Cricket... bloody hell...

Moved a few miles north, from the Beara peninsular to the Ring of Kerry. In a country full of evocative place-names, can there be a village name quite as ugly as Sneem, where I’ve wound up this evening? It sounds like some slimy, unctuous creature from a tale by JRR Tolkein or Mervyn Peake. Despite the name, it’s an appealing and colourful little place. I’ve even taken a few pix. Amazingly, after gathering dust in the van for days, the camera still works.

Anyone who took a ‘sickie’ and went to Headingley will have seen the finale to a memorable test match. I hope Joe Root won’t take too much flak for declaring when he did. Sometimes the best way to win a game is to set the opposition a possible - though difficult - target, and then hope to take ten wickets during the run-chase. Kudos to the West Indies team for coming back so strongly, after being written off. Their unlikely win sets up the decider at Lord’s next week. Bring it on!

Keywording...

With the weather showing no signs of improving, I got a pitch at a no-star campsite on the Beara peninsular. Even though it’s still August, and the roads are full of motorhomes and camper vans, there’s no one else on the site; it’s like taking a cruise on the Marie Celeste. At least there was no queue for the showers this morning. I spent my time, while I had the magic combination of an electric hook-up and dependable wifi, keywording about 200 pix (none of them featuring Ireland, alas)…

Yorkshire CCC have issued a 'sick note', signed by a Dr Root, to enable ailing cricket fans to enjoy the last day of the test match at Headingley...

Kenmare...

I’m in Kenmare, County Kerry, having worked for three hours on my book. Early in the morning, when my brain is relatively nimble, the job seems do-able, not the impossible task it can look like later in the day.

The locals are friendly… almost to the point of self-parody, a cynic might say (but not me). Their greetings sound so genuine and solicitous that I’m tempted to offer a litany of ailments and complaints in return (a temptation I’ve so far resisted). Even the usual platitudes are delivered with panache, and a lip-smacking love of language.

The sun came out for a couple of minutes yesterday afternoon; I thought I was hallucinating. I haven’t come to Ireland just to drink Guinness and chat with the locals, and I’m suffering from sunlight deprivation. The camera’s in the van, gathering dust. Until I take some pix, I won’t feel my Irish jaunt has really begun.

I just called into a photographic gallery, and saw some gorgeous landscape pix, all taken within a few miles of Kenmare. The guy behind the counter was the guy who’d taken the pix. He reckoned today and tomorrow will continue to be drizzly, but that I might get a glimpse of the sun on Wednesday…

Hmmm... drugs... I might be tempted to investigate those bags on the quayside...

Rugby...

I had a couple of beers in a bar in the town square. By chance the TV was showing the final of the Women’s Rugby World Cup, broadcast from Belfast, between England and New Zealand. The event failed to engage any of the locals in the bar, who seemed more interested in the price of fish. I don’t much care for rugby, so hadn’t followed England’s progress in the competition. But, from the moment the whistle went, I was gripped.

England women bossed the first half, and took what I thought was a winning lead. In the second half, the New Zealand women upped their game and clawed back the points one by one. With 15 minutes to go, the points were level, and New Zealand had the extra energy to go for the win.

It was a bruising contest. I saw no one duck out of a tackle, and the England team kept going for a ferocious 80 minutes. It was the first time I’d seen women’s rugby; I was impressed by the level of skill, and the ambition to play open, running rugby. I’m not sure how mobile these women will be, after a few years of playing tough, high-octane, international rugby, but I’ll be happy to watch another game some time…

Castletownbere...

Stayed in Bantry last night. There was music in the bars, but I wasn’t in the mood. Headed west this morning, along the Beara peninsula. I passed a lot of photogenic places, but the weather’s poor: dull and grey, with the lightest of drizzle. The landscape still looks beautiful; it’s just difficult to take saleable shots without some light to ‘lift’ the scene.

I’m parked up in Castletownbere, overlooking the harbour; though the town itself is small, it’s still a busy port. There’s a fleet of fishing boats in the harbour, some with Irish names, some French. No one seems to mind me wandering around. The mist is rolling in over the hills, but, hey, this is Ireland!

I’ve been here before. Joy and I did a tour of the West of Ireland about forty years ago in my little Triumph Spitfire, the only sports car I’ve ever owned. My memories of the trip are few, and almost certainly unreliable: the cliffs of Moher, the Lakes of Killarney, the Gallarus Oratory and Castletownbere, where I was fascinated by the bars. You’d go into a barber’s or a bicycle repair shop, and there’d be a dark little bar at the back, where men - and only men - would sit and talk and drink.

I’ll investigate the bars later on. In the meantime I have some writing to do…

Good news...

I’ve been checking my emails regularly, and this morning I got the message I’ve been waiting for. Nephew Ben and partner Hem have a little baby boy: “strong, healthy and completely perfect”.

Since my usual speed of travel in the Romahome is sedate, it’s easy to adjust to the pace of life on the Wild Atlantic Way; this morning, while on the road to Bantry, I was overtaken by a bee...

Baltimore...

It’s been a busy couple of days. I drove from the Gower to Pembroke Dock; thankfully, the postcode supplied took me straight there, to join a queue of cars, vans, lorries and motorhomes waiting for the 2.45am ferry sailing. I met a guy who’d been there for twelve hours, having missed the afternoon sailing “by two minutes”, as he said. He and his son were in good spirits, considering, and were looking forward to meeting up with family in Cork. I had a snooze, correctly assuming that someone would be round to bang on the side of the van when I needed to be on the move. In fact it was the car doors slamming which alerted me to the arrival of the ferry, gliding through the darkness to the pierhead.

I drove to the vehicle check-in. Even before I could say anything, a guy said “Mr Morrison?” When I nodded, he handed me the tickets, and I went to join the rows of cars ready for boarding. By 2.30am we were all on the ferry; from the inside it looked like a floating casino, but my only need was to get some sleep. I folded up my fleece for a pillow (making a mental note to use a proper pillow for the return trip), and woke about 7am as we were docking in Rosslare.

I decided to begin my trip at the south-west tip of Ireland, so drove, via Waterford and Cork, to Skibbereen. I had a few hours wandering round the town, trying to get my bearings. When I returned to the van for an early evening nap, I managed to sleep right though to 7am this morning! I headed for the harbour at the little town of Baltimore, to find an animated scene, with people waiting to go out on boats for either a day’s whale-watching or sea-fishing. The guy ushering people onto his whale-watching boat gave everyone such a warm welcome that I’m certain the day would be memorable, even if they didn’t see too many whales. They looked like they’d get their money’s-worth. I took plenty of pix, before heading off to explore the Mizen peninsular.

Whale watchers at Baltimore…

Hillend, on the Gower, and its campsite. “We have a shop, a café and toilets”, the owner said, with proprietorial pride, as he waved an outstretched arm in a broad arc across a once unspoiled landscape, now filled with cars…