A Dee Tour

Parts 1 to 4

Manu and I held back our tears as we left Brighton, and jumped on a train bound for Londontown.

Brighton station

Of course, being on, near, or actually within earshot or sight of a train or plane makes Manu extremely happy. Just like that. Which really helps when you're saying goodbye.

She was very happy to take the tube on the new Elizabeth line in London, which is all swish and shiny and sparkly, just like the jewels it's namesake ex-Queen Elizabeth II used to wear before she was suddenly spirited away to the next realm, where heredity or geography is of absolutely no use to you whatsoever, oh bother.

Amazing what they can do with plastic and concrete these days. Yes, Paradise is closer than you think. It's right here, apparently, it's just that we can't see it.

When we got to Dublin everything was in Irish. Ooops, I'd forgotten about that. But in English too, luckily. English and Irish are the two official languages in Ireland, but, surprisingly, only about 30,000 people speak Irish as a native language.

Irish is widely spoken in what are known as the Gaeltacht areas, basically some western, northwestern and southwestern coastal regions. The language has Celtic origins (pronounced seltic in Ireland, not keltic), and is one of the oldest languages in Europe. It sounds rather cute, I must say.

As does an Irish person speaking English.

And guess who'd also just arrived in Dublin? My dear dear friend Michael, from Wombarra, south of Sydney, a man I've known since we weren't even men. It was so amazing to see him, the last time we rendezvoused was when we were roaming the towns, jungles and rivers of Laos, about 9 months ago.

Michael during a purplish-blue patch

Michael's mission in Ireland was to meet up with some distant cousins, and explore some of the lands upon which his ancestors roamed, back in the day when men were men, and sheep were glad.

Michael's mother is a Dee, and one of his cousins had planned an extensive itinerary to show Michael the family sites, and give him the chance to meet some other distant relatives, who turned out to be very far from distant.

And as for Manu and I, our mission was just to tag along, and to see whether all those stories of impossibly green Irish fields, of wild tempestuous seas, of crazy nights in musical pubs, and of ragtag armies of staggering bearded men who've had way more than one too many pints of Guinness, were actually true.

When we arrived in Dublin it was misty, foggy, grey, drizzly and cold. Yes, every miserable adjective known to humankind to describe the weather was applicable. In other words, it was a typical Irish summer eve.

We checked into our dorm at a hostel, and then went off to meet Gerry Dee, Michael's cousin, and his wife Monica.

We found some falafels or some other fried somethings to eat, which, along with everything else in Dublin, cost us an arm and a leg. I have to be really careful, because since I arrived in Europe I've already realised that at this rate it'll be impossible for me to return to my bike in Bishkek and keep riding, as I'll have no limbs left whatsoever.

In Dublin there's a pub on every corner, and there's one in between the ones on every corner, and then one in between the one in between the ones on every corner, and yes, you get the picture.

Yeah, there's a few pubs about. And they're all so interesting, they're amazing antique places, full of character (and of full characters), and they're all cosy and inviting, in a Dublin kinda way.

I caught this leprechaun trying to steal a Guinness at the pub.

Then I realised that he's actually Michael's cousin Gerry, so I released him, and he then proceeded to buy us all as many Guinesses as a non-Irish could drink, which wasn't that many, I'm sorry to admit. Or happy to admit, I'm not sure which.

Gerry and Monica are the most amazingly warm, generous, interesting and fun people. Gerry was very keen to show Michael many of the sites frequented by his ancestors, and they both embraced Manu and I like kin, even though we are very unIrish, and, by some weird coincidence, share a weird Polish surname. Michael has a weird and very unIrish surname too, for that matter, but no one seemed to care about that either.

So typical of the all inclusive hospitable Irish style.

Our district in Dublin is called Mountjoy, which is quite a misnomer as it's a bit of a rough area, with dodgy looking characters hanging around the laneways and street corners, lookin like dey want sometin' off ya.

The underpasses smell of piss laced with beer, there's even tents pitched by homeless people in those dark corners, and there's street dealers and hustlers. I felt safe enough in a posse, but probably wouldn't walk around there alone very late at night.

It wasn't always like this. In the mid/late 90s and early 2000s Ireland was the place where big money lived, and its hugely fast-growing growing economy was coined the Celtic Tiger. Generous corporate tax rates and relatively low wages led to the city becoming a major hub in the tech and finance industries, and many huge multinationals moved their HQs to the country. There was work everywhere, professionals flocked there, and money was falling from people's pockets like popcorn from the hands of a greedy child.

But then came the GFC, the global financial crisis, which hit Ireland like a bomb. On St Patrick's Day, March 17th, 2008, the Irish stock market crashed and burned, as a result of the meltdown in the US financial system. The financial services industry in Ireland was left in a smouldering heap, and the government (thought it) had no option but to bail it out, spending a fortune of taxpayers money doing so.

With no money left in the kitty the government then embarked on a huge austerity program, slashing spending on many essential government services. As large companies moved out, unemployment rates surged, and millions began struggling to make ends meet. A survey in 2011 showed that 25% of people in Ireland at that time had less than 20€ per week to live on, once essential bills were paid. 20€ could only buy you a few coffees.

Just for comparison purposes, about 13% of adults (and 17% of kids) currently live below the poverty line in Australia, the 15th highest poverty rate of all the OECD countries.

Just saying.

The Irish economy has now relatively recovered, and is currently on a bit of a positive march, but many people have fallen through the cracks, and the financial and fiscal crash of that time has left many long term victims.

And there's also a big problem with alcohol in the country. The Irish Health Board estimates that 70% of men and 34% of women (aged 15+) could be described as hazardous drinkers. We saw countless drunk people stumbling about being hazardous, and the pubs seem to do a roaring trade, even during the day. Weekend nights, and even some week nights, are nuts.

I don't want to overstate the problem, as of course it's quite varied, but I did see quite a lot of obviously drunk people staggering around the streets, some of them reminded me of the vodka-charged men you see stumbling around the streets in some of the ex-Soviet republics.

What the world looks like as a hazardous drinker.

We slept like tired-and-Guinness-imbued logs in our comfy hostel capsule beds, and Michael and I wandered the Dublin streets in the morning, as Manu continued to get her beauty sleep.

View from our hostel. Manu was in train heaven.

I don't think they want people to go up there.

Local cop shop

Someone nice blew Michael a kiss.

He blew one back.

Shonky deals in dingy alleys.

Ubiquitous umbrellas

Michael having a conversation with James Joyce, a very well known Irish writer, whose books Ulysses, The Dubliners and A Portrait Of The Artist As A Young Man are all regarded as literature classics.

The interior of the beautiful GPO building, which is historic not only for its architectural beauty, but for its role in the Irish fight for independence from the British.

Independence

From its early history, the island of Ireland was occupied and administered on and off as a dependency of England, and then of Great Britain. It was ruled by English monarchs, and the state was dominated by the Protestant English (or Anglo Irish) minority. It's parliament was composed of Anglo-Irish nobles.

Over time land was confiscated from the native Irish Catholics, and colonised by Protestant settlers. The Irish Catholic minority suffered official discrimination under British laws. Catholicism was suppressed, and Catholics were barred from government, parliament, and most public offices.

This led to a number of uprisings over the centuries, most of which were brutally suppressed.

During the First World War, all members of the armed forces of the British Empire, including the Irish, fought for the Allies against the Germans, Ottomans, and the Austro-Hungarians. In 1916 the British Government introduced conscription into its armed forces, as the war was being fought on many fronts. The British army was short of manpower, and needed more corpses on the ground.

A large band of Irish independence fighters began a major uprising in protest at the conscription decree. The Irish fighters took control of the GPO and a number of other public buildings, but were defeated by the overwhelming force of the British after about a week of street fighting.

The Brits then executed many of the ringleaders, which led to a huge swell of support for the rebels, and their cause. Many Irish had initially disagreed with the uprising, but, when their countrymen were brutally executed, the dead rebels suddenly became martyrs. D'oh!

A war erupted, which lasted for six years, and culminated in the splitting of the country. The Irish Free State (now the Republic of Ireland), which accounts for 83% of the total land area of the island, gained independence in 1922, but the northeast corner remained under British rule, and was named Northern Ireland.

Many in the north have never accepted this outcome, and the bloody war against the British continued there for decades.

The Declaration of Independence in 1916.

I need one of these

A former church, now wrapped in glass

Waterskiing on horses

Polish stores. Poles have a long history in Ireland, and not just for holding up electric wiring and road signs. They are the largest immigrant group here, equal in number with migrants from the UK. When Poland became a member of the EU, Ireland was one of the first countries to allow Polish citizens the right to live and work there, and they came in droves.

Well, they flew or took the ferry, but anyway.

The outside of Molloy's pub. Someone smashed the front window overnight, no doubt in an attempt to swipe some much unneeded whisky.

Michael looking very Victorian

To Limerick

We eventually headed west out of town, towards county Kerry, from where our relative tour was based.

Cruising through the city on our way out.

The burbs. Dublin's pretty small, with only a million people living there. 999,000 of them are drunk at any one time.

It didn't take us long to get outa town, and, just as Gerry had predicted the night before, the weather got better as we headed west. I hadn't believed him, thinking it was just the pride talking, or the Guinness.

Our rendezvous point with Gerry and Monica was Barack Obama Plaza, named after the hip ex-President, who visited there once upon a time, when some local Irishman proved he had Irish blood in him.

Well, we probably all have Irish blood in us, because we all know that those Irish Catholics breed like rabbits and migrate like rats. But that's another matter.

I really don't know what to say about this except that it really is a strange world sometimes.

He looks so Irish.

Yeah yeah, I know. Irish people come in all colours, shapes and sizes these days.

Troubled

After the Republic of Ireland won independence in 1916, the northern part of the country, Northern Ireland, known locally as the "Six Counties", remained a territory of the UK, as some people within that part of the country, generally the descendants of original Protestant colonists, were staunchly loyal to the English.

What followed was bloody sectarian and communal violence between the Catholic Irish nationalists and the Protestant unionists, especially in Belfast, the capital of Northern Ireland.

For 50 years, Northern Ireland was ruled by various Unionist pro-British governments, and supported by the army. Discrimination against Catholics continued, and in the late 1960s a move to end this discrimination resulted in what became known as The Troubles, a 30-year conflict involving republican paramilitary forces, such as the Provisional IRA, fighting against unionist forces such as the Ulster Volunteer Force, which was supported by the Royal Ulster Constabulary (the cops) and the British Army.

The violence claimed over 3,500 lives, over half of which were civilians, and injured over 50,000 others, mainly in Northern Ireland. But the killings also spilled over into the Republic of Ireland and the UK.

The length of the list of dead Irish, who were senselessly killed by either pro-UK or pro-nationalist forces, is heart wrenching. Over half were civilians.

The dead also included Lord Mountbatten, the uncle of Queen Elizabeth II's husband, who was blown to kingdom come whilst on a boat trip on holidays in Ireland in 1979. The IRA also bombed military ceremonies in London's Hyde Park, killing four soldiers and seven members of the military band. I remember seeing photographs of dead horses as a kid.

The 1998 Good Friday Agreement, a multi-party agreement between most of Northern Iteland's political parties, and between the governments of the UK and the Republic of Ireland, finally ended most of the violence.

It resulted in the establishment of a more devolved Northern Irish parliament, which now operates with a degree of autonomy from Westminster, which is the UK parliament. But Northern Ireland is still officially very much a part of the UK.

Sinn Fein, the political wing of the IRA, have now become the most popular party in Northern Ireland, and there's talk of a new political move towards independence from the UK, and eventual union with the Republic of Ireland. But who knows when, or if, that will ever really happen.

"Yes we can!" (skull a whole pint of Guinness).

Believe it or not, but there have been at least 23 US Presidents who can prove Irish heritage, including JFK, Harry Truman, Ronald Reagan, the Bushes, Bill Clinton and even Sleepy Joe Biden. Trump probably has Irish blood too, but no one's talking about that around here.

St Patrick is one of the most famous Irish people of all time. Shame he isn't Irish.

Olaf, who was named after me

He really is a devil isn't he. This was in the ladies. Don't ask me what I was doing in there, but at least I got to see how creatively lipstick can be used sometimes.

After meeting Monica and Gerry, and eating some overpriced snacks, we kept heading west.

We ended up at the University of Limerick, where Michael's great great great grandfather, who apparently was also great, had been head gardener at this estate, before it became part of the University.

On the occasion of being in Limerick, I needed to write a limerick. It took me whole minutes to come up with it:

There once was a trio from Oz

Who couldn't work out where they was

They'd drunk so much Guinness

And lost all their thinness

N'that's all I can think of, so soz

The Limerick University grounds were beautiful, and the original estate building, Plassey House, was full of fine things, including a very swish restaurant, an art collection, and various precious old stuff.

This was actually found in a bog, and has been dated at, wait for it, 9500BC! Incredible isn't it.

But I'm not sure of the age of the antlers.

John Lennon's great great great grandfather.

Been camping for too long

Reclining Buddhress

We went for a beautiful stroll through the gardens to the river.

Maybe Michael's ancestor planted some of these trees, who knows.

Eventually we ended our stroll down memory lane, and kept heading west on more hedgy roads through County Kerry, or the Kingdom of Kerry, as locals like to call it.

There were some very cute towns on the way

Eventually we made it to our little home for the next few nights, in Finuge, a one cow village not too far from the west coast, and the wild North Atlantic Ocean.

Our cute home

This light was on 24 hours. There's no switch to turn it off, it always remains on, to represent the unceasing presence of God, (an all-loving and supposedly all-knowing God who really should get up to speed on the impacts of needless electricity consumption). Often there's a statue of Jesus or Mary or some other Catholic bigwig by the light, but our host removed it, as he rents this place as a b'n'b, and he implied that some people may be bit weirded out by that sort of thing.

Local wildlife, none of which we saw. We did see a couple of foxes in Brighton though, of all places.

As we were in Ireland we had to respect the local culture, so we went to have a beer straight away, at the pub next door.

The pub is basically the only thing that exists in Finuge, besides a few houses, and the pub was empty, save for a couple of locals who looked as if they'd been superglued to the furniture.

Later Gerry and Monica generously shouted us an extremely deelicious meal in Listowel, a really interesting and colourful town a few clicks up the road.

One of the local churches.

The Listowel Arms dining room was quite full with local diners, and the front bar packed with footy watchers, all hoping England would be defeated in its semi final Euro match against the Netherlands. It wasn't. England made the final (and lost it, to Spain).

We left the horses in here

The restaurant was actually very swish, and our combined meals would've cost Gerry and Monica a small fortune, bless their leprechaunical hearts.

The moon views out the back were stunning.

Listowel is famous because one of Ireland's great writers, John B. Keane, lived there for many years. Keane, a playwright, novelist and essayist, wrote many of his works from his room upstairs at one of the local pubs, where he and his wife were publicans, back in the 50s and 60s.

Keane wrote great works such as "The Field," "Sive," and "The Man From Clare."

Manu extracting poetry from John B's fingers.

Keane's pub still exists, and is now called the John B. Keane, in his honour. These days it's run by his extremely hospitable, hilarious and totally quirky son, Bobby Keane.

The front bar of the John B. Keane. This picture is a scene from his play, "Sive." Set in rural Ireland, it's the story of a young teenage girl who is forced by her parents to marry a rich and lecherous old village man. But rather than subject herself to such torture, she decides to take her own life, by drowning herself in a pond.

The story of the play was told to me by a man tottering on a stool at the bar, when I asked him what the picture on the bar was all about. It took him about 15 minutes to tell me what I just told you in 15 seconds.

The pub is full of photos and memorabilia and all sorts of interesting things.

Later in the night an old man suddenly broke into poetry, a poem he'd written on the occasion of his granddaughter's engagement. The pub fell completely quiet as he spoke. It was a super tragic tale, made more so by the fact that the reciter had Parkinson's disease, which for me, a non-Irish English speaker, made the tale extremely difficult to understand. My brain nearly exploded. Later on, the same man told a tale about someone who had the shits.

Rather unhygienic

Bobby Keane, holding a couple of full bottles of Guinness

Bobby Keane, accompanied by a couple of fans

Bobby told us there was to be an event there the following night, we all told him we'd be there.

Trying to find the car. Monica was our responsible driver.

Cute Listowel

Deelicious

The next morn we chilled, and had a long scrumptious brekky, (generously provided by Monica and Gerry, surprise surprise). But, in fact, our bellies later regretted it, as we'd been invited to a huge Dee family lunch gathering up the road at Ballylongford. Gerry had warned us not to eat too much, but we'd ignored him.

There's lots of Ballys around here by the way, Ballylongford, Ballybunion, Ballyeagh, bally means "place," or "settlement" In Irish.

The long long lunch turned out to be a wonderful Dee gathering, the family are all so interesting, there were so many nostalgic and riveting conversations about all sorts of relatives, I felt like I was one of them too by the end of it.

I spent a lot of time talking to one of Michael's distant cousins, Gerald, who'd spent a number of years living and travelling in China, and was full of stories of his adventures.

Our host Nora knew there were some vegetarians coming, and thoughtfully provided us with a huge quantity of vegetarian fish. Vegetarian in the sense that it wasn't red meat. She was the most amazing host ever, continuously serving her guests with a never ending procession of amazing foods, wines, cakes, coffees, teas, biscuits, and all manner of other delicacies.

More Dees than a vagabond's report card.

For a tiny country, Irish hospitality is absolutely massive. We were in awe of the Deegeneration's kindness to us all.

And now I know what it feels like to be a pig.

Michael couldn't get up for four days

Later that night we returned to John B's.

Wish Bewdy woz 'ere

The night in the pub was a cracker, a celebration of music, spoken word, and comedy. Bobby was in top form, telling countless stories about his old man, and how much he was loved by his friends. There were 10,000 people at John B's funeral. Quite a testament innit.

Micky MacConnell, a famous Irish singer/songwriter, performed for us all. One of his songs, "Only Our Rivers Run Free," is really big in Ireland, everyone knows it. He chatted to us later in the night, telling us super interesting tales of his life as a journalist, songwriter and musician, and his really difficult childhood in Northern Ireland during The Troubles.

There were other well known poets and singers performing during the night. They all had the audience's total respect. No one spoke a word when they performed. Just like it should be.

Later in the night it was open mic, and Manu and I did a rendition of Waltzing Matilda, and then sang "Starry Starry Night," a famous song about Vincent Van Gogh. The punters really look like they're enjoying it, don't they.

We left the pub feeling all warm and fuzzy - warm after such heartfelt performances by the artists, the super vibrant conversations, and the joy of Manu and I singing together to a very appreciative audience - and fuzzy after a night of drinking Guinness like the Irish.

I tell ya, Irish pubs are all they're cracked up to be.

Last Day In The Kingdom

Kerry county is beautiful place, jam packed with rolling verdant hills, quaint villages, hedgy skinny country roads, and a normally rugged and wild coastline which decided to be quite tame while we were there.

We had a relaxed morn, poring over picture books of the area, including one that featured a poem by a poet we'd heard the previous night in the pub, a guy called Gabrielle Fitzmaurice.

Gabrielle reminds me of my brother Ted, who still wears the same shirts, and sports the same hairstyle, that he did when computers looked like this.

I loved Gabrielle's poem.

Some people still thatch roofs around these parts, although it's pretty expensive to do it these days.

Granulart

Our first fixture of the day was to visit the dead centre of a town called Ballybunion, where a number of Michael's relatives have sadly Deeparted

Major Deecomposition going on here. Respectfully, of course.

Ballybunion Cemetery is jam packed full of Celtic crosses, which are sculpted in this way because that's what they look like when you hold them up to the sun. That's what the early Celts used to do with them.

Well, that's what Gerry told us.

But there are other theories too, one is that the design matched Celtic warrior shields, and another that the circle is a halo, to represent the holiness of God.

Poor Jack was only 14.

The Blessed Virgin Mary, keeping a suffering eye on proceedings.

The cemetery is beautifully situated on the coast, with a golf course right alongside it, which is quite picturesque, but which could nevertheless be rather problematic. I found a golf ball on one grave, and wasn't sure if the person inside it had been struck by it or not.

Oh well, bad luck, but at least you'd save on the hearse fees.

The inlet that winds in to the coast from Ballybunion Beach. Gerry used to come here as a kid, and in those days many fishers would go out to sea from here in their wonky tarred fishing boats.

Not so long back this area was almost tribal, with families engaging in massive feuds and battles, known as "faction fights," and land and buildings sometimes changed hands on quite a regular basis. On top of this, there were constant battles against troops sent by various English kings, battles where anti-English forces were sometimes supported by Spanish or French troops.

Local warlords also took control of strategic places at times, charging taxes for entry to important trading routes and through-roads or rivers.

The magnificent Ballybunion Beach, where the water was so warm that there wasn't any ice in it.

The ruins of Ballybunion Castle, standing defiant on the peninsula. The castle was built in the 14th Century by the Geraldine clan (almost sounds like Gerry Dee doesn't it), but was also occupied by various clans over the years, including troops loyal to the English King James VI.

These days it's just a sea shell of its former self.

Kerry colours

Irish Rails

We climbed up a hill, where Michael's great great someone-or-other once lived, before he made the decision to leave Ireland and move to Australia, where the weather is hot and the beer icy, instead of the other way 'round.

Normally my hair is impeccably neat, but this day was windy. Note that our puffer jackets are off (briefly), which could otherwise be described as a heatwave in Ireland.

Then we went to visit Garrett Dee, another Deestant relative, who lives on the nearby Carrig Island, to drink more tea, eat more cake, and get more Deetales.

Great old stone buildings, some of which Garrett has had renovated into a guesthouse.

Manu amusing herself, as a way of dealing with endless social interactions. She told me to say that. Michael is looking very reflective.

Another fine distraction.

Not sure what martyrs have to do with hay, but hey, it doesn't really martyr.

Ahhh, maybe they're talking of the good crop of fine men that continuously emerge from these fertile meadows, and the endless supply of strong, real women.

We went over to the stunning Caisleán Charraig an Phoill, otherwise known as Carrigafoyle Castle, which lies back on the mainland just over the bridge from Garrett's place, in a very strategic position on one part of the very wide mouth of the Shannon River.

The Shannon has been used as a transport waterway for centuries, and, at 350km long, is the longest waterway in the whole of Britain and Ireland. It passes through many large and strategic towns, including Limerick, and the ancient castle was used to both guarantee security for vessels using the waterway, and also as a way of gathering taxation revenue from traders using the river.

The castle had been held by Irish and Spanish troops, but in 1580 the English attacked, in one of the first ever uses of artillery fire-power in Kerry. The English cannons were too much for one of the castle walls to bear, and it came crashing down, killing many of the garrison soldiers inside. The English took the castle, and, just for good measure, executed the remaining captive soldiers.

That's how they did things in those days.

The castle ruins themselves, despite their bloody history, are bloody amazing. The building itself used to be five storeys high, with a huge number of nooks and crannies, and there's lots to explore as you go up. We had lots of fun in there, reciting our Shakespeare, singing, and just being general wankers.

Some more than others, of course.

I went to the trouble of getting period costume for the performance, searching far and wide to find appropriate peasant rags.

Garrett's property

Eventually it was time to head back to Dubbers. Poor Michael had to drive the whole way, as my Australian drivers licence expired months ago.

The Dubliners

We stayed at a place in Dublin called Mulligans. The problem is, there are more Mulligans in Dublin than you can poke a miner's pick at. And parking's not easy. We went to three different Mulligans before we finally found the right one. Next time I guess we should check the address.

It was a bit of a shitshow, and by the time we got there, at around 9pm on a Friday night, Dublin was pumping with revellers. Temple Bar, on the south bank of the River Liffey, is the centre of nightlife action in the city, and there were people everywhere, with the pubs bouncing, Irish bands playing and singing, and punters yelling and whooping.

Yeah, a Guinness drinker pulling his horse.

Fabulous historic buildings

I grabbed us a pizza, and then we went out to meet Gerry and Monica and their son Connall, who's just as lovely as his oldies. Connall has lived in Paris and Frankfurt as part of his work, and was happy to practice his French and German with Manu.

More black gold. A friendly young local woman offered to take our pic, but she seemed rather full to me. At least we got a blurred photo out of it.

There was a bit of jigi-jigi going on, as usual.

And a poster for one of John B. Keane's plays in the dunny.

At some stage after midnight Michael announced that he'd been in Ireland for 8 days in his whole life, and that on every single one of them he'd found himself in a pub drinking Guinness at 12 midnight.

Well, slainte! to that. That's the word for 'cheers,' in Irish, and is pronounced, "slauncher!"

From Black Beer To Black Coffee

But alas, it was finally time to leave the fair Emerald Isle, which, to be fair, actually was fair for some of the time we were there, in contrast to my grey and bleak earlier predictions, which were unfair, and based on the miserable fare the weather had dished up for us when we first arrived upon its fair shores.

Our time was limited, as Manu needed to get back to work in Germany, Michael needed to work back in Australia, and I needed to get back to my holiday in the Kyrgyz summer before the whole country froze over. I'd deliberately already spent last winter in India and Nepal so I could be in Central Asia during the summer, when the high altitude mountains are actually navigable by bicycle.

But Michael and I still had a few days left together, and we'd decided to spend them somewhere in the direction of Bishkek, where Bewdy, and all my gear, was waiting for me.

Yeah, enough of this mild or cold weather, which our Pommy friends had kept complaining about, and which our Irish friends had described as "hot" or "warm."

Yeah Michael and I were ready for an actual real summer now.

So we were heading to Napoli❤️

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