Leaving Youghal, the only place in Ireland where you drive on the right for sections, I hope, and I kid you not, I was in really good spirits. My knee was feeling MUCH better for all the ice, and, well, it's in such a lovely spot. Sadly, tho, the scenery wasn't to last long as after Midleton, there's just no way to Cork without using the N25, which is a bit like riding along the A14, Vanessa.
In Midleton, I realised my complete inability to give road directions is genetic, as everyone I asked made me want to scream and ride away.
I just took the motorway, where Andy the truckdriver stopped me for a chat and bunged me a tenner! Nice guy, too. Earlier in the day I extorted €2 out of two foxy Polish girls to pump a flat tyre on one of their bikes. Maybe I should set up shop?
When I get home, I extend the challenge to all comers: The Tallbike ten mile time-trial. Riding along a dual carriageway certainly gets your legs spinning, and dull as it is, it reminded me of time-trialling. Who wants a race? Anyway, the N25 turns into a 3 lane motorway, and then i gets REALLY scary... I just stuck it out and rode into the middle of Cork, where I realised that big city types are just as capable of staring agog as country folk...
Found the Travelodge and checked in and set about finding a new seatpost for my bike as the one I have keeps slipping down and upsetting my knee. I phone around, or rather the helpful Reception manager Hannah does, and I find one... I'm into a taxi and off to Douglas Cycles like a kid at Christmas.
If I lived in Cork, Brian at the shop would know me well... what a great shop! Tiny, but full of trick racing bikes, any of which I'd swap the monstrously heavy tallbike for in a second...
he refuses to take the €20 for the post, and wishes me well. I take a last longing look at the sexy Cinelli Unica in the window and jump into my taxi.
In Cork I realise I'm walking around like one of those tourists who looks so naive they're almost inviting a mugging, so I look for a bar to hopefully watch United lose...
I settle on Clancy's as I like the menu, and nobody in there resembles Cork boy, Roy Keane. Good so far...
I plonk myself down and get chatting to Heath, the Australian barman, who, like me, is ecstatic Chelsea are out, wants United to lose, then Milan to beat Liverpool. This level of bitterness can only come from an Arsenal fan, so I'm in good company...
I stuff my face with a huge chicken curry with chips & rice, which the boys at the bar said was on the house! Excellent!
United get thrashed, I met an Irishman with a Sicilian dad called Salvatore Toscana who told me why Irish Pizzas aren't great. No wood-fired ovens, apparently. Shame...
Anyhow, Heath's girlfriend Maeve comes in, and we have a chat and it turn out she knows one of my new mates from Dublin, Catherine. Spooky. I introduce the Irish to the word 'Chav', and hear about the young men of cork taking to the roads in their cars to complain about unreasonable car insurance only to end up in loads of crashes and upsetting the Gardai, which cheers me up after the Tramore incident. I cadge a lift back to the Travelodge and get a nice bit of sponsorship from Heath & Maeve, too. A really nice night.
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