Never heard of Antoni Gaudi, the man who designed Barcelona’s La Sagrada Família Basilica? Don’t feel bad; I had never heard of him, either. His work is the wildest architecture I’ve ever seen…think Dr. Suess meets George Lucas, except this guy predates both.
How about scooter-borne motor officers? Scooters and small motorcycles make way more sense than the gigondo police bikes we use here in the US. The photo below shows a Policia moto cop we watched roll up on criminal activity (0utside a cathedral, no less), and the bad guys simply evaporated.
Enjoy majestic cathedrals and stained glass? Hey, there’s a lot of that coming your way, too. We were in so many cathedrals I had to check the itinerary just to get my photos organized.
Did I mention the Flamenco dancers? Here’s another teaser.
Take my word on this: If you enjoy photography and motorcycling, fine dining, good wine, beautiful people, and the good life, Spain and Portugal are tough to beat.
Sue and I just returned from a couple of weeks over there and it was awesome. I left the big Nikon at home and carried a much lighter D3300 Nikon (the same one I used on the China, Colombia, and Baja rides), and life was a lot easier. The photos are about as good as those I get with the boat anchor D810 and I minimized the wear and tear on me (I’m so spring chicken, you know). I took three lenses with me: the 18-55 kit lens that came with the camera, an inexpensive and lightweight Rokinon 8mm fisheye (using it required manual everything, as it doesn’t interface with the D3300’s auto focusing and metering capabilities), and a very sharp Nikon 35mm f1.8. Even though the 35mm Nikon lens was the best in the bag, I never put it on the camera. I used the 18-55mm for the bulk of my shots (it was easy to use and I think it did a good job) and the 8mm fisheye for just a few (like that big photo in the Gaudi basilica at the top of this blog).
There’s more content in the ExNotes queue on our visit to the Iberian Peninsula, with a little bit of moto content in each.
The Dingle Way is a 112-mile-long walking trail that circles the Dingle Peninsula in County Kerry, Ireland. The trail takes walkers through diverse landscapes, including rugged coastlines, sandy beaches, rolling hills, and picturesque villages. Along the way, walkers can enjoy stunning views of the Atlantic Ocean and ancient archaeological sites and historic landmarks, such as the Gallarus Oratory, a well-preserved early Christian church dating back to the 7th or 8th century. I previously wrote about the first part of this trip; you can read that blog here. This blog completes the trip.
Day 3: Inch Strand to Dingle
After a filling Irish breakfast at Inch Strand, I embarked on my journey, following trails and secondary roads that provided stunning bay views. As I turned inland towards Annascaul, I continued along more secondary roads that eventually led me to a rocky beach and castle. The scenery along the way was breathtaking, and I frequently stopped to soak in the beauty of my surroundings. Leaving the beach behind, it was just a few miles to Lispole before arriving at the day’s final destination in the town of Dingle. As I approached the village, I was struck by how small and easy it was to navigate on foot. Music could be heard at every turn, and the town was bustling with activity. The shops were fantastic; it was a great place to restock and prepare for the remainder of the trail.
Dick Mack’s for whiskey tasting.
One of the highlights of my stay in Dingle was visiting Dick Mack’s Pub. As a whiskey lover, I was thrilled to discover that the pub was known for its extensive Irish whiskey collection. The bartenders were incredibly knowledgeable and passionate about the spirits, and I spent a delightful evening sampling various types of whiskey and learning about their unique flavors, meeting locals, and developing the start of some new friendships.
For those interested in live music, Dingle is a great destination. Just pop your head into any pub, and you’ll likely find Ireland’s version of Nashville, with hundreds of talented musicians on every corner. One of my favorite spots was the Courthouse Pub, a tiny establishment with an impossibly low ceiling, friendly staff, and some of the best music in Dingle.
Day 4: Dingle to Dunquin
This was the hardest day of the trail so far, with a 14-mile trek that started by departing Dingle and heading to Ventry. The first four miles were relatively easy, except that the surface was entirely hard, making it quite taxing. In Ventry, I found a small post office with a combination grocery store, and I took a nice break to restock and meet some very kind local ladies hosting a fundraiser for hospice care. The locals had baked their best desserts for the event and invited me to join in, and I couldn’t resist the temptation of the delicious treats.
One of Day 4’s views.
As soon as I left Ventry, I was treated to a beautiful long beach walk to the other side of the bay. Schoolchildren were busy cleaning the beach, and locals walked along the shore, enjoying some sunshine. Next up was a bit of road walking along Sledge Drive, with dramatic sea views before turning to Mount Eagle. The climb was tough, taking several hours through sheep pastures and offering dramatic sea views.
A view of the Atlantic long the Trail.Another dramatic coast view.
The trail was wet, uneven, and a real thigh workout, but the day was as lovely and magical as possible. It’s hard to describe the uniqueness of walking through a new land – the way the vista unfolds before you, the smell of the earth, the local bakery, the scent of livestock, and the chance to witness the locals going about their daily lives. You experience a level of intimacy that cannot be duplicated by any other mode of transportation other than your own two feet.
An ancient beehive dwelling.Beehive dwelling ruins.
Besides the breathtaking views and walking along ancient stone walls, I saw many Beehive ruins and ancient dwellings from the 9th century. About when I thought I couldn’t go uphill anymore, the trail took a steep decline down to the road and the start of the entry to Dunquin. I stopped for coffee and continued another two miles on the hard road to the Youth Hostel and the exceptionally kind host who took great care of her guests. Another great day!
A castle along the Dingle Way Trail.A scene on the Trail.More ruins along the Dingle Way Trail.
Day 5, 6, and 7: Dunquin to Ballydavid and Kilcummin
The following day, my friend Patrick generously offered to drive me back to the trailhead for my hike over the pass of Mt. Brandon. Despite the less-than-ideal weather conditions and concerns from locals about my solo hike, I assured them that I would turn back if the fog worsened. Nonetheless, as I gazed upon the climb ahead of me, I couldn’t help but feel a moment of nervousness.
The hike to the top of Mt. Brandon was a challenging 3.5-mile ascent, with no switchbacks and only soggy, boggy, and uneven terrain underfoot. The descent was equally difficult, with even less stable footing. It wasn’t until I reached the 6-mile mark that I could finally walk on a dirt, mud-filled road and breathe a sigh of relief.
Nephew Brandon and his wife.
This day was significant to me, as I had set out to summit Mt. Brandon in honor of my nephew. Despite the thick fog that prevented me from reaching the peak, I made it to the saddle, with the peak looming above me. Looking back at the mountain while standing on that muddy road, I witnessed a moment of awe-inspiring magic. The fog slowly crept down the mountain, lifting to the heavens and spreading its fingers across the valley floor. It felt like a blessing, a gift I didn’t deserve but received nonetheless.
At that moment, I realized that reaching the peak wasn’t as important as the day of remembrance I had dedicated to my nephew. I knew Brandon would have been proud, and I felt grateful for the time I had shared with him. I had promised to honor his love for the outdoors, his welcoming spirit toward everyone he met, and his devotion to his family. The day had been physically and emotionally draining, but it was a perfect day I will never forget. To my dear Brandon, the boy who will forever live in my heart, I raise a glass and say, Sláinte.
Entering the town of Brandon, I stumbled into a bar and enjoyed a delicious meal of homemade soup and bread with a pint of Guinness and a shot of Green Spot to revive and celebrate my hard passage. The café was warm and welcoming, and the owners were friendly and eager to chat about the beauty and challenges of the trail.
Following a satisfying lunch, I continued my journey, passing through more rolling hills, herds of sheep, and farmland until I reached the charming village of Kilcummin. As I approached, I was treated again to awe-inspiring views of the Dingle Peninsula and the vast expanse of the Atlantic Ocean. Fortunately, I found the perfect B&B, a lovely farmhouse in the countryside’s heart. The hosts were warm and welcoming, and I enjoyed a peaceful and restful night’s sleep after a long day of hiking.
Day 8: Kilcummin to Tralee
The week had passed quickly, and I was both sad and excited to confront my final day on the Dingle Way. The day brought plenty of sunshine and was a relatively easy one, with just over 8 miles of walking to the town of Tralee. The trail took us through more picturesque countryside, with fields of sheep and cows grazing lazily in the sunshine.
John the Baptist well.
Passing through the village of Castlemaine, which is famous for its links to the legendary outlaw, Daniel O’Connell. O’Connell was a lawyer and politician who fought for Catholic emancipation in Ireland in the 19th century, and he was a hero to many Irish people. Castlemaine is also home to a small museum dedicated to the area’s history.
Another scenic spot along the Trail.
Approaching Tralee, you could see the town’s famous landmark, the Rose of Tralee statue, dedicated to the same name’s song. The statue depicts a young woman holding a rose, and it is a popular spot for tourists to take photos. What a wonderful end to the Dingle Way trail with an afternoon exploring Tralee by spending time exploring the town’s shops, restaurants, and museums. Tralee is a bustling town with a rich history and worth much time exploring.
Conclusion
The Dingle Way is a truly magical experience, offering breathtaking views, fascinating history, and the chance to connect profoundly with the natural world. From the windswept beaches of Inch Strand to the rolling hills of Kilcummin, the pure joy to be found in the town of Dingle, the trail takes you on a journey through some of Ireland’s most stunning landscapes.
An Irish sunset.
Along the way, I met countless friendly locals who took me instantly in as one of their own with legendary hospitality that is well deserved and a balm to the heart of an American. Take your time to enjoy delicious food and drink. Lean into the culture and history of the Dingle Peninsula. The trail is sometimes challenging, but the rewards and friendships made along the way are more than worth it.
About 30 years ago I cranked 1070 miles in one day on a Harley Softail coming home from Mexico (and that was on an older Softail without the rubber mounted engine…it’s the one you see in the photo above). I was younger and I could ride, as they say, like the wind. A couple of weeks ago, I did a 250-mile day ride on my Enfield and it about wiped me out.
Gresh and I were talking about this recently, and I thought I would share my thoughts on how many miles you can plan on covering in a day. Maybe it will influence your planning. Maybe not. We get paid the same either way.
1: Age
Like I said above, big miles used to be no big deal for me. That’s not the case any more. After substantial scientific study and close observation of my geezer buddies over many decades, I developed a graph showing the relationship between age and how many miles you can reasonably ride in a day.
Like it or not, when we get older, it gets harder to rack up big miles. Serious scientific study went into the above, so if you want to debate our conclusions, bring facts. We want to hear them.
2: Weather
Weather plays a big role in how many miles you can ride in a single day, and here at ExNotes we rely heavily on our weather rock before leaving on any ride. You’ve probably heard about weather rocks. We sell weather rocks here on ExNotes and they are conveniently sized to fit into a tank bag. They work like this…you hang the rock from any available support (you have to supply your own string and support). Here’s how to interpret your weather rock:
If the rock is wet, it means it’s raining and you should reduce however many miles you had planned to ride by half.
If the rock is swinging, it means it’s windy that day, and you should reduce your miles by maybe a third.
If the rock is hot to the touch, it means the temperature is elevated, and you should reduce your miles by maybe a third. Maybe even more.
If the rock is cold, it means it’s cold, and you probably can ride as long as you dress appropriately. If the rock is really, really cold, though, maybe you should stay home. If there’s ice on the rock, you definitely should stay home.
ExNotes offers weather rocks in brand-specific models:
If you ride a Harley, we offer chrome weather rocks for $395, chrome with conchos and black leather fringe weather rocks for $495, and chrome, conchos, fringe, and matching do rag weather rocks for $595 (freight and setup fees not included).
If you ride a BMW, we offer the GS weather rock with an electronically adjustable center of gravity, BMW logos, and a one-year Starbucks gift certificate for $1995.
If you ride a Ducati, you probably don’t need a weather rock (Ducati riders generally only ride their motorcycles short distances on clear days, anyway, although if you insist, we can provide a red rock for you personally autographed by the former famous racer of your choice, or we can put several rocks in a bag you can shake to sound like a Ducati clutch). Ducati rocks are free, or at least that’s what we tell you (we’ll recover the cost on your first valve adjustment and let you think you got the rock for free).
If you ride a Chinese motorcycle, we sell an ExNotes weather rock decal for $2 and you can put it on your own rock.
3: Roads
The kind of roads you plan to ride make a huge difference. If it’s all freeway, you’ll be bored but you can rack up huge miles. If it’s surface streets (and a lot of us do everything we can to stay off the freeway), you won’t cover as many miles unless you’re riding in Baja, where you can run 140mph+ on the long straights south of Valle de Los Cirios. If it’s in the mountains, it will be less, unless you’re posting about your skills on Facebook, where the folks who post are world class riders (to hear them tell it). The same holds true for riding in the dirt. You just won’t cover as many miles.
4: Headcount
This is the big one, folks. Maybe I should have listed it first. If I’m riding by myself or with one of my motorcycle buddies in Baja, I can easily do over 500 miles a day. Throw in more people, and…well, read on, my friends.
The number of riders in your group has a profound impact on how many miles you can ride in a day. In the math world, we would say that the miles per day are inversely proportional to the number of riders in your group.
As a starting point (and after extensive research and mathematical modeling), the technical staff here at ExNotes developed Formula A:
A) Miles per Day = (M)/(N)
where:
M = Miles you want to ride
N = Number of riders in your group
What the above means is that as the number of riders in your group increases, the number of miles you can cover in a day decreases. That’s because with more riders you’ll start later in the morning, you’ll be stopping more often, and you’ll take more time at each stop. That is, unless you’re riding with me. Then Formula A reduces to Formula B:
B) Miles per Day = M
where:
M = Miles you want to ride
The B in Formula B stands for Berk because basically I’ll leave you behind if you’re not ready when I am. You can catch up with me later. You might think I’m joking. I’m not.
Formula A varies a little depending on what kind of riders you have in your group, and especially if you have a Rupert. Rupert is the guy who takes 20 minutes putting his motorcycle gear back on after every stop. I once rode with a Rupert who could take 20 minutes just putting his gloves on. He got better when we threatened to cut a few of his fingers off.
5: Your Motorcycle
There are several motorcycle factors that play a huge role in how many miles you can ride in a day. In the old days, a motorcycle was a motorcycle and we did it all with a single bike (touring, off-road, canyon carving, adventure riding, etc.). Today, you gotta get specific:
ADV-style bikes are actually pretty comfortable and the ergonomics make sense. 500-mile days are easy. My KLR 650 was one of the best touring bikes I ever owned. It had phenomenal ergos.
Standard motorcycles are also relatively comfortable and you can probably do 500 miles in a day, but you’ll feel it, especially if your bike does not have a windshield. My Enfield 650 Interceptor is a good bike, but it’s the one that wiped me out on that recent 250-mile ride.
Cruisers look cool in motorcycle ads and they complement do rags and tattoos nicely, but they are less comfortable on long rides. I’ve found I can reasonably do 350-mile days on a cruiser without needing to see a chiropractor. Go much beyond that and you’ll feel it.
Sportbikes generally cut into big miles, but a lot depends on your age. Good buddy Marty and I rode sportbikes on the 2005 Three Flags Classic (I was on a Triumph Daytona) and we did big mile days on that ride. But I was 20 years younger then and I bent a lot easier. I wouldn’t want to do it again.
Classic bikes generally require shorter daily riding distances, particularly if they are British and equipped with electricals manufactured by Lucas (as in Lucas, the Prince of Darkness). I think a mid-’60s Triumph Bonneville is the most beautiful motorcycle ever created, but I wouldn’t want to ride Baja on one.
Beyond the style issues outlined above, there are other motorcycle factors to consider:
Bigger motors generally mean more miles in a day, but bigger motorcycles can slow you down if they suck up too much fuel. One year at the International Motorcycle Show, Yamaha’s bikes all had labels that showed, among other things, fuel economy. The VMax, as noted by Yamaha, averaged 27 miles per gallon. You’d be making a lot more fuel stops on that one. 27 miles per gallon. I can’t make up stuff this good.
Daily mileage is independent of displacement at 400cc and above (as long as fuel economy is not VMax nutty). Below 400cc, it gets harder (I think) to crank big miles. On my 250cc RX3, 500 miles is a big day for me. But my good buddy Rob once did a 1000-mile Baby Butt on his RX3, so I guess anything is possible.
Seats can make a big difference. I’ve never found any motorcycle seat to be really comfortable, but I have found a few to be god-awful (my Enfield is working hard to earn that title). If you want to really improve a motorcycle seat so you can up your miles, get a sheepskin cover (I’ve found those to be quite comfortable). There are other options like inflatable seats or custom made seats, but my advice is don’t waste your money. A guy showed up with an inflatable seat cover on a group ride once and it slowed us considerably. It kept blowing off his bike and we had to stop and look for it each time that happened.
Fuel tank capacity doesn’t make much difference. My KLR could go 250 miles on a tank; my TL1000S would start blinking at 105 miles. You’d think you could ride a lot further with a bigger tank, but I found I need to stop and stretch roughly every hour or two, and if I do that at gas stations, tank capacity doesn’t matter.
What do you think?
So there you have it: Our thoughts on a complex topic.
We know there are keyboard commandos out there who will take exception to our carefully constructed and presented thoughts. If you disagree, let’s hear it. We appreciate all comments, dumbass and otherwise. Please leave your thoughts here on the blog for others to see. Don’t waste your time leaving comments on Facebook (all the cool people leave their comments here…only losers post comments on Facebook). You’ll be a faster rider, you’ll be thinner, and you’ll look better if you post your comments here. And don’t worry about spelling, punctuation, grammar, or capitalization (believe it or not, it will help our readers assess the validity of your thinking).
Like they say, your mileage may vary, and we’re looking forward to your comments. If they’re particularly inane, so much the better. We await your inputs.
Some of our more interesting rides? Right here, folks!
Reading good buddy Airborne Mike’s javelina story brought back memories. I’ve been chasing pigs for more than 50 years and I only ever got three. Two were captured simultaneously via film (the two you see above); the other was nailed in Arizona and brought home for consumption. Yeah, I’m a Jewish kid who ate pork. Don’t tell anyone.
I’d been on javelina hunting trips numerous times when I lived in west Texas, and on every one of those trips, we never even saw a javelina (we could have just as easily described those expeditions as T-rex hunts, because we saw about as many of them). Good buddy Jose commented on Mike’s previous post that javelina make for good eating, but I’ve never had the pleasure and if offered, I’d politely decline. Although they definitely look piggish, javelina are actually not in the pig family. I’m told they are rodents. No thanks. I’ll forego rat tacos.
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About that Mama Javelina and baby photo you see above: All those javelina hunting expeditions when we didn’t see a single javelina? Well, we stayed on an Arizona guest ranch one year (not hunting anything except good times) and there were javelinas out the gazoo. We heard them snorting and grunting up a storm outside our cabin one night, so I went outside with my manual focus Minolta 35mm film camera and took a bunch of flash photos, moving the focus ring a little bit each time because I couldn’t see to focus in the dark. I got lucky with one of them. I didn’t know there was a baby javelina in the mix until I got the prints. The mama and her baby were only about six feet away (I was using the Minolta’s standard 50mm lens). A guy who saw that photo told me I was lucky Mother Javelina didn’t go after me.
I’ve been on three wild pig hunts (not javelina, but actual wild pigs). On the first one, we spent three days rooting around in northern California and we didn’t see a single pig. Our guide pointed out what he claimed was pig poop, but hell, it could have been any kind of poop. What do I know from pig poop?
On a second northern California wild pig expedition, we were skunked again. Not one pig and not one pig sighting. Not even pig poop this time. All I came home with was the worst case of poison oak I ever had. The itching was intense raised to an exponent, and nothing seemed to work except consuming large amounts of Budweiser, which I did for the three days it took to get over it. After that episode, I stayed away from hunting pigs for the next 30 years. Then, I got the bug again.
My pig and I, taken near Kingman, Arizona. That rifle (a maple-stocked SuperGrade Model 70 Winchester in .30 06) will shoot quarter inch groups at 100 yards.
About five years ago good buddy Paul and I hunted wild pig in Arizona and we both scored. Our guide told me mine weighed about 130 pounds; Paul’s was a monster at well over 200 pounds. I got an education on that trip. The butcher asked us about the cuts we wanted, but I really had no idea (it was my Jewish ignorance about all things of the porcine persuasion). I let the butcher recommend what to do. When we reached the end of the list, I realized we hadn’t added bacon to the list and I asked about it. “There’s no bacon on wild boar,” he patiently explained while looking at the top of my head (I think maybe he was looking for a yarmulke, or maybe where I had my horns removed). “Bacon is belly fat, and wild pigs don’t have any.” Hmmm. Whaddaya know.
That butcher’s guidance about wild pigs lacking fat had further implications. The meat had absolutely no flavor. Zip. Nada. Zilch. No fat, no flavor. I made a lot of chili with that meat over the next year (cumin, red chili flakes, and Anaheim chiles bring their own flavors). But one of the “cuts” was sausage and that was good because it included a little fat. I found a recipe for and made a wild mushroom and pork sausage barley casserole. It was outstanding, so much so it has me thinking about going pig hunting again.
It’s been a little while since we posted a phavorite photo (thanks for the series suggestion, Peter), so I thought we were due. Usually the pics in our Phavorite Photo series are pics I took, but I can’t take credit for the photo you see above. Susie was with me when we visited Zongshen to negotiate CSC’s first RX3 order, and during those meetings, Zongshen asked about sending Chinese folks over to ride with us in the United States. The idea was Zongshen would provide the motorcycles and pay all expenses for a dozen or so riders if we would plan and lead the ride. During our meeting, good buddy Thomas Fan asked if I had any destination suggestions (Fan is Zonghsen’s marketing director; in the photo above he’s the first guy seated on my left). Boy, did I ever. I had a bunch of photos on my laptop from my rides to US National Parks, Baja, and more. I pulled up the photos, told tall tales about each, and our Chinese hosts were mesmerized. Sue had the presence of mind to grab my Nikon and snap the photo you see above. It became an immediate favorite.
Zongshen came through on their promise, and we had a hell of an adventure. We rode from southern California to Sturgis, cut across the country headed west to the Pacific Coast, and then followed the coast back down to So Cal. It was a 5,000-mile ride we dubbed the Western America Adventure Ride. Folks in the US who had purchased RX3 motorcycles joined us on portions of the ride. It was where I first met Joe Gresh (Motorcyclist magazine sent Joe and he wrote a wonderful story). The Western America Adventure Ride was a key part of our CSC marketing strategy and it worked. You can read all about in 5000 Miles At 8000 RPM. Buy the book; don’t wait for the movie.
About those destinations: What Fan didn’t know when he asked if I had any suggestions was that I write the “Destinations” column for Motorcycle Classics magazine. We did a book on that, too. You should buy a copy. If you buy a thousand copies, I’ll ride my Royal Enfield to your place and sign every one of them.
Earlier Phavorite Photos? You bet! Click on each to get their story.
Needing another vacation and a break from the day-to-day boring humdrum of life (I usually ensure that doesn’t go on for very long) my girlfriend and I decided to head to Portugal and Spain. It was coming up on my 50th birthday and wanted to do something unique to celebrate this milestone. As we traversed and meandered through both countries I was still trying to come up with that unique idea when a friend had texted me to go to Gibraltar and summit the rock. That was an outstanding idea. Next stop: Gibraltar!
I Know What I Don’t Know
I only knew two things about Gibraltar: It was an island between Spain and Morocco, and they drive on the opposite side of the road since it is a Territory of Britain. Both these things I “knew” were incorrect. Gibraltar is a peninsula, not an island, and although it is indeed a British Territory they do not drive on the opposite side of the road as in other British Territories. The peninsula is just 3 miles long and not even 1 mile wide and most of the peninsula consisted of the giant Gibraltar rock with a lot of narrow winding roads that meander as far as they can go up around that Gibraltar Rock. Which had me wondering why there was a Ferrari dealership on the peninsula (I am certain it has to do with less taxes there than in their England motherland).
Entering The Territory
Crossing into Gibraltar from Spain was more of a formality and simply consisted of showing our passports at the border, a quick stamp by the immigration officer, and walking into the Territory. Once leaving immigration we walked across the Gibraltar Airport tarmac. It felt like we were trespassing, other than the traffic lights to alert you when a plane was taking off or landing. Those were not traffic lights you’d want to run.
Once across the tarmac it was a short quarter mile walk to our AirBnB, which happened to be a 30-foot boat in the Gibraltar Marina. I thought this would be a distinctive place to stay instead of some high-rise hotel where you would be disconnected from the heartbeat of the Territory. This choice turned out to be perfect and we slept great that night with the boat rocking us to sleep in the gentle marina waters.
The Rock
The next day we made our way towards the base of the Gibraltar Rock. Sadly, you cannot climb to the top of it as it is a military installation. Disappointed, we took the gondola instead of hiking to the highest point we were allowed to go.
I had read there were some monkeys that lived up on top of the rock that made their way from Morocco via a network of underground caves that went under the Strait of Gibraltar. We were told not to pet or touch them as they are wild animals. Of course, me being one to always follow rules it took under two minutes to befriend one of these little guys and I walked around with him on my shoulder on the observation deck. Clearly, my maturity hadn’t caught up with my now being 50 years old. It didn’t take long before one of the rangers scolded me and stated that they would bite me. Why would he bite me? We were friends. Ugh. People are always trying to ruin my fun.
We opted to walk down the path instead of taking the gondola back. This was a wise choice as there were a lot of hidden bunkers from WWI along the way and a really interesting stop called St. Michael’s Cave. This is a huge, impressive cave that ultimately led down to the Strait. We only walked in the upper portion of this maze for about 20-minutes since the longer tunnels are closed to the public. As we toured the cave there was a light and sound show to provide more entertainment and the history of this hidden gem. It was a fun detour to take.
Once we wrapped up the cave experience, we continued down the two-mile path looking over magnificent views as monkeys leaped from trees onto the tops of passing cars to hitch a free ride. Every time one leaped it would create the loudest “boom” as they carelessly but somehow successfully landed on a car’s roof. This made for great entertainment for us, but I can’t imagine what the people inside the vehicles thought hearing that noise. Once back at the marina we were hungry and it wasn’t difficult to find a waterside restaurant, an order of fish n’ chips, and a cold beer to wrap the day up in style.
Overall Gibraltar was worth going to visit as we were in the neighborhood. The territory is more of a winter getaway for the British than a destination one would otherwise visit. This Territory did indeed make for a fun two days, a unique experience, and a few entertaining stories that I am happy to be sharing with you.
The Dingle Way trail in Ireland was an epic adventure that left me feeling invigorated and alive. As a lover of hiking and long-distance walking, I knew that Ireland would offer the perfect landscape to immerse myself in nature and challenge my physical limits. I was torn between the Ring of Kerry and the Dingle Way, but after much research and the advice of a dear friend, I chose the latter for its remoteness and stunning vistas.
The Dingle Way is a long-distance walking trail that spans approximately 115 miles across the southwestern region of Ireland. The trail begins and ends in the charming town of Tralee, passing through the picturesque town of Dingle and the stunning Dingle Peninsula. The views along the way are nothing short of breathtaking, with panoramic views of the Atlantic Ocean, the Blasket Islands, and the Macgillycuddy’s Reeks mountain range.
After a long train ride from Dublin, I arrived in Tralee, a charming town in County Kerry. The town is known for its friendly locals, rich history, and stunning natural beauty. It serves as the county seat of Kerry and is the starting point for both the Dingle Way and Kerry Camino trails. After checking into my room for the night, I took advantage and visited the famous Roses of Tralee, the nearby Tralee Bay, and the breathtaking views of the Atlantic Ocean, rugged cliffs, and rolling hills. My day ended with a hearty bowl of vegetable soup and my newfound love of Red Breast single pot Irish Whisky. Aided by a wee drop of Red Breast, I returned to my lodging and fell into a dreamless sleep.
I woke early the next morning in time to see the light break through a brooding overcast sky. As I sat enjoying the conversation of my host, Veronica, I could not help but linger over my stellar Irish breakfast and excellent strong coffee. Reluctantly I said my farewells and set out for the official first day of my journey. I felt a wave of nostalgia for my past adventures and growing excitement for this one. The weather was typically Irish, with epic wind and rain pounding the trail, but I relished the challenge and pushed myself to keep going. The dark sky contrasted sharply with the emerald foothills, and the wind dared me to remain upright with the weight of my backpack. But I felt alive with the excitement of the adventure.
As the day wore on, I stumbled upon a cozy sliver of a pub in the village of Camp. The bartender’s great-grandfather built the pub, adding a touch of history to my visit. Stepping inside, I was immediately enveloped in warmth and hospitality. The locals were friendly and welcoming, and the music and laughter echoed off the walls. It was the perfect place to recover from a long day on the trail.
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Sipping on a pint of Guinness and chatting with the locals, I felt a deep contentment and gratitude. Despite the day’s challenges, I had made it to this cozy pub, surrounded by new friends and Ireland’s rich history. Moments like these made me fall in love with travel and the thrill of adventure.
After a quick stop at the B&B, I couldn’t resist the allure of the Railroad Pub. Sunday nights were special, with locals gathering to play their instruments and sing. As I walked in, I felt like I had stumbled onto the set of a small Irish independent film. The pub was alive with energy, music, and laughter spilling out onto the street.
The characters inside embodied everything I had imagined about rural Ireland – warm, friendly, and full of life. They welcomed me with open arms, inviting me to join the festivities. I grabbed a pint of ale and found a spot at the bar, taking in the sounds and smells around me.
As the night wore on, the music grew louder and the dancing more exuberant. I couldn’t resist the urge to join in, stumbling onto the dance floor with newfound confidence. The locals cheered me on, and soon I was lost in the moment of joy.
Despite being busy behind the bar, Mike, the owner, took the time to chat with us and ensure we were taken care of. His kindness and generosity added to the magic of the night, making it one I’ll never forget. As I stumbled back to the B&B, my heart full of the music and memories of the night, I knew this trip would be one for the books. The traditional music and singing had truly been the highlight of my journey so far, and I couldn’t wait to see what adventures awaited me on the rest of the Dingle Way/Kerry Camino. With cozy pubs, delicious food, and breathtaking views, I knew this adventure would be epic!
I set off for Ireland with a one-night stay in Dublin as a stopover before traveling via train to walk the Dingle Way, a long-distance walking trail that circles the Dingle Peninsula in County Kerry. It is a 179 km (111 mi) trail that takes about 8 to 10 days to complete, and it is considered one of the most scenic walking routes in Ireland. I will write more about this epic trail in my next post.
After a long flight from the USA, I arrived at Dublin Airport and took a bus to the city center. A half-hour later, I arrived at Temple Bar neighborhood with a blustery short 10-minute walk to my Hostel. I planned to check in and get a recommendation from the staff on their favorite local pub to enjoy a good dinner and a pint of beer before turning in early for a much-needed sleep and an early morning train to start my long-distance walk.
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Well, that was the plan I had scripted for myself, but Dublin had other plans in store for me.
Walking into a local pub packed to the roof with Friday night revelers, I barely had enough room to squeeze inside the entrance door. The pub was so full that it seemed impossible to get to the bar, let alone a table for my dinner or to order my wee pint of beer! I was turning around and determined to leave when a friendly Irishman quickly put me at ease with his warm welcome and offered me a pint of Guinness. Despite the crowded bar, he skillfully navigated through the throngs of people to a table where a group of Germans welcomed us to join them. Over the course of the night, we enjoyed several pints (okay many pints) and shots of Green Spot Irish whiskey while the lively music had the entire bar singing and dancing. I even danced with my Irishman and a sweet-hearted German with a great sense of humor. At around 2 am, we stumbled out of the pub and continued the revelry at a local place where you got it; more pints and shots were served.
I never actually made it to bed that night; my head was pounding, and my vision was blurry when I returned to the hostel just in time to witness the sunrise and the city come back to life. With barely enough time to collect my backpack, I set out for the next leg of my adventures in Ireland. Despite the hangover and lack of sleep, I called an Uber lift to take me to the train station, and during the ride, the driver asked me about my sightseeing experiences the previous day. When I revealed that I had only visited one small pub, he laughed and declared me a true Irishwoman at heart. Regrettably, I never had dinner that night, but the memories of the vibrant pub and the friendly locals I encountered will remain with me forever.
I’ve worked in the trades most of my life. I don’t pull that “most” figure out of a hat. It has yet to be determined how my remaining years will be spent but even if I started a new career tomorrow there is simply not enough time left to exceed the 50-plus years I’ve spent doing manual labor, unless I live to 110 years old. So far all the mentors I’ve written about were involved with the line of work I was doing, be it construction, the various marine trades I engaged in or mechanics. Bernie Hunt was a different sort of mentor in that he created an entirely new and unexpected line of work.
Mr. Hunt was the editor of The Key West Citizen, our local daily newspaper way down south in the Florida Keys. For a small town there were a lot of dramatic events happening in Key West seemingly all the time. It was such a clannish place and so vested in the smuggler’s lifestyle that the Feds were constantly blowing into town arresting high officials because local law enforcement was in on the deal, if not outright protecting the crooks. Scandals were plentiful and the news business was hopping.
After one of the many hurricanes that hit our place in Big Pine Key, the whole island was littered with junk. Residents would stack their crap along the roadsides where it sat waiting for someone to haul it away. Big Pine Key was considered The Sticks to Key West and other islands and so we were usually last for any kind of assistance. No matter where you lived in the Keys, local government was slow to react in times of disaster and we had to wait for FEMA to come in and mop up the mess. This took many, many months.
With the stinking piles of trash as a backdrop I wrote a letter to the editor about how the roadside junkyards were a boon to people like me. I found a rare column-shift collar for a three-speed manual transmission Ford Econoline van in the piles. I dug out a nearly complete 1972 Yamaha RT2 motorcycle not far from home. My friends in Big Pine Key called it Beirut Auto Supply because our neighborhood looked like images of war-torn areas in the Middle East.
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Mr. Hunt called me. He said he wanted to know if I was a real person and that he loved the letter and wanted to make it into a column for the Sunday edition of the newspaper. I was pretty excited. He asked if I could come down to the Key West Citizen offices and meet with him. This was pretty cool considering I was a boat electrician and not a writer.
That’s how I met Bernie Hunt for the first and last time. We chatted in his office and he asked, “What makes you so funny?” I was caught off guard by the question since the Beirut Auto Supply story wasn’t all that hilarious to me. I couldn’t think of anything and I told him that I didn’t know, that I was just writing about how it was on Big Pine Key. I felt dumb as hell.
After a bit more chatting, Mr. Hunt said, “Call me Bernie. How would you like to write a weekly column for us?”
To see how weird this question was you have to understand about Key West’s long, distinguished literary history. The Island is lousy with writers ever since Hemingway drank, fought and typed standing up here. You can’t swing a 6-toed cat without hitting a struggling writer. Taking a chance on a boat electrician with zero writing experience and from Big Pine Key when he had dozens of real writers to pick from sitting on the stoop outside his door was just plain foolhardy.
Brian Catterson, an editor of mine at Motorcyclist once told me that the only correct answer to an editor asking you to write a story is “Hell yes.” I didn’t know that at the time but I still said, “Hell yes.” Bernie took me on a tour of the newspaper building introducing me to the people we met along the way. “This is Joe Gresh, he’ll be writing a column for us,” Bernie would say, like I was somebody they should know. The printing room was an analog delight: huge rollers spun giant coils of newsprint into sheets of printed material. Steel dies were laid out and inked, Bernie complained about how the cost of newsprint had gone up and said they would need to raise the price of a copy if it kept up.
When I got home reality hit: How was I going to write 700 words a week? I bent to it and with a lot of help from CT editing the gibberish I produced we managed to get a Sunday column done. And then we did another. And another. And another.
CT typed my handwritten stories and then faxed them to the newspaper where they would be typeset and printed. Deadline was Friday for the Sunday edition. I wrote about 80 Sunday columns over two years for the Key West Citizen. In all that time Bernie never called me except to say that they couldn’t run a story because it was too weird or for legal reasons. The column received many letters of complaint, which I loved. Bernie never gave me direction, writing advice or told me he liked what I was doing: he just kept printing the stuff.
One day Bernie left for another editor’s job. I lasted a few more editions but the new editor from Ypsilanti, Michigan didn’t care for my shtick and stopped printing my stories. I was never actually fired I was simply ignored. I was pretty burnt out from trying to come up with a topic and write a story each week so I wasn’t too upset about the way it ended.
When I decided to write about him I tried to find Bernie online. I can’t tell if he’s dead or alive. The last place I have him living was Las Vegas, Nevada. I found some phone numbers and email addresses and tried contacting him but no dice. After the Key West Citizen he went on to be editor at many different newspapers and magazines. He even won a Pulitzer Prize (I think), so he’s done fairly well without me. Bernie was the most hands-off mentor I’ve had. His method was to point me in an unfamiliar direction and kick me in the ass. It worked well.
If anyone knows where Bernie is now, do me a favor and send him a link to this story.
So where did the phrase “a cup of Joe” originate? For the book, that’s easy. Good buddy Marcus won the naming contest a few weeks ago with his suggested A Cup O’ Joes, which was the first suggestion to arrive in our Comments section and my immediate favorite. Yeah, that’s the commercial, and yeah, if you haven’t bought a copy already, please do so. But from where did the term “a cup of Joe” actually emanate?
There’s no conclusive answer, but like many things, there are lots of opinions (making it a near perfect topic for Internet musing, I suppose). Here are a few I found.
The Navy Angle
One hypothesis holds that “a cup of Joe” is based on a US Navy booze ban. Secretary of the Navy Josephus “Joe” Daniels prohibited alcohol on ships in 1914. After that edict, the strongest thing a sailor could drink on board a US Navy vessel was coffee. Angry sailors coined “a cup of Joe” to describe their coffee as a result.
The Big Jamoke?
Language historians think “a cup of Joe” didn’t enter the English language until around 1930. Linguists think the term came from an adaptation of the invented word “jamoke,” which was a combination of java and mocha. “Jamoke” may have become “Joe.” Eh, that seems a bit farfetched to me, but the term “jamoke” sounds kind of cool to me. I like it.
An Average Joe
A third hypothesis is that the word “Joe” means something common. You know, like “the average Joe” (understandably, not one of my favorite expressions). Because coffee is such a common man’s drink (a common woman’s drink, too, based on the long line of women I always see at any Starbuck’s ordering obscene $8 coffee-based concoctions), the expression “a cup of Joe” emerged. I don’t put much stock in this one, either.
So what’s the answer?
Beats me. Maybe good buddy and coffee empresario Ren of Batdorf & Bronson Coffee can weigh in with his opinion. Or maybe one of our other readers knows. Let’s hear what you think.
My take on all the above? “A cup of Joe” just seems to fit. I am not the sharpest matzo in the box when I wake up in the morning, and I need my coffee to sharpen my thinking. “A cup of Joe” is an expression that fits perfectly for me. I’m enjoying mine now.
Oh, one more thing…don’t forget to buy your own copy of A Cup O’ Joes! And don’t forget to click on the popup ads.
Sue and I just returned from a couple of weeks over there and it was awesome. I left the big Nikon at home and carried a much lighter D3300 Nikon (the same one I used on the China, Colombia, and Baja rides), and life was a lot easier. The photos are about as good as those I get with the boat anchor D810 and I minimized the wear and tear on me (I’m so spring chicken, you know). I took three lenses with me: the 18-55 kit lens that came with the camera, an inexpensive and lightweight Rokinon 8mm fisheye (using it required manual everything, as it doesn’t interface with the D3300’s auto focusing and metering capabilities), and a very sharp Nikon 35mm f1.8. Even though the 35mm Nikon lens was the best in the bag, I never put it on the camera. I used the 18-55mm for the bulk of my shots (it was easy to use and I think it did a good job) and the 8mm fisheye for just a few (like that big photo in the Gaudi basilica at the top of this blog).
