The Rio Hondo Valley

Part 63 of the Cycle-Across-America series. (Read from the start in Boston or see the full index)

This excerpt from the journal of the trip is direct from a handwritten section, and documents a dramatic day in New Mexico. It’s my attempt to get the 70 miles from Roswell uphill to Ruidoso on a day that had major headwinds forecast. After a couple of thousand miles on the Plains I was about to start climbing again.

In a beautiful house, in a large bed, with a very full belly of great food, I’m feeling very lucky. So much in just a couple of days. Is New Mexico my favourite state ?

Breakfast at Roswell was a load of pancakes and a load of toast. I knew there was nothing called a town for over 30 miles and I didn’t know if that would really be a town, so I ate well in the same restaurant where I had dinner the previous evening.

Only one other table was being used and it was by an elderly couple who spoke to me about my trip. I’d noticed that the further I go the less impressed people are. They say things like:
- It’s only 70 miles to such a place, or
- You should get there by noon, or as in this case,
- Lots of people have done it - cycled across the States.

When I do tell people the route I still have problems justifying Iowa.

The Weather Channel said the wind as I left Roswell was 13 mph from the south and would increase greatly through the day eventually coming from the south-west, which would definitely affect me. On a wide shoulder of a 4-lane for the first 14 miles I didn’t notice any wind and was able to go a healthy 12mph or so.

It was barren. Grasslands. Ahead of me were hundreds of little hills like sand dunes only they were covered in grass. To my right, the north, it was flatter and I could see for miles, especially looking back. What held my gaze the whole time was the Capitan Mountains. They seemed to rise up from nothing to the 10,000 foot peak of El Capitan and then down to nothing again. It reminded me of Rosmuc because of the rockiness of it, and of Nephin because of its presence.

The road I was on, US 70/380 went up and down a lot. Going down would annoy me a bit because it meant I had to climb back up again but then it did help increase my speed over the distance. At times the wind was very definitely there - it depended on the lie of the land as to whether or not I was protected from it. Mostly I was and felt very lucky. Going up and down constantly it’s impossible to know if you’re gaining in altitude at all. I just had to trust that I was. The land in front of me reminded me of Michael Andrews’ paintings of Australia.

The next 20 miles were just a two-lane but I still had my shoulder except when it was taken for the creation of a passing lane going up a slope. Miles ahead in front of me I could see a dark triangle in a line of hills I had to cross over. I reckoned that must be the point where the road goes and the triangle was probably the hill cut away and in the shade.

And that’s how it was. The climb up to this pass reminded me so much of Firhouse in Dublin when I would cycle over the mountain road towards Brittas in Wicklow. About half way up I stopped at the point I usually stopped in Bohernabreena and looked back. I wasn’t looking over Dublin and its bay but the nearest yet I’ve come to seeing nothing.

[The rest of this day is continued below the fold]

Read: Cycling Across America #63 »

It is Saturday, but to know that I have to look it up on the computer.

Stillness. Blue sky, blue sea, green fields, green islands.

Let’s not waste time Dog-dog. The weather may not last. So let me just finish this cup of tea.

We walk. For 4 and half miles. It feels like 7 and takes over 2 hours.

Because of the mountains.

The house with the green gable has a satellite dish. His little white van we see 3 times on our walk. The 2nd time you can see the look of surprise as he wonders how he keeps seeing us everywhere he drives. He probably saw our look of surprise too.

The 3rd time we see each other we both just nod, resigned as we are by now to seeing each other everywhere.

We go past houses with huge piles of wood, big enough to keep me and a small dog warm for 3 winters. A couple of fields beyond I see more than one house that was started being built but then abandoned. I have seen a dozen such semi-structures in the area.

Mostly though we are in a land of small farms.

-Stone walls, I say to the dog.
-And the grass is green, the dog replies.

About 2 miles from our cottage we reach what for the last week I had assumed was a hostel. Because in 1970s Ireland it would have been. But this big building is a single family home, nestled into the mountain near the top, pretending to be single story but with more gables than Clark’s parents.

When we cross over the mountain we pass a string of maybe 6 cottages over a mile, each one it seems populated by an old man with a dog. Perhaps this is where I’m meant to be. Their dogs are mostly sheepdogs, with dreadlocks for ears.

At one point a sheep dog comes racing towards us from a couple of hundred yards back. But then I see he’s actually following his owner, from the front. The car follows behind him at about 15mph as the dog happily races away constantly looking back at the car a few feet behind. As Dog-dog and I step onto the grass to let them pass it occurs to me it’s like watching a cartoon.

When the rain starts I reach the man from the house last night who told me I had a nice little dog. He is out cutting the grass at the side of the road with a scythe. He wears a black woolly jumper, a black woolly hat, and no teeth.

-A nice day
-It’s lovely
-That’s a nice little dog
-she can be
-You came over the top?
-I did
-The Maam we call it
-I’m living in the cottage on the other side
-That’s a good walk
-It is
-A few mile
-Yes but just one to go
-A couple of Poles used to live in that cottage
-So I hear
-They’re gone now?
-I’m told they’re somewhere in the area still, but they’re gone from the cottage.
-They had a little red car.

I’ve no idea why he chose to tell me about their car, but it makes me wonder if the red car with the L plates that came up my drive was the former tenants.

I ask him if he’s going to cut it all the way up to the Maam, and he laughs. He tells me a tractor cut it above but couldn’t reach across the ditch here so a scythe does a good enough job.

Gesturing at his cottage I ask him if he was born there. He smiles his yes and tells me it’s quiet here.

-I’m enjoying the quiet, I reply.
-You can have too much noise, you know, he adds before we both carry on with our day.

Walking through the gap is a thrilling experience in either direction, not lessened in any way by previous trips. Going this way, down, you are on the level for a bit, all anticipation, knowing the view is almost there just like when you are almost at the top of a mountain.

Then the rocky curtains open and there is your view. The sea. The islands. The cliffs. The bog. The beaches. The headlands. The fields. Those same blues and greens I woke up to hours earlier. And down among them is our cottage.

Making tea I hear a wasp make a lot of noise in the porch. He is in a web but nearly managing to escape. The spider goes for him but quickly turns away. I decide that little spiders shouldn’t be eating big wasps, though I haven’t read the rule book on web food for spiders. However seeing as he only just ate a whole bluebottle I go in for the rescue. It takes a while but I get the wasp free and out to a fuchsia bush.

Unpacking more boxes, a slow process for I have nowhere to put their contents once I take them out, I come across a series of paintings I’d forgotten I’d started. Irish townscapes. And then I open another box and discover a painting almost finished that I’d completely forgotten I had advanced this far.

The dog has little to bark at in this world, despite the greatest view she’s ever had. So when she goes nuts I know something more than a magpie is annoying her.

The farmer is in the side field with his sheepdog. They are moving the sheep. In truth I don’t know what they’re doing. It all looks like you’d think it looks and sheep move here and there in orderly groups while the sheepdog sprints up and down green slopes littered with rocks. But when it’s all over there are still the same number of sheep in that field. Perhaps they’re different sheep.

When I see a boat that’s not the ferry it prompts me to suggest a short evening walk to Dog-dog. I bring Long Grass for really I am in search of wood. Near my gate there’s a circular patch in the bog surrounded by a bank of heather. It appears to have been used as a dump a long time ago. Wheeling the bike up over the bank I see a frog at my feet. Not wanting it to come to the same fate as a slug I saw in our porch earlier, I shield it from the dog as she goes past.

The evening is too nice to finish there though so I cycle for a couple of miles holding Dog-dog on the leash. With no enticing rabits or squirrels, and no traffic to be pulled under, it’s all very pleasant and a good way to stop the midges finding us.

Back in the house I think that maybe the smell isn’t a dead mouse at all, but is water damage. How could I not know the difference? I look under the sink and see socks stuffed into where the pipes come in. Wet socks.

What should I do, what should I do, I ask myself?

Outside the window I see the ferry seem to go sideways in the lively sea, and I decide. I decide to make a pot of tea.

Read the Next Day at the cottage
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List of all the Days at the Cottage

More from The Cottage:
   • Photos of The Cottage
   • Day 1 at The Cottage
   • 12 Photos of the Scenery Around the Cottage
   • 12 Photos not all Mountains and Islands
   • My Cycle Across America

Read: The Cottage - Day 7 »

I can’t tell anymore if it’s raining or not. It probably doesn’t matter. With no need to cycle to the village the day won’t be another rainwatch.

But I will need to go look for wood.

A still day, the sounds of birds and of collected rainwater dropping. The sun over the sea is battling with the overcast skies above the mainland.

Leading Long Grass with my right hand, and Dog-dog with my left hand, I go in search of wood. As the bike fills up with scraps I let the dog off the leash and I ride as she trots. We move over for the little white van I see most days, and for the postvan heading to the cottage.

In our 3-mile walk collecting wood there are 2 more vehicles we must move off the road to let pass. All 4 vehicles of the day seem to be driven by the same old man.

With the rain receded I peel down to a t-shirt. Although the sun hasn’t reached the cottage it is firmly over the beaches as well as the islands when we get back.

I am watching the waves come in 3 miles away, maybe 4, when I notice on the bog road 3 women walking towards the cottage. If they were actually walking here they’d be here in 20 minutes.

The sun finally reaches the cottage, and prompts me to take off the camera the photos from yesterday’s cycle to the village. There are no photographs there. 20 are gone. The batteries are dead. Looks like I knocked the camera in my pocket, wasting the batteries and somehow pressing the right combination of buttons to delete everything.

That wasn’t just the best photographs so far; it was the most varied. I suppose I’ll be going to the village another time. And the mountains will look their best again. Won’t they?

While watching the waves bash into the cliffs of one of the near islands, I see a wave crash up from the far side. It has to be 50 foot high, maybe much more.

It’s another day dominated by working out how to fix the roof that was supposed to have been fixed. Although re-roofing is what is needed, and was what I believed was happening prior to me moving in, I’m looking at ways to patch on the outside and to reroute the leaks on the inside.

Once water doesn’t drip on the art table I can paint; the rest of the leaks are a nuisance but I just want to paint.

I hear a distant rumble and go outside. A couple of days I have heard an aeroplane but this is nearer. On the bog road, coming from the gap, is what looks like a rubbish truck. Whose rubbish has it been collecting I wonder. Not mine anyway. Most of my rubbish I burn on the fire. The small amount that doesn’t burn I carried into the village yesterday and dropped in a public bin there. It was less than would fill a shoebox.

After a lot of time up a ladder looking at the roof I respond to the landlord and tell that things are great and I see no reason why I can’t make a home here with the dog. Then I tell him how badly the porch roof is still leaking.

Given that I was only coming here on the basis that the roof was going to be fixed, it really should be reason enough to give up on living in the cottage.

If I retreat into the living space proper to paint, things will get rather cramped. There are only the 2 other rooms here apart from the bathroom. A kitchen/living room and a bedroom with a fireplace.

The dog persuades me to go on an after-dinner walk. Except I haven’t had any dinner. But this is the time you would go for an after dinner walk, had you eaten, so I concede. The dog needs to walk off her dinner anyway.

We go out the gap as the clouds above the mountains slowly shift off to wherever clouds go. We walk for a mile and a half before turning back. No cars pass us. As we go past a cottage the door is opened just so the owner can say hello. And he tells me I have a nice little dog. He is the same old man I’ve seen driving every car for miles.

It is one of those times where I keep reminding myself this is real. The sun is readying itself to go down, but throwing out those golden hues before it dims to orange and pink. I am walking in the most magnificent postcard. The scene is spectacular, stretching for over 20 miles. There is no wind. I listen and all I hear are insects and distant streams gently gurgling in the bog below. Under a blue sky, wave after wave of mountains are softly rendered in paling shades of warm yellows and misty oranges. This is my back garden?

The dog is reluctant to walk back the way we came. At first I assume it’s because she doesn’t want the walk to end, but she is very adamant and then I realise why. We had passed a few cows in a small field and the dog was visibly scared of them. I had to drag her back towards them reassuring her that cows are our friends without even knowing what that means. To illustrate our cross-species comaraderie I chat to the cows as I go past. More than I did to the old man at his door, it occurs to me. The dog hurries past.

A short while later passing back through the gap I pick up a piece of turf and put it in my pocket as over our heads sheep can be heard. Descending towards the cottage I look back and see five sheep on the grassy knoll at the very top of the hill the dog and I had hiked up the other day. Why would I not live here?

The walk up our twisting driveway that normally takes 5 minutes now takes 15. Because I can’t stop looking at the views. The sun is now setting. The wind is still non-existant, as are the cars. There is just a couple of birds, and some distance unseen, a cow. The islands are as if painted with smoke.

Back in the cottage the rotten smell of the last couple of days is overpowering after our walk in the fresh air. Really rotten. Like a dead rodent. Once again I do the cursory look for a small carcass, as always with the expectation that if I find it somehow it will leap straight at my face. Strangely, I find nothing.

After putting the kettle on I get an email from the landlord. He will come to the cottage in early October to have a go at trying to seal the roof.

Towards the village against the pink-blue sky, I see the hundreds of starlings that I have seen most evenings, doing what starlings do before they go to bed.

I fry an egg for a sandwich, and before the tea hits the grease on my lips the dog is sound asleep.

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List of all the Days at the Cottage

More from The Cottage:
   • Photos of The Cottage
   • Day 1 at The Cottage
   • 12 Photos of Scenery Around The Cottage
   • 12 Photos not all Mountains and Islands
   • My Cycle Across America

Read: The Cottage - Day 6 »

To Roswell, NM

Part 62 of the Cycle-Across-America series. (Read from the start in Boston or see the full index)

This post consists of excerpts from the transcript of a taped journal entry, so it’s in that tedious rambling style of all the tapes, and uneconomic with words.

Okay, I’m in Roswell. It’s after 8 O’Clock in the morning. Which means I’m going to be late and this is kind of worrying.

This is October 25th. I have to pack up, get some breakfast, and go.

Ruidoso is 70 miles away. It’s also about 3,000 feet up, and there’s a wind at the moment from the south, which is due to be from the southwest, and it’s going to pick up to 35 mph in the afternoon.

So I should have made the effort to go earlier. I believe there’s a shoulder most of the way, which is good enough, but there’s no town for 40 miles, and even when there is I don’t know what’s going to be there.

Yesterday was the what? The easiest day of the entire trip I suppose. Previous to that the easiest day had been from Omaha, Nebraska to Lincoln, Nebraska.

Because I just went north.

The distance from Artesia to Roswell on the main highway is 39 miles. On the other one it’s about 43, 44. I actually did 55 because, well I cycled around a couple of towns - which is straightforward enough - but I’d gone about 5 miles and I realised I’d left in the room my overshoes. So luckily I’d only gone 5 miles and it was an easy day.

There was also a soft south west breeze on my back.

I had breakfast in Artesia in a place called the Chaos Cafe. A big skillet of Mexican stuff with eggs and all the works. Expensive really, but it could’ve been more.

It was full of men on their own in cowboy hats. It was in one of those buildings - the rectangular corrugated iron buildings, which are pretty common particularly on the outskirts of towns.

[The rest of this day is continued below the fold]

Read: Cycling Across America #62 »

A bright start. Raining, but a bright kind of rain. And the winds have gone. Yes I will cycle today.

An email from the landlord tells me he has a couple very interested in renting the cottage, so he wants to know if everything is okay and I am definitely taking it.

We had agreed a 3-week trial. I wonder how to tell him that the porch roof he had agreed to have fixed before I moved in is still leaking badly. He had told me the repair was untested.

The dog persuades me to walk beyond the postbox, and it is when we are wading through the bog that I worry the tea will be waiting too long.

Rain is moving around, as the sun is jumping around the landscape, presenting dozens of different photographs even if you stay in one wet spot. After a mile my brain informs my legs that caffeine is absent and this is no way to start a day.

The dog gets stranded so I go back to guide her out, as behind her the clouds slide over the distant mountains.

The moment the rain stops the birds come out of the bushes and cheer. I cheer for them. The dog chases them.

Tea is not waiting for me, as it appears I left the house while in the middle of making it. I forgive the dog.

A bluebottle gets louder than usual so I guess it is caught in a web and trying to escape. I go into the porch to look. The blue bottle is not in a web. A spider less than half its size has it clamped from behind and is carrying it backwards along the ledge. Eventually the blue bottle is subdued. I want to save the bluebottle, and I can, but I don’t - for who then would save the spider?

Can’t help thinking though that it would be like a person eating a live horse - from the rear.

Against the far conifers I see waves of rain. The sky has darkened and the rain is heavy everywhere. Still though, it is not as bad as the previous 2 days. Yes I will cycle today.

The tapes and journals of my American Cycle are in a couple of boxes somewhere here. I should locate the point where I left off posting them online and get going again.

Beyond the trees and the belting rain a line of bright sky appears. The dark clouds cover only the mainland, for the sea is visible through the rain, and bright blue it is in the sun, surrounding islands of bright green. I feel happy for the islands.

Take the ladder from the workshop and look at the porch roof. It appears to have some flashband applied on half of it since I looked at it a couple of weeks ago. But that half isn’t stopping the rain coming in either.

Bang my head coming out of the bathroom.

Before I cycle I will take the dog for a good walk so that she is tired and won’t mind being left behind for the first time properly since we moved here. By the time I have my boots on everywhere is shrouded in lashing rain, and everything but sheep and trees disappears from view. We walk anyway. For 10 metres. Although it looks like it’s down for the day, it’s been so changeable so far that I decide we can wait.

Met Eireann has a rather simplistic looking rainfall radar online. I watch the animation of rain moving across Ireland but missing us, as outside my window I watch the heavy rain as far as the eye can see, very much getting us. The UK Met Office seems more accurate and tells me we might be in the clear before long. The BBC is the easiest of all to follow and also predicts an end but not for over an hour yet.

All the time the dog is still standing waiting to go on the promised walk.

We trust the BBC. Doesn’t everybody, apart from American conservatives? And we walk in the light rain expecting it to at least not get heavier. It doesn’t.

After a 3 mile walk the dog is ready to nap and asks me to fix her bed. I tuck her in and tell her that she will be minding the house while I head off.

As I put more air into the tyres I see a red car coming up my driveway. Somehow it is finding the space to turn around and leave. It has an L plate.

For all but half a kilometre I can cycle on backroads the 4 miles to the village, though I realise I’m mixing my measurements. In truth the smoothness of the main road is welcome when I reach it. Plus it isn’t that busy though anything going past is doing so at speed.

You’re more in danger of an accident from looking at the scenery. In every direction. The mountains are still there of course, changing their patterns with every twist of the road and every change in the sky, but you are much closer to the sea. Meanwhile close up you go past cottage doors, open frequently, and asses in fields. And all the time accompanied by the smell of burning turf.

In the village I don’t talk. I buy food for me and for the dog. And I get a puncture repair kit just so I can get my hands on some patches. Close to closing time it seems too late to bother asking people the nearest town I might be lucky enough to find the much needed spare inner tubes.

Taking photographs with my hair blowing in front of the lens has been a problem but if I am to tie my hair back I must buy a dozen elastic hair ties, all girlie coloured and 2 euro to boot. I didn’t really want 3 years’ supply. And I suppose a hat will keep my hair in check. It’ll be cold enough for the hat soon.

After buying the food on the main street I go around the corner - to the other street - but the shops there have closed while I was shopping.

From the center of the village you can see my house. If I had a scope with me I could wave to the dog. If the dog had a scope too that is. I waved anyway.

The ride back is glorious. Not in how I do it - I’m clearly out of straightforward cycling practice let alone in hauling a load that includes 4 litres of milk and 4 kilos of dog food - but in the scenery. The sky is largely blue with wisps of white and blue-gray clouds, but the mountains are magnificent as are the bogs below them, in the late evening hues of the sun.

It is the best the mountains have looked yet. This is my cycle home, I tell myself, the nearest thing I have to a commute.

Cranking uphill I am sweating when from somewhere in the blue sky soft rain sprinkles on me to cool me down. It is a perfect feeling.

From a mile away I tell myself I am home. And I keep telling myself I’m home until I wheel Long Grass into the porch for unloading.

Sitting at the table in the kitchen I get cramp in my right leg. Very quickly I am prostrate on the tiled floor stretching the leg. As I get back into cycling that will go.

After 3 days of rain I have no dry wood left to light a fire, but the dog and I have eaten good knowing we have plenty of food for the days ahead, so bedtime makes sense.

I let Long Grass sleep in the porch.

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More from The Cottage:
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   • Day 1 at The Cottage
   • 12 Photos of Scenery Around The Cottage
   • 12 Photos not all Mountains and Islands
   • My Cycle Across America

Read: The Cottage - Day 5 »

Here are 12 photographs I’ve taken from my new home or within minutes walk of it.

As I post these it is now raining, as it was yesterday, and it will be for ever more.

For the moment I’ve not included the pictures that would most identify exactly where I’m living, because it’s more fun that way - but we’ll get to those soon enough.

If you’re looking at this on the IrishKC.com home page you’ll just see 1 picture and need to click on through for the other 11.

1. Mountains, bog, and sheep:

[The rest of the photos are below the fold]

Read: 12 Photos »

A thin layer of clouds hints at a nice day. I can still see the strips of lightness half an hour later when the cold and heavy rain starts again. Sorry dog, we should’ve moved sooner. And we would have if you hadn’t got me out of bed at half 4 in the morning.

A few miles away over the sea and over the village it looks nice. There’s even some blue sky. It could just be raining on my house. The mountains do that. Or I was very bad in a previous life.

I’m okay for milk today, and for bread, but if I don’t cycle to restock then I’ll definitely have to go tomorrow whatever the weather.

The porch is leaking in different places to yesterday. Not simply dripping from different spots but different sources too. Maybe I should attach wheels to my art table.

3 hours later the rain stops, but I can see it on the mountains behind the house and to the west. Quick, Dog-dog, let’s go down to the gate and see if there’s any post.

There isn’t any post of course, because I haven’t told anyone where I live, including the Post Office, but I like the routine of checking. And a 10 minute walk to the gate and back again is just about all we can manage before the rain drops again.

To make up for another promise of a walk dashed, I turn the day into Christmas for the dog. From long-term storage I open the box that houses some things the dog hasn’t seen since America over a year ago. The spikey ball, the holey-ball, and most of all, the burger. The dog is ecstatic and squeaks the burger for a solid, and it must be said, annoying, 10 minutes. Decide not to give her the squeaky duck until another day.

A mile away I see the postman’s van. The postman could be a woman it occurs to me. The post van comes across the bog towards me. I see it turn at the bushes and disappear behind the trees.

It doesn’t come out the other side so I must have post after all. Or the postman or woman has been horribly attacked at my gate.

As the islands recede into the mist the wind picks up. I see leaves 50 feet in the air traveling to a different county. The rain comes up from the ground and pelts the window. Then all is still. For 30 seconds, before with a roar, a range of vegetation I’m unfamiliar with passes the cottage. Judging by the movement the wind appears to be coming from the east. And the west. And the south.

Milk is low. Despite the ferocity of the wind I feel a compulsion to go out there on the bicycle. Or at least to see if there’s a dead postman.

But I also feel it would be unfair to leave the dog alone in this noise. So instead we go for a walk.

About a mile away there are a couple of houses and we come across an elderly couple walking up the hill to their home. They are wrapped in anoraks and several other layers, trying to duck underneath the wind. What a day, gasps the woman to me. It’s beautiful, I respond as her husband is lifted off his feet and deposited in the field behind.

Walking back I point out to Dog-dog the sheets of rain to the west and to the east. Dog-dog points out we are in the middle of that very rain which is why we are both soaking wet and squinting.

A sheep is loose on the road and before I can react the dog realises and goes to give chase. If the sheep knew that the dog would never actually attack it could simply pretend to be a cat and the dog would stop. But instead the sheep leaps through the fence and I heavily scold the dog, particularly in the nose area, before putting her on the leash. Now that the sheep has bolted.

The rest of the walk home the dog cowers when she hears me say the word sheep.

As I sit down from making the tea I see some blue outside. The sand dunes and the islands are dipping in and out of bright sunlight. Gleaming at me. At me personally.

As the tea draws so does the sun. The wind remains but it seems a fair trade off. You keep shining there sun, and me and the bike will be with you as soon as I’ve finished this pot of tea.

The cottage itself and everywhere in view is then bathed in sunshine. For almost as long as the first cup of tea. Then the darkest clouds of the day with the heaviest rain covers everything, and I am down to minimal visibility for the night.

Tomorrow I will cycle to the village. Won’t I?

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More from The Cottage:
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   • 12 Photos of the Scenery Around the Cottage
   • 12 Photos not all Mountains and Islands

Read: The Cottage - Day 4 »

The first thing I see is a large white van a mile away. Too early for my modem surely, and too near without directions. I follow its progress but it doesn’t turn at the bushes, instead going on for the mountains.

Dark clouds and the wind is still roaring all around. Watch the waves break at the far end of the island that’s 6 miles away. Then realise they must be big waves if I can see them from this distance, so watch them with my monocular. They are frightening.

The distant island is barely visible, and wouldn’t be but for the feint shape of the cliffs.

Hope the courier can find his way here as this wind and rain is no fun for cycling.

Still can’t find my cereal bowls. As I’ve had them for 20 years I probably packed them safely. Just a pity I didn’t tell myself where. I improvise again. The fruit bowl. A large piece of pottery with its own stand. It’s like eating cornflakes out of the Ardagh Chalice.

The water in the house seems almost clear, or I’m just not seeing the colour brown anymore.

The courier calls. He’s 8 miles away and wants me to meet him somewhere easy.

I say it will take me 10 or 15 minutes to get to the main road. Even though he’s not there himself yet he says he can’t wait and wants to leave the package at the village. So I gamble on partial directions and cycle off to meet him half way.

When he doesn’t show I realise I’ve sent him the wrong way. He calls before I do.
-To save you time why don’t you head back to the main road and continue on with your route. I’ll be on the main road a couple of miles before you hit the village.
He’s delighted, even though it’s the same plan I had first put to him that he rejected.

It doesn’t matter so much getting blown all over the road when there’s no other vehicles on the road.

The mountains are all covered in clouds. Sometimes I think they look bigger when you can’t see the tops of them. Having a pot of tea and a smiling dog waiting for you is so nice. Can’t help but wonder if the modem will work in the long term but not in this weather.

Sheets of rain from the east batter the wall beside me. I can no longer see any islands, or even the sea. I can barely see beyond the bog.

It works. Not great, but it works. I am online. You don’t get to start having online fun though. No, if you’ve been bold in life and been offline for a period of time, you have to go back and pick up from where you left off. Only when hundreds of emails and blog comments are dealt with can you dive into the latest happy online dance of hello world.

After 6 hours of sheeting rain and deafening wind, it all stops and the sun comes out. So the dog finally gets out of bed. We get 15 minutes and then the rain starts again, but this is just normal lashing rain. From the prevailing west winds. The earlier crazy stuff was from the east. Magically, and very briefly, the distant island is bathed in sunshine and through the rain on the mainland I get my clearest view of it yet.

The porch leaks. A sun-room stuck on the front. The place where I want to paint. The house being so small there is no room elsewhere for my art table, so a condition of my moving here was that the roof to the porch be fixed. Water drips, almost pours, straight onto the centre of my art table. There are two other leaks. No, three.

I’m not fussy and can live with leaks but these leave no room for my art table, and mean that work on paper there would be impossible. There will be lots of days like this. There will be lots of rain. This is not good. The move could be over before it’s barely started.

Restarting painting is postponed and I go back to unpacking, and to rearranging canvases and art materials.

Tea in hand when the rain eases off I walk the 5 minutes down the drive to the postbox. The dog is very disappointed we don’t walk further and takes persuasion to go back to the house before the low black clouds over the mountains drop more autumn goodness on us. We make it just in time.

Over toasted brown bread bolognaise, night falls and the rain hides all lights, including the village and even the lighthouse.

After midnight the rain stops and the wind eases. I stand outside and listen to the sea.

Read the Next Day at the cottage
Read the Previous Day at the cottage
List of all the Days at the Cottage

See Also:
   • The Cottage - Day 1
   • The Cottage - Day 2
   • Photos of The Cottage
   • 12 Photos of the Scenery Around the Cottage
   • 12 Photos not all Mountains and Islands
   • The Cycle Across America - The Beginning

Read: The Cottage - Day 3 »

Wake up to the sound of the dog jumping. Windy but another beautiful day. Drink first pot of tea watching a wren in the fuchsia.

It’s all so quiet; apart from the wind I hear nothing but birds and sheep. It could be any day of the week.

Collect wood for fire.

Walk the 5 minutes down to the postbox. At least today’s is dry unlike the wet stuff I collected for the landlord and previous tenants yesterday.

Reassemble my art table. Reassemble my computer desk.

Dog-dog is barking. Sheep. Different sheep. Different field. Cut some wire fencing and attach it to gate so dog can’t step through and chase sheep. Again.

I’ve earned my lunch, but I share it with the dog anyway. She wants to go for a walk. The door is open and she walks around freely with an entire county at her disposal, but she wants me to take her for a walk.
-Let me finish this pot of tea.

When I produce my boots and the leash the dog is overjoyed. I put her on the leash for the first 50 metres, then she’s off for good.

A man stops his tractor and walks towards me. I wait with the dog.
-It’s okay, that’s a smile not a growl, honest.
He is the first person I have spoken to since I moved. He asks me for directions.

I don’t know where the Ramsays live. We chat for a few minutes and I tell him the only life I’ve seen for miles is the house about a mile away with the green gable. He’s looking for a two story farmhouse, says he’ll call his father in the Isle of Man for directions, walks back to his tractor, and turns it around for the 15 mile journey home.

The dog and I walk towards the mountains. Up through the gap, and onto a boreen. A magnificent wide valley of blanket bog overlooked by THE mountain. When the boreen disappears under water we walk to the top of the hill.

Amongst all the heather and the bog grasses at the very top there is a lush green thick grassy knoll. I sit down. The dog rolls in a long grassy bath.

The view. 360 degrees of mountains and coastline. Sometimes you just don’t talk. Both us just sit and look, down on our house and out at the sea.

On the walk back over the bog we are confronted by a hidden stream. I can jump it but the dog can’t. It’s also 3 feet below so she can’t step into it. So I squat in the middle of it and the dog uses me as a stepping stone. Or a leaping stone as it was.

From the hill top to our home is probably only 20 minutes, but time has few markers when there are no other people around.

While I’m making the tea the dog comes to me and asks me to move the newly reassembled desk so she can get access to her bed. While she’s napping I take Long Grass out for the first time.

Don’t cycle too far though because I have no patches never mind spare tubes. So I just scavenge some wood. Not a problem for Long Grass to transport.

Dog-dog is waiting outside the door when I return. I pretend I found a tennis ball and she plays with it wildly.

The wind is roaring in the evening sun, and the luminous grass outside my window sways every direction while the Hawthorn tree stays rigid.

Unbox my paints. The oldest of friends, waiting and ready.

As the temperature drops suggest an evening walk to the dog who seems disappointed I only carry the leash rather than attach it to her.

Bang my head coming out of the bathroom.

Use my toaster for the first time.

After dinner I light the fire and the dog runs out of the house. 15 minutes later I go out to bring her in. She is sitting in the rain looking at the house. She doesn’t want to come in to the place where the fire is. I have to carry her.

Move the dog’s bed to the kitchen and close the door on the warm room. Feel guilty so join the dog in the kitchen as the fire burns away behind a closed door.

It’s a noisy night with the wind sweeping down the mountain behind me.

Read the Next Day at the cottage
Read the Previous Day at the cottage
List of all the Days at the Cottage

See Also:
   • The Cottage - Day 1
   • The Cycle Across America - The Beginning
   • Photos of The Cottage
   • 12 Photos of the Scenery Around the Cottage
   • 12 Photos not all Mountains and Islands

Read: The Cottage - Day 2 »

Woke up to the field that opens onto my front door having 50 sheep in it. The only way in is right past the door. The farmer must have brought them through when I was unconscious on the floor.

One of the big concerns about this new life is the dog thinking sheep are to be chased and then getting shot. Every day in Wexford she barked at horses and cattle, chasing them in her own head from a field away.

To prevent the chasing somebody had suggested I kidnap a sheep and lock it with the dog in an outbuilding for the night, but if chasing is a shooting offence I can’t imagine the punishment for kidnapping.

Anyway I now have dozens of sheep at my disposal, and I let the dog out.

Dog-dog mildly growls, more of a purr really. The sheep aren’t bothered. Dog-dog stops growling, and continues the exploration by nose of all around that had commenced the night before. Maybe it’s only big horse-shaped and cow-shaped dogs that bother her.

Start a compost. Or in other words, make tea.

Unpack the food.

Open several of my boxes from long-term storage but can’t find a bowl. A square plastic container will work for cereal.

The milk doesn’t seem very cold. Switch on fridge.

Go for a 4-mile walk with the dog.

Because we’d already twice walked down the drive to our gate and back again, altogether a distance of a mile or more, this time I had to use the leash so that Dog-dog could get excited and appreciate that it really counted as a walk. Halfway down the drive I took her off the leash again.

2 miles and no cars. The sun came out.

After waving at an oncoming car heading towards the mountains, when it passes follow it by sight for 2 miles and see it park at a house about a mile east of the cottage. It’s my nearest neighbour.

Dog-dog couldn’t wait for the water back at the house and drank from the bog. It’s probably the same water. The cottage has its own spring.

Saw into logs the wood I picked up yesterday during the break on the drive from Dublin, and go collecting more wood. Root around for some pieces of turf before setting the fire.

Unpack some more. Decide cooler won’t get much use here and rededicate it as the bread bin.

The water doesn’t seem to be as brown as when I visited the house 2 weeks ago. Bang my head coming out of the bathroom.

Measure doorway to see what can and can’t fit into the house. It is 2 foot 5 inches. Everything I own will fit in.

When the lighthouse comes on I realise it’s time for dinner, but first watch a boat come in.

On a frying pan for one do eggs and sausages and share with a dog. Add brown soda bread and copious amounts of tea.

Light the fire. Dog gets scared and runs out of the house.

Outside in the dark trying to persuade the dog to come back in, the only noise I can hear is that of Sheep grazing.

Can’t find my sheets, but go to bed anyway. An actual bed. Can’t remember the last time I did that in a place I called home. Just before I fall asleep I realise it has been Sunday and not Monday.

Read the Next Day at the cottage
List of all the Days at the Cottage

Photos:
   • 12 Photos of the Scenery Around the Cottage
   • 12 Photos not all Mountains and Islands

More Personal Adventures:
   • On Me Holidays
   • Deerfield, A Dublin Day Trip
   • The Last Time I Went To London
   • Going Out The In Door
   • A Rubbish Time in Dublin West

Read: The Cottage - Day 1 »

So I’m sheltering from sheets of rain somewhere in Ireland.

Luckily for you however I took some photos yesterday when the weather preferred cameras.

Here’s a quick 4 of the place that this week I am calling home. I’ll share a lot more words with you, and plenty of other photos, later.

Bean an Tí:

Spot my cup of tea:

Cottage and outbuildings from across the field:

From the road (cottage on right, building in centre is abandoned):

Read all of the Days at the Cottage

See Also:
   • 12 Photos of the Scenery Around the Cottage
   • The Cottage - Day 1
   • 12 Photos not all Mountains and Islands

Read: A New Home »

Today I move to a new home in Ireland with all of my boxes.

Technically speaking it’s only with half of my boxes, but I’ll spare you the details of the why on that - for now.

I’m moving away from wireless land, into a land not just without broadband, but without a telephone line.

As things stand I don’t even have the ability to get mobile dial-up, but I’m hoping to change that before I climb into the van full of boxes and turn to my dog and say “drive!”.

Whatever happens I will once again be offline. If I’m very lucky it could be for just one day. But it could easily be for 2 days, or even 2 weeks.

So, I’ll see you when I see you I suppose. If all goes well I’ll be painting tomorrow. A picture. Painting a picture. That should be nice.

Read: Off Again, Back Soon »