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We spent time
here on the grass high above the empty beach, watching the waves roll
in. And we bought lunch in the local supermarket. But Ballybunion was
too big and busy for us, so we set off for Ballyheige and the promise
of Banna Strand.
We followed the minor road by the golf course, which has staged the Irish
Open (the course, not the road), and when we could go no further, turned
inland to join the R551, which took us all the way to Ballyheige. When
I say 'took us', I don't mean to imply that it supplied any of the effort,
though at least one of us was struggling for part of the day, and would
have accepted assistance from any quarter, however unlikely.
On the way we had lunch in a field recently cut for silage, near the
Cashen River, and might have dozed off. Neither here nor at any other
place we stopped to rest or eat were we bothered by flies or midges. Did
St. Patrick banish those too?
Then uphill to Ballyduff and on to Causeway, which promotes itself as
a paradise for birdwatchers.
At Ballyheige we cycled without a stop down the main street until we
had a view of the strand and the sea, prepared to be gob-smacked.
And we were.
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The two sides of
the bay at Ballybunion: on one a promontory fort, on the other,
crashing waves. |
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The beach, and
the row of houses behind. |
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It's my middle
name. The pub is in the main street in Ballybunion. I regret not
stopping for a pint, but they wouldn't let me in on the grounds
that I looked too silly. |
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