“The only way to cope
with ongoing stress is to take frequent breaks”
(Divorce-directed
Selfie Book#11)
“Let’s cycle the greenway” the Sister said.
“It’ll do us good. Peace and quiet, nice hotel, fresh air”- and before I could
say “bicycle clip” she’d booked us a few days in a Co. Mayo hotel conveniently
positioned right beside the greenway. I borrowed rainproof leggings from my
brother-in-law; we booked bicycles on the internet and drove west. The hotel
was lovely, one of those old fashioned hotels which had catered for travelling
salesmen in the days before online purchasing. Consequently, they had single
rooms which were indeed single; mine was a small attic room which looked out
over the latticed roof of the hotel and on out across the Atlantic. I stood at
the window admiring the sea view, and watching the considerate farmer who
appeared to be taking his cows for a stroll along the beach. Some of the cows
were paddling in the sea. Cows chilling out…
Down to Reception I waddled, dressed for the
weather; Tee-shirt, cardigan, fleece, gilet, rain jacket. Tracksuit bottoms,
the brother-in-law’s rainproof trousers, sneakers. Bike helmet. Wool gloves
under waterproof mittens. Bottle of water. Camera. Mobile ‘phone in case of
emergencies.
The Bike Man was waiting in drizzling rain
outside the hotel. Yaay!! The start of two days freewheeling along the
converted railway track, with only the voices of the birds, cows and sheep
breaking the silence. We signed the contracts taking full responsibility for
the behaviour of the bikes, took possession of them and wheeled them through
the gate and onto the track. “Let’s head west, let’s do the leg from Mulrany to
Achill today. That bit of the Greenway runs along the coast” said the Sister. Oh
I do love to be beside the seaside; this was going to be blissful. Tranquil.
Nerve-mending. Up on the bikes and off we pedalled. Five minutes later I was
lying on the track, tangled up in the bicycle and the brother-in-law’s
trousers, crying. We had come to the first of the gates intended to keep humans
and bovines safely apart. While I was trying to negotiate it, an overlong (for
me) trouser leg became caught in the spokes, the bike stopped with a jerk and I
went flying off it. The unforgiving cinder track cut my left shin, knee, hip
and wrist to ribbons. Blood was seeping through the layers of clothing. Every
bit of me was hurting. We weren’t ten
minutes out and I was already a mess. There really was blood on the track. Sis
patiently untangled it all and helped me up. “We’ll go on” I said. “I’m all
right”. I wasn’t, but I didn’t want to spoil her day. On we went, while the sea
curled in on our right and farmland and heather were dewed by the soft rain on
our left. Every movement caused the cuts
to abrade over and over again, rubbed by the torn lining of my tracksuit
bottoms while my hip was rubbed raw by the waistband. I began to wonder if I’d broken my wrist, not
just sprained it. Eventually the pain got the better of me and we turned back
before reaching Achill.
Back at the hotel, I enquired if there were a
pharmacy nearby; showed some of my wounds to the Receptionist. Before I could
sink into one of the comfortable sofas dotted about the foyer, there was an
offer of tea and a chef appeared with the hotel’s First Aid Kit, kept in the
kitchen apparently. It was the size of a small suitcase, leading me to wonder
if cooking is a terribly dangerous occupation. I chose dressings and antiseptic,
limped up to my attic room and dressed my wounds.
We met for dinner; I had brought a white lace
dress for our formal dining. I hadn’t intended to accessorise it with cuts and
bruises but, well, never mind. After dinner we wandered down the one street in
the village. We found a little pub all right, where over the course of the
evening an entente cordiale was established with some of the locals-the few
remaining locals who hadn’t been forced to emigrate due to the recession, that
is. A retired engineer informed me that
he owned one of the offshore islands and four hundred acres locally. Plus a
lovely house. “That’s lovely” I said, “what
a beautiful part of the country you live in”. Ah, but it turned out he was
lonely…the Sister was in fits.
Back at the hotel the two of us sat in front of
a log fire and had a few nightcaps. Such a lovely, cosy hotel…I slept well in
my little room, worn out by fresh air, extreme cycling and lots of food and
drink. Stiff, bruised and bandaged, I saddled up on Day 2 and we headed east. A
much harder cycle today but rewarded with beautiful views, rivers and bridges, weak
sunshine with only the chattering of the birds and the nattering of the Sister disturbing
the silence. I walked the bike through the gates and stiles. I walked part of
the track as well, vowing to hire an electric bike next time…We got as far as
Newport before surrendering and taxiing back to Mulrany. A dip in the hotel
pool and a session in the hot tub worked wonders. All that was needed now was a
nap before dinner. More lovely seafood, more drinks in front of the open fire
and our last night ended.
Morning came knocking at the attic window.
Banging, in fact. The bruises were now turning lovely autumnal colours. The
left knee was bending a little bit. Time to go home. We headed for Dublin, the
Sister clutching the hotel’s recipe for scones and homemade jam. I’m not a tea
and scones person, more Chardonnay and crisps, but the afternoon teas in the
hotel had been historic and I knew the Sister would be well able to replicate
the stuff.
Back in work, the boss asked how I’d enjoyed my
trip. It was wonderful, I said, apart
from the scars and sure, maybe they’ll fade with time.
Yes, frequent breaks…but preferably not
bones.
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