Ireland GTC 1979
A trip to Ireland - July 1979
Herein lies the tale of a legendary (a term used advisedly) motorcycle trip from Bristol, across Wales to Southern Ireland. The adventure continued on up to Northern Ireland, across to Scotland and eventually back south to Bristol and Kent. It tooketh place in the year of our Lord, 1979. Three young men in the prime of their lives, doing their best to bring it to an untimely end.
The steeds chosen for this epic journey were a 750 Norton Commando, recently acquired from a dear friend who had spent much time, effort, money and love tuning it to a state of physical perfection when he probably should have been out shagging, and a Honda 400/4, polished and fettled to within an inch of it's life.
Thankfully a diary was kept which means the exploits of the three protagonists are not forgotten. Photographs taken at the time are included for context.
Diary
On what was otherwise a promising Sunday in August 1979, we posed for a variety of important team photos outside base camp in Bristol, and then set off, late, our departure being delayed by urgent pavement repairs to the Norton's gearbox. The trip was already taking on epic proportions as we motored across the Severn road bridge, Irish road technology already occupying our minds. We were well prepared with waterproofs two excellent motor-cycles and a headlamp shell whose contents promised much. This was a voyage into the unknown.
We set off for Pembroke and the ferry that would take us from Fishguard across to Rosslare on the Emerald Isle, but Wales was dark and Tank managed to run over a piece of 4" x 2" on a fast bit of A road on the way - scary. We finally boarded for our ill-timed night crossing, which despite entirely appropriate punctuation with loud music and many beers left us completely shredded on arrival. It was whilst we were on the ferry that we each took on an alter ego. Beardy (the vagrant) became Gut, the Honda rider (Lift Shaft engineer) became Tank and the vet ('cool man') became C**t (Each completely appropriate).
By the time we got to Rosslare we were shattered. A short and wobbly ride out of town led to this prepossessing farm gate that had all the potential required for what we needed. Tank had an urgent task to attend to, involving his headlamp housing which seemed to result in extreme torpor on the part of all three gallant lads. You've got to make the most of it until we simply had to crash. Aha this looks like the perfect spot!
Refreshed we headed South stopping occasionally to tend to our needs
We dropped into Waterford and thence to Cork. From memory Cork was miserable and like most places we came across dominated by a large Catholic church on a hill overlooking the town. Worth pointing out that the above related to Tank's memory. Speaking for myself (that's Mr C), I have no recollection of going to Waterford.Or Cork. And to this day I'm not entirely sure where either of them are, other than by their reputation which suggests they are probably being in Ireland. It is possible that I became confused during the process of trying to deal with Mr T's headlamp cowling, which by this time was really beginning to play up and needed almost constant attention from his 10mm spanner.
I haven't mentioned the rain...it rained ...a lot. By the time we reached Cork we were so wet and cold that after raiding the headlamp shell we went to watch a Bond movie in the cinema - from memory it was Moonraker - tosh but at least we warmed up.
We continued to head west stopping every now and again... to shelter from the rain. Tank's headlamp shell continued to play up throughout the trip, necessitating frequent dismantling and checking. Luckily he had remembered to pack plenty of preserved vegetables for the journey.
Sometimes, maybe once, the sun came out, but only by mistake. Mr T appears to be sporting a particularly fine pair of Para boots, with a neatly turned jean, both conspiring to mask a pair of neatly turned ankles.
We headed further west across typically wet Irish scenery, and had cause to reflect on the singularly foolish English tradition of 'Motorcycling in the rain' as a participatory sport. It's madness, I tell you. Wet, cold, sore, too hot (very briefly) then wet, cold, sore, tired, bored, scared, wet cold etc etc.
Inevitably we did stop on occasions to refresh but our minds were constantly befuddled...
Country roads in the south of Ireland in the late 1970s were known for a number of key features:
i) pot holes, mud, stones and lack of road markings: overall poor road technology
ii) sheep
iii) old men
This was graphically illustrated one afternoon as the intrepid three were barrelling along in the middle of nowhere, without a care in the world... gentle undulations, slow easy curves, the rural idyll both green and comforting. Then there was a straight bit, and frankly it would have been rude not to. Now, a common consequence of 'opening the throttle' on a well-maintained motorcycle is that the vehicle is propelled forward with some enthusiasm. But this was a new and unknown phenomenon to C**t as he had spend the past few years riding very elderly and poorly maintained British motorcycles that had more of a tendency to gasp, wheeze, splutter and stall in a pool of oil when asked to rise to the occasion. This time, though, it was different and the Commando, so ably fettled by the Precision Engineer himself, leapt forward, sprightly and lithe. Ahead was a little hump-backed bridge, ideal for a little take off.
Which it did, revealing - as bike & riders shot skywards - the presence of a flock of the aforementioned sheep, just the other side of the bridge and in the middle of the road. No context-appropriate road signs. What was going on? C*nt was horrified to find that his brakes didn't work so well when airborne. Touching down on the outskirts of the flock, we slithered to a halt, surrounded by our new-found ovine friends. The shepherd was less than impressed.
We knew at last that we were on a 'road trip'. It was certainly turning out to be a 'trip' as luckily I had brought a 10mm spanner with me to adjust the headlamp.
Mr G appeared at this point to have forgotten shave, but Mssrs T and C decided to let it pass with no more than a caution. We both felt (not for the first time) that it might have been a mistake to bring him along.
We ended up one wet afternoon in Bantry. We looked around for a place to camp and took a quick ride up a road to see what there was around (always curious). We were hailed by an old man who asked us if we could give him a lift. C**t obliged. We got up the road a couple of miles and came across a raging river where we stopped. We asked the man how old he was. He winced, clearly drunk, and answered "As old as a hatchet!". We returned him from whence he came - further up the road - and headed back into Bantry. The bars were full of oil workers from the offshore terminal, quite weird looking out to sea and seeing tankers in this part of the world. After negotiating access to some 'pochine' we repaired to the camping spot and tried it out. Yuk! After several pints of Guinness our palates were assaulted.
And so we headed finally up towards Killarney but time was marching on so we hung a left to the Dingle peninsula. We had heard about Inch and so we headed there. It was beautiful but...wet.
We were entranced and took to the legendary Inch peninsula beach on our bikes.
We camped among the dunes on the Inch peninsula which sticks out at a 90 degree angle from the Dingle peninsula. It was raining. Eager to fire up some important combustible material that Tank had brought with him, we discovered to our great distress that we had no more matches. Gut, as ever rising to occasion, offered to go and get some from the local shop, a journey that necessitated riding the Norton out of the dunes, along the beach and up onto the road. This being before the days of Google maps (a technology with which he has only recently become familiar), he seemed to take ages. C**t and Tank waited patiently for a while before descending into extended bouts of vitriol aimed fairly and squarely at the absent Gut. Then, out of the gloom, we heard the pocah-pocah-pocah of the Norton approaching. Then leaving again, then approaching once more before becoming fainter. Gut seemed to be circling the rain besieged tent for quite some time until the final pocah and the sound of the side stand being lowered. Our wait was over.
Gut was pleased with the bread and cheese and chocolate digestive biscuits if my memory serves me right, but he appeared to have forgotten to shave that morning. Tank spoke to him most severely, but Gut seemed to be having problems taking him seriously. In a brief break in the rain, we ventured out into the dunes and came upon a large dump of empty bottles in a deep hollow behind the maram grass. We were obliged to spend quite some time lobbing bottles from the edge into the middle, amusing ourselves with the merry tinkle of breaking glass.
It didn't stop raining but the draw of another pint of Guinness meant we had to venture out to a nearby hotel. Clearly the staff took a dislike to us unshevelled and dirty as we were. A matronesque lady grabbed Gut by the elbow and gave him a sharp tweak accompanied by the annunciation "sorreee" as she reached across to gather the empty glasses. That little incident remains with us to this day.
Time was marching and we all had to be back in England and Scotland so we high-tailed it North. Our trip north was punctuated by running repairs to the Norton - I think the rear mudguard split.
We camped on our last night in Ireland among some weird ruins. None of us can remember quite where.
As we contemplated that our next stop was Armagh on the second anniversary of Internment, we reflected on our trip so far...
The next morning we packed and set off for Armagh and came across a huge British Army post on the border. Tank was still very worried about his headlamp shell and was fervently hoping that no one would want to stop us to have a look, but luckily we were just a side show at the time, so we were waived through. After the gentle empty greenery of the rural south and the easy welcome of numerous pubs, it came as a shock to see the British army on the other end of machine guns pointed at us, dim lights behind bullet proof glass and coils of barbed wire heaped on either side of the road.
We headed for Belfast and then on up to Larne where we took the ferry to Stranraer. Arriving tired and thirsty we had a moments indecision befored repairing to the pub. After a few pints we were chatted up by a mad woman of indeterminant age who told us we could camp in her garden. Grateful for the offer, we accepted and followed her home. The garden turned out to be her front garden, a neatly manicured lawn surrounded by flowers, in full view of all the neighbours. We were really too tired and drunk to care and slept soundly, weirdly imagining that she might have done it all to annoy her husband....
The next morning after a hasty breakfast we split up and with heavy hearts had to accept that this next part of our life long road trip was over. Gut went east to Edinburgh, C**t went north to stay with Biggus Dickus the forestry fiend in Strachue and Tank headed down south to Kent, some 470 miles. The following day he saddled up and rode another 120 miles straight back north to the British Motorcycle Grand Prix at Silverstone. Must have been mad. Was mad. Is mad. In fact it was a fantastic race he said and pointed us to a video online many years later.
C**t spent a week in Strachur, much of it in the Creggans Inn. It was after one such rather cheerful night that he and Dick managed to fall off the Norton 12 times on a journey at 3 o'clock in the morning from the middle of the village to a point approximately 3 yards further on. Once mobile, he and his passenger Dick 'Woodman spare that tree' did make it to the remote cottage where they were staying, but important components of the Commando did not, but foot pegs and indicators are for losers, as any fool knows.
Leaving the delights of Strachur, C headed further north and west to the Morvern peninsula and the Ardtornish estate. Our host had been gifted a small bothy some three miles up a very rough non-navigable mountain track and there was an opening invitation for the Bristol crowd to turn up, eat, drink and fix the roof. Undaunted and unwilling to be parted from his Rocinante, C thought it a good idea to take the bike up the mountain, this time with Claire on the back. The track had other ideas and threw then off several times, but nothing shall stand in the way of British engineering and idiocy. Gut was there to welcome him, having taken the slightly more conventional approach of walking. They drank whisky, ate fish from the lake and rabbits from the hills.
Gut made a windowsill that stands to this day.
The fateful day for the return to our beloved basecamp came. C**t mounted his somewhat diminished Commando (footpegs and indicators are for losers, as previously noted) and headed south. Many hours of hard riding later, it was becoming clear that braking was somewhat less efficacious than before, and was often accompanied by loud screeching noises. In the fine spirit of youthful motorcycling, these minor issues were fully ignored. Tank's spare helmet also went AWOL somewhere down the M6.
Bristol approached: the front disc brakes were now fully non-functional. But luckily the 750 Norton Commando is fitted with a rear wheel brake, which although also effectively non-functional as factory fitted, was in this case a suitable stand-in for the alternative of para boots to tarmac. M6, M4, M32. Bristol city centre negotiated with extensive use of first gear braking (challenging in itself as the gear lever had also been modified by tarmac in Stranraer).
Rodney Place finally thrummed into view. A gentle U-turn allowed the bike to mount the pavement and return to its usual parking spot outside the house. In a moment of forgetful habit, the front brake was applied one last time, this time accompanied by the tinkle of metal on the paving stone as the disc pads popped out from between the disc and caliper and landed, unceremoniously on the pavement, staring up at the hapless C**t as be attempted to haul his frame off the bike without falling off one more time.
It had been a long ride.
Climbing up the steps, he couldn't help notice that the front door was wide open, a curious finding for 11 o'clock at night. He entered the house.
'Hello?'
Silence.
'Anyone in?'
Apparently not. It was at that moment that he noticed the blood. Spots of it, on the floor. And the walls. Up the stairs.
No one was in. He entered his bedroom to find that evidently someone else had moved in during his absence. Curious. Taking a few trimmings from one of the herbal plants on the balcony, he made his way back down to the kitchen to dry them out in order to perform some ritual fumigation. At that point he heard the front door open. And shut. Footsteps, uncertain at first, then heavy, clumping up the stairs.
It was Jamie.
Drunk on the way home from a night's liquid entertainment, he'd been testing the tensile strength of shop windows with his fist, eager to find out what intensity of transverse torsional deflection was required in order to create the physical phenomenon of shattering. after a trip to A & E, he was back home.
Postscript
It is April 2024. C**t and Gut return to Ardtornish and discover that the windowsill in the bothy is still in good repair. Later at the big house Gut is assailed by a man who asks him if he is Tank? No he said but I am Gut and that bloke over there is C**t! It would appear that our little road trip of 1979 has taken on legendary proportions.