CHARITY CYCLE: DUBLIN TO GALWAY - THE LADS

Day 3 has gone smoothly.

Disclaimer: Look, If someone were to criticize Dublin I'd be first in there to tear them down verbally or otherwise (like a true Dub), but it must be said, the further you get away from Dublin the more beautiful Ireland becomes. 

The people are outright friendlier, our heads were constantly bobbing up and down to match Hellos, Good Mornings, Great Day For Its, as we stretched down the Greenway away from Kildare and on to Westmeath. 

Dom rated our funniest encounter as the one when the man came around the corner walking fastidiously, holding his two terriers, one under each arm - was he out for a walk with the dogs or were the dogs out for a walk with him?

We got chatting to a fellow cyclist as we all stopped for a water break. He started the conversation the way everyone seems to outside of the pale - "Great day for it, huh?" Dom and himself launched into a chat about the Greenway and cycling. It turned out he was Tony from Clonsilla who had decided to hop on a train to Mullingar for his 70th birthday and cycle himself back for the craic. He didn't look 70! 

"Are you taking it easy and enjoying your birthday?" asked Dom,

"Taking it easy? Are ya mad?" said Tony, "Sure, I have to get back to catch the match on the telly!"

Good luck! He exclaimed and was gone like a bullet. We stood for a while longer marvelling at how beautiful everything was, arguably a lot nicer than what Tony was going back to.

The fields are greener, the water bluer, every now and then we'd come across cows and horses - just living their best lives. We even had a wild hawk pace alongside us for a snippet of the journey, naturally he/she/them couldn't keep up with our Foley speed. 

Our Foley speed is set by me, some would say 'the leader', others may say 'the invalid'. I have been told by Dom and Roisin that at certain points I cycle so slowly they fear they may fall over due to inertia. At other points I have been cautioned that I am going too fast, making it difficult to keep up. I can't seem to win and have contemplated running away with the hawk! Although, who would I have tea with?

Our choice of tea stop today was a very Irish pub called Cunninghams, right by the river in Riverstown, Westmeath. The kind of place you associate with rural Ireland where the pub doubles as a cafe and triples as a sundry shop, where you buy your Brennan's bread, have a cup of Barry's tea and knock back your pint in one go! 

The chatty lady serving us told us the Greenway has brought all sorts of business their way, the most popular cycling tourist are the Dutch, who flock here in droves apparently having voted Ireland's Greenway a lovely cycle. 

"Now," remaked the lady in classic Irish deprecation, "It was a local Dutch cycling paper that voted, probably just amongst themselves, nothing HUGE."

We understood the implication, no-one was to be getting notions, least of all the Greenway, but at the same time, let's not pretend that we're not a big deal internationally.

"The world's loveliest cycle," she concluded, having upped the ante to a global setting since the vote was last mentioned.

We caught the attention of some of the older gents propping up the bar.

"Do ye mind me askin, where have you come from? Where are you off to? And, what's all this about?" Asked the nearest man with a kind smile.

I happily informed him that we are doing a charity cycle from Dublin to Galway. 

"Jeez, fair play to you. Do ye mind me askin, how old are ya?" he looked at Roisin.

"I'm 11," she responded with nonchalance.

"Jeez, fair play, fair play, 11, Jeez, aren't ya very impressive?"

"Yes," she responded with the confidence of Gen Alpha.

All three men had now pulled their stools closer.

"And what is the charity, do ye mind me askin?"

I didn't mind any of his questions, but when I went to answer I found a lump in my throat and managed to push past it.

"It's for the Hospice in Harold's Cross, my brother died there in March from cancer, he was only 53."

"Well, God love ya," said the man, obviously moved, "Come over here and shake my hand."

I shook his hand and looked into his sympathetic eyes. He told me how his younger brother had died many years ago aged 54. How his other brother had died in his 60s. How he was on his own now. 

The three man stood up, as if rehearsed, and insisted we couldn't leave until they had sponsored us. They emptied pockets and handed us 25 euro. I tried to refuse it at first, as they might not have had it to spare, but they pushed it into my hand and closed it shut. 

"We're very sorry for your loss," they said in chorus. 

"You're doing a great thing," they nodded at us. "Your brother would be proud."

We jumped on the bikes and I pulled ahead to set the pace, I let my tears fall into the wind as I thought of Lochlann.

Dom's grandmother is originally from Mullingar so we are off tonight to find his roots! Which apparently includes a trip to a curry house and photos of a Joe Dolan statue (hhm, I'd love to get a gander at that family tree).

Roisin did however inherit the Foley knack for recollection and remembered her Grandpa talking of a musical wall in Mullingar he would play on during his summer visits from London. I thought it was likely wild misremembering on all sides - I was wrong. The wall exists and still plays beautifully.

Tomorrow is our last leg on the leafy greenway - Mullingar to Athlone.

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