it was that we ended up overlooking an abandoned and crumbling pier in Fahan.
As the third car load of – presumably – locals pulled uup to gawp and point at the strange people having tea and making sandwiches in a van, realsation began to dawn that perhaps there wasn’t an awful lot to do in Fahan.
I had warm memories of Donegal from childhood trips but now something seemed lacking. My childhood perhaps? We were later to discover, from a Donegal born GP now plying his trade in Sneem, Co. Kerry, that Donegal had become something of a bolt-hole for the North’s Republican sympathisers who were “in trouble” or the North’s Catholic families escaping from the potential troubles of the province in July, and that it had, he felt, changed completely and not in a good way.
The vague itinerary – okay, small list of potential campsites/hostels with parking – I’d spent a few weeks compiling, with the help of brochures, the internet and some like-minded VW types online, showed five possibilities in about a 40mile radius of Fahan. On a whim we decided to go for a completely unknown quantity – a blue camping sign on our Michelin map in Fanad. I believe I already mentioned the hopeless inadequacy of the map so perhaps it should have come as less of a surprise to us when the campsite turned out to be crap. Of course, we weren’t destined to find that out until much later on a rain-lashed, desolate evening in the back end of the back of beyond. First we had to motor along the shores of Lough Swilly and head into Letterkenny so that we could get lost looking for the tourist information. When we located it, the kindly souls therein gave us a “Welcome to the Notrthe West” leaflet, detailing all manner of camping and caravan sites. When Gail asked about our planned destination, having established that it rather worryingly failed to feature on the tourist bumph, she was informed that the Touristy staff felt it was better to stick to listed sites. Oh they did, did they? Well, we were the holidaymakers and we’d decide where to lay our hats for the evening.
Discipline. That’s the key. This was all supposed to have been done, (a) on a daily basis (in July!) and (b) in a book. My litany of excuses is lame and makes for personally embarrassing reading, so I’ll leave it to one side.
Anyway…
Tuesday, 5th July, 1029am.
101337 on the speedo at Strontian village car park. An uneventful and swift drive to Old Kilpatrick before the real business of the day – getting stuck in traffic. After a spot of shopping, what should have been a 20 minute trip to the south side of Glasgow turned into a marathon two hour slog in soaring temperatures due to an overturned whisky lorry. The superstitious would read something into that…
A dreadful night’s sleep was alleviated somewhat by a fairly civilised departure hour, avoiding the early morning rush hour(s) we slipped onto the motorway trying not to look too much like anti G8 protestors. Police were everywhere…looking for what exactly? Not us it appeared as we sped (yes, really) south, making it the 60 or so miles to Girvan in about 90 minutes, which is alright for a fully laden, 23 year old ‘bus.’
Girvan was to be our first pit stop and we forsook the comforting delights of a brew in the van for a trip to a café. The “Minerva” is a 1950’s relic complete with booths, formica and Tunnock’s tea cakes; sadly it adheres to 1950’s opening hours too, closing, as it does, for lunch.
Not to worry, across the road to the chippy for some saturated fat and stodge, washed down with copious amounts of fairly excellent tea. Whilst the others munched on, Ben and I popped into the Tourist Information place, which looked entirely unofficial – perhaps the first recorded case of counterfeit tourism. Nonetheless, they had a lovely touchscreen “infopoint” facility which also allowed one the unbridled luxury of sending an e-card with (in my case) a lovely shot of Girvan harbour. I wanted to mail it to this here blog but a memory lapse lost me the email address. Instead it went to my own account, though I’ve yet to check. Given the slightly dubious nature of the whole enterprise, it’s entirely possible the terminal isn’t even connected. Imagine the crushing disappointment felt by, oh, dozens of holidaymakers when they discover their work colleagues didn’t get that snap of the lighthouse or the fishing museum.
Onwards, then, towards Cairnryan where an overestimate of the distance and an underestimate of the bus’ capabilities meant we were there some 75 minutes prior to check in time. Taking this in our stride we motored down to Stranraer to pick up vital supplies in the form of cakes and some tablet – both of which go incredibly well with tea in the van and indeed both of which feature prominently in this blog as a whole. Suitably stocked up we returned to port where the question, “is your gas cylinder turned off?” failed to raise alarm bells until Gail realised that meant we couldn’t brew up in the ferry queue (though we did spot some campers doing just that on the return journey three weeks later, gits). No tea = no cakes. Disaster.
Fortunately not, for P&O have thoughtfully provided (or decided to cash in, take your pick) a tea bar in the terminal building. This stroke of good fortune provided what I hoped would be the first of many holiday encounters with what is often euphemistically called a “colourful character.” Today’s took the form of a “catering assistant” (I saw the badge) whose name now sadly escapes me. In attempting to pacify Ben who had spied the small soft-play area in the corner, I asked if he wanted fresh orange juice. Cue CATERING ASSISTANT, stage left (adopts slightly camp Belfast accent if you can imagine such an incongruity) “I don’t mean to be cheeky but those are awfully expensive, £1.60 I think, maybe even £1.80 (don’t you know your stock man?), it’s a lot to pay.” Indeed it is, so I decided not to bother and thanked him for his kindness, “all part of the service,” he assured me and I’m sure the bean counters at P&O would wholeheartedly share his passion for pleasing the punters.
A pleasant enough, if late-departing (35 minutes) crossing was memorable only for the barman’s assertion that “we’ll make up the time no problem, we’re using all four engines now,” (why not use them all the time and speed up the crossing, eh?) and a crazy dash from the bar/seating area to the lower car deck with a pensioner in a wheelchair – my gran, don’t fret, she was with us, it’s not as if we’d just grabbed a random wrinkly from the cafeteria – who managed an almost miraculous leap into the van just as the bow doors (how’s that for a VW modification?) opened.
One other thing that did strike me, though, was the space – or lack thereof – onboard. I can clearly remember, on countless Stranraer to Larne crossings as a child, wandering from airline-seat type lounge to airline-seat type lounge via a string of gift shops, sweet shops (I nearly typed “sweat shops” but I’m sure they were only on the Holyhead – Dun Laoghrie route) and cafeterias, trying to find somewhere to sit. Now all there is is a bar, a “restaurant,” a tiny “quiet room” (no mobiles, no children, no breathing) and a huge video lounge. There also seems to be no-one aboard despite the full car-deck. Where do they all go? Is everyone else watching the film? Is there a car-swap scheme operating between Ulster and southwest Scotland, with hundreds of bored Toyota Carinas and Ford Mondeos enjoying daily jaunts across the Irish sea, driven on at one end and left to take in the trip before being collected at the other? I think we should be told.
Steady progress was made through the majestic – if steep! – Glens of Antrim, passing many pre-12th of July flags and decorations. It seemed curious to note what appeared to be a decline, since my last visit, in the number of areas with painted kerbstones of either allegiance.
A poorly signposted junction at Maghera aside – a common phenomenon in the days and weeks ahead – we arrived unimpeded in Draperstown. Draperstown is near Cookstown, it has a wide main street and lots of pubs but other than that I’m afraid I don’t know. We dropped Gran off and stayed over with her hosts, who fed us mightily with an impressive impromptu spread of cold cuts and soda bread, washed down with what seemed to be bottomless tea. I’m sensing a pattern here.
Thankfully they were kind enough to allow us not only to park in the drive but to use the toilet too, for I fear too much tea may have been taken.
A hearty breakfast, courtesy of our hosts, set us up for the beginning – in an official “Irish Soil” sense – of our epic trip. The first leg of the journey took us high into spectacular mountain scenery in the form of the Sperrins. These peaks rise to over 2000ft at their highest and straddle counties Tyrone and Derry. Or Londonderry, depending on which side one’s bread is buttered. Climbing through the forest park in a light drizzle we were initially amused by the slightly listless, directionless ramblings of the BBC Radio Ulster presenter who made repeated references to having torn up his script and having no idea what to say. As the 11o’clock news arrived, the reason was clear. How odd it felt to be driving into County (London) Derry – formerly – and indeed currently, albeit to a somewhat lesser extent – a scene of many of the Troubles’ flashpoints and hearing of a series of bomb explosions in the city of London itself. As with any news one hears from “home” whilst on holiday, there was somethng of the unreal about it. Heightened, I’ve no doubt by our location at the time. The sense of the bizarre was – is – overpowering.
Pushing on into what careful locals call Stoke City (Derry/Londonderry, no doubt soon to be named “Slash City” in these www dot times, though perhaps that has some unfortunate connotations) we indulged in a brief bout of retail therapy punctuated by a spot of playpark avoidance, due to the fact that it lookked a bit on the dodgy side. I should mention again that we had a see-saw and climbing-frame obsessed toddler with us, it’s not as if we just drive around looking for playparks not to go into. Playparks were to become something of a recurring theme or bone of contention over the coming weeks.
Leaving Obliquesville behind we went – in time honoured fashion – North but “South” into County Donegal, in the Irish Republic. Following the main road we quickly came to the uninspiring village of Muff, whose comedy name singularly failed to redeem it though we did manage a feeble chuckle as we realised we’d managed a wrong turn and that our first experience of Muff driving wasn’t going too smoothly.
“The roads in the South are terrible, you’ll see a difference straight away,” my Police Force of Northern Ireland cousin had told me a couple of weeks earlier. It took a whole 4 miles of driving in the Republic to bring these words right to the front of my mind. On what – from the map – appeared to be the main Muff – Buncrana road, we seemed to be on someone’s (narrow, overgrown) driveway. At least on a driveway you’d get some sort of sign, a house name, a number. Here we were forced to navigate heavily wooded backroads by guesswork – our E-Bayed Michelin map of “Irlande” already proving hopelessly inadequate – alone.
Having already abandoned our intended overnighter in Moville when we realised we’d be there by 2pm and that that didn’t seem like an awful lot of progress for day one, we had decided to head towards Buncrana for some lunch, though this too was revised on reaing our “Rough Guide” which informed us that “…[Buncrana] is packed out during the summer.” Pesky tourists no doubt. So it was that we ended up overlooking an abandoned and crumbling pier in Fahan.
As the third car load of – presumably – locals pulled uup to gawp and point at the strange people having tea and making sandwiches in a van, realsation began to dawn that perhaps there wasn’t an awful lot to do in Fahan.
I had warm memories of Donegal from childhood trips but now something seemed lacking. My childhood perhaps? We were later to discover, from a Donegal born GP now plying his trade in Sneem, Co. Kerry, that Donegal had become something of a bolt-hole for the North’s Republican sympathisers who were “in trouble” or the North’s Catholic families escaping from the potential troubles of the province in July, and that it had, he felt, changed completely and not in a good way.
The vague itinerary – okay, small list of potential campsites/hostels with parking – I’d spent a few weeks compiling, with the help of brochures, the internet and some like-minded VW types online, showed five possibilities in about a 40mile radius of Fahan. On a whim we decided to go for a completely unknown quantity – a blue camping sign on our Michelin map in Fanad. I believe I already mentioned the hopeless inadequacy of the map so perhaps it should have come as less of a surprise to us when the campsite turned out to be crap. Of course, we weren’t destined to find that out until much later on a rain-lashed, desolate evening in the back end of the back of beyond. First we had to motor along the shores of Lough Swilly and head into Letterkenny so that we could get lost looking for the tourist information. When we located it, the kindly souls therein gave us a “Welcome to the Notrthe West” leaflet, detailing all manner of camping and caravan sites. When Gail asked about our planned destination, having established that it rather worryingly failed to feature on the tourist bumph, she was informed that the Touristy staff felt it was better to stick to listed sites. Oh they did, did they? Well, we were the holidaymakers and we’d decide where to lay our hats for the evening.
posted by busdriver at 7:28 AM
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