8/9 Slán a Éire

“Do you like Irish breakfast?” someone calls out to me from the side as I come back from the morning toilet. I don’t say no when the campsite neighbors invite me. Real, authentic Irish people from the middle of the country. We had checked in at the same time last night and the man of the family already had an eye on the AWO. I said, “If you do that again, you’ll go blind.” Sorry, a joke. So I accepted the invitation and we talked a bit about Ireland, the relationship with Northern Ireland, and Ukraine. I tried to steer away quickly from the last topic. Please, no such topics on my vacation.

Last night decisions had to be made. When do I leave Ireland, from where, and to where. After Belfast I’d also been flirting with a night in Dublin these past few days and was ready to pay a hefty price for it. So I scoured all the accommodation options for a while, but the longer I did it, the more indecisive I became. Everything struck me as pretty overpriced, and the reviews often mentioned noisy and echo‑y rooms, a musty smell… Okay, I obviously wanted to stay near the city centre, and that costs money, but I expect a certain standard for it. Maybe I expect too much, but… I’ll cut to the chase: I finally decided against Dublin. My wallet will thank me. At some point I also got too tired to find the right place. So it was clear: I’ll leave Ireland this Sunday via Rosslare Harbour and spend the night ahead in Wales. The leg to the southeastern tip of Ireland was a pleasant length, and since there’s a ferry to Fishguard at 7:30 p.m., I chose that option right away. Well, then everything suddenly speeds up. Just a bit after Sunset Boulevard in western Ireland, and less than two days later you’re already in Wales. And if the weather cooperates, maybe even on dry land. “Sitting on dry land” really has a positive ring in Britain, as a tourist.

There are no spectacular passes to report any more. The last mountains are still shrouded in clouds until noon, and the closer I get to the coast the flatter—and the more relaxed—my day becomes. I get to know the sheer cliffs and sand beaches of southern Ireland at low tide, and I keep getting annoyed by the sometimes terrible state of the little side roads I love to use for my routes. At the ferry terminal I strike up a conversation with a Welsh biker named David, and after we’ve checked the obligatory motorcycle topic off the list, we talk about human and interpersonal matters. What connects us across national borders, and the problems of the little man on this side and the other side of the Atlantic. We agree on a lot, a very likable person. But it’s like Sunset Boulevard—things come, things go. They enrich life enormously.

To my surprise, there’s no argument this time about securing the AWO on the ferry. People are understanding and quickly realize that this old vehicle needs a bit more finesse when it comes to lashing cargo. I lean the AWO against a barrier and lash it to prevent it from moving on its own. Still, in the harbor I noticed that the side stand really can’t hold up much longer. The material’s become soft as butter. Trouble looms. For my first night in Wales I booked a hotel room no more than 2 km from the harbor because I don’t want to be hunting for campsites at 11 p.m.

So, what does a “steppe” do who steps onto Welsh soil shortly after 11 p.m. and checks into the hotel five minutes later? Right, he first throws himself into the tub with all the bliss that comes with it. Okay, the smoke detector can’t tell the difference between a cigar’s smoke and …