My Bicycle
The sun is shining. There’s a slight breeze but the sky is blue and clear. The slow puncture on my bicycle has been attended to so I’m off for a gentle cycle through Dún Laoghaire to fill my lungs with fresh sea air and 
feast my eyes on the sights of this town that nestles nicely between the mountains and the sea. I’ll fly down York Road (I hope the breaks still work) and stop short of the railway line that lets out onto the Coal Harbour busy with boats of every shape and size. I’ll pass The Royal Irish Yacht Club that sits to the left of the ferry terminal where boats leave these shores for Holyhead in Wales returning with visitors and lorries crammed full of imports that fill our supermarket shelves. The Royal St George Yacht Club comes next; it’s there I dream of spending my afternoons propping up the bar, sipping G&Ts while flirting with gentlemen sailors.
The harbour is held in the embrace of two piers that are busy morning, noon and night with walkers getting their recommended daily allowance of fresh unpolluted air. I’ll pass the East Pier (bicycles are only welcome very early in the morning) and the Russian Cannon gun, standing guard and looking pointedly out to sea, that has long since forgotten how to shoot anything since its last outing in the Crimea War. But it’s perfect for kids to climb over, and lovers to have their photograph taken as they lean against the Romanov crest of the double eagle and crown. Then Sandycove comes in sight across the gleaming water of Scotsman’s Bay calling out for an artist’s brush to capture its essence: the red roofed house, Joyce’s Tower, the tiny beach full of golden sand, the architect Michael Scott’s house, Geragh, that stands out proud of itself, as it should be.
And if I have enough time I’ll cycle on to Bulloch Harbour and stand and watch the seals bopping up and down in the water, ever hopeful of scraps, ever fascinating in their private swimming pool. I’ll pass the little blue house that I’ve long since decided will be mine one of these days where I’ll set out afternoon tea on the lawn and watch the goings on outside my gate. Oh, yes indeed.
What more could anyone ask on a day like today?
feast my eyes on the sights of this town that nestles nicely between the mountains and the sea. I’ll fly down York Road (I hope the breaks still work) and stop short of the railway line that lets out onto the Coal Harbour busy with boats of every shape and size. I’ll pass The Royal Irish Yacht Club that sits to the left of the ferry terminal where boats leave these shores for Holyhead in Wales returning with visitors and lorries crammed full of imports that fill our supermarket shelves. The Royal St George Yacht Club comes next; it’s there I dream of spending my afternoons propping up the bar, sipping G&Ts while flirting with gentlemen sailors. The harbour is held in the embrace of two piers that are busy morning, noon and night with walkers getting their recommended daily allowance of fresh unpolluted air. I’ll pass the East Pier (bicycles are only welcome very early in the morning) and the Russian Cannon gun, standing guard and looking pointedly out to sea, that has long since forgotten how to shoot anything since its last outing in the Crimea War. But it’s perfect for kids to climb over, and lovers to have their photograph taken as they lean against the Romanov crest of the double eagle and crown. Then Sandycove comes in sight across the gleaming water of Scotsman’s Bay calling out for an artist’s brush to capture its essence: the red roofed house, Joyce’s Tower, the tiny beach full of golden sand, the architect Michael Scott’s house, Geragh, that stands out proud of itself, as it should be.
And if I have enough time I’ll cycle on to Bulloch Harbour and stand and watch the seals bopping up and down in the water, ever hopeful of scraps, ever fascinating in their private swimming pool. I’ll pass the little blue house that I’ve long since decided will be mine one of these days where I’ll set out afternoon tea on the lawn and watch the goings on outside my gate. Oh, yes indeed.
What more could anyone ask on a day like today?
Labels: cycling, Dún Laoghaire, Joyce, Mountains to the Sea
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