Eolaí and his Painting Tour: Week Five

So we left the Brother last Thursday evening, and him sitting in a Kerry field beyond Killarney, chasing the sunset in a field of hay, cursing the farmer who'd started baling it. What's happened since then, you might wonder, in the ongoing saga that Ireland's twitterati call #paintingtour?

Well, as the night progressed the Brother mentioned his favourite sign of the trip thus far, one that'd have been too dangerous to stop and photograph, saying 'Cork Therapy Clinic -- Previous Left Turn'. That'd been a few days earlier, of course, but not nearly so much earlier as this marvellously iconic sight which he posted as a competition for his Twitter followers; if anyone guessed the county, said Eolaí, he'd allow himself a can of stout. I'd have gambled on Carlow, but after much disputing around the photo's geotag -- showing where the Brother was when he posted the picture, not where he took it -- it was eventually revealed in the early hours of Friday morning that it was taken in north Wexford, way back in week one!

Alternating between pint and paint, and with tea to ease the transitions, he carried on into the night. With another painting done, he set off again on Friday, looking back to the Reeks and struggling to Farranfore, having a bit of a scare on the way. Having used his tablet to work out his route, he hadn't secured it properly to the bike afterwards, and cycling down a hill it fell off, and was hit and run over by a tractor. However, thanks to the tablet's heroic sleeve, even hitting the ground at speed and being run over didn't damage it at all! And if that scared him, then he scared us, conjuring up a terrifying image that evening by warning us after his arrival that though he was happily ensconsed among his hosts, filled with food and clutching his tea, he had some concerns about his attire. 'I tell ya tho',' he said, 'these cycling shorts aren't going to see too many more counties.'

Still, erosion to shorts aside, it clearly proved a jovial evening, and suitably fortified and rested he set out again on Saturday, cycling past classic pub scenes and typically gorgeous Kerry landscapes on his way to Tralee. Unfortunately, given the weekend that was in it, with a bank holiday and golf going on, Tralee was booked up. There being no room in the inn, the Brother was forced to turn around and pedal back to Farranfore, making it back where he'd started just before dark. Still, his future hosts made plans for him appearing with all agreeing on the need for tea, beer, tea, wine, tea, curry, and tea*, and one boasting of having arranged for the importation of my Brother's clan. He may have been exaggerating on that one, as I certainly didn't get an invitation.

Kerry Road Markings

Out on Sunday, having had to abandon his plan for two days of gentle cycling, he set off again, pausing on the way to admire Kerry County Council's assiduous road maintenance, and again to rectify yet another puncture. Onward again through the misty rain, looking west to the Dingle peninsula, and through the hurling stronghold of Kilmoyley where the locals had quickly picked the Q, C, and K from the local Quick Pick, all the way to the home of Dat Beardy Man and Arwen the dog. 

Monday saw the Brother painting and inhaling tea at the side of yet another Kerry road, and with the sun down he put away his paints and turned to dinner and more tea.

Two hours behind schedule on Tuesday, he set off from Lixnaw through Finuge and Listowel, onward to Tarbert to get a ferry over the Shannon Estuary. He stopped to share tea and griddle bread with a needy if somewhat adorable dog that'd been chasing a chicken only moments earlier, and then continued pushing his legstraining way through Clare, his tenth county, making his way past Ballynacally, village of a thousand hanging baskets, to Ennis, his destination for the night.

Yesterday seems to have been an odd one, with him under orders to paint some zombies in the west of Ireland -- no, I have no idea, but he assures me they  weren't painted from life, though they may have been rendered from living death. Whatever about the Zombies, though, he also did a gorgeous painting of a couple of pugs for his hosts. Sadly, one dog didn't make the cut for some reason.

Quin Abbey

Today has seen him cycling southeast, more or less, stopping to eat a sandwich at Quin Abbey, taking a cattle grid at speed, marvelling at an unexpected sign in Sixmilebridge**, pausing to wish for tea, and eventually passing Thomond Park as he entered Limerick City by the old Cratloe Road, crossing the Shannon at Thomond Bridge to be hosted in his eleventh county by the notorious Bock the Robber.

Five weeks cycled, eleven counties graced with his presence, and I have no idea how many paintings painted or mugs of tea consumed. Let's hope his legs hold up. As I keep saying, you can and should follow him on his blog and especially on Twitter, where his hashtag's #paintingtour. I wouldn't bother following him on Google Latitude, though, as that has a habit of putting him in Drogheda when he's in the Dublin Mountains or Kilmore Quay, in Lucan when he's in Ardmore, and Garryvoe Beach in Cork when he's in north Kerry.

And again, as I've also said before, if you think there's a chance he might be passing within twenty miles or so of where you live and you have a bed to offer and fancy a painting, you should let him know. Just send him a message. It's not called social networking for nothing...

The Brother's Route Thus Far, as roughly reconstructed from Twitter updates

* Though you could argue that tea, wine, and spirits is the correct order of drinks.

** One needs to be warned of such sinister creatures.

Eolaí and his Painting Tour: Week Four

While I've been busy trying to do my work and make sense of the fallout from the Cloyne Report -- and if you want to read that, scroll down to Tuesday's post and to a few before that -- the Brother's been continuing his epic artistic cycle around Ireland.

We left him, last Thursday, painting in Clonakilty, before going to stay with some lovely people who refuelled him with spicy food and tea in a specially-bought big blue mug. More painting the next day, and then some sightseeing in the afternoon, visiting Drombeg Stone Circle, Glandore, Union Hall, and Castletownsend. The hospitality continued with tea being -- as the wonderful mother of a wonderful ex of mine said when I first set foot in her house -- on tap, and then he was away leaving behind him a lovely painting of Red Strand.

Having stayed on Friday with the same old friend he's stayed with on Wednesday, he set off again on Saturday, battling cramp as he cycled through west Cork, backtracking a few miles to South Ring to paint some more, listening to the curlews, and the terms, and the tide, putting on an extra T-shirt against the cold, and muttering in exasperation as boats he was painting would sail out of sight. In a heroic bit of stereotyping, a lady he'd never met before came out of her house, approached him, and bestowed upon him a mug of tea and a big plate of sandwiches and cakes. With two paintings nearly complete, and an hour and a half behind schedule, he saddled the bike and faced north then west again, heading off back through Clonakilty and onwards through the hills to Skibbereen. Settling in there was a near run thing, as his bike took a puncture, his phone got sickly, and a B&B that had promised him a room turned him away on arrival, saying they'd given it to someone else. Still, a wonderful hostel stepped into the breach, giving him for the price of a dorm bed a family room where he could paint in privacy into the night.

Sunday then saw him painting in the tranquility of Skibbereen, and then refuelling with tea and some much needed food before heading north towards Bantry, tired though he still was from the punishing effect of the back roads of rural Ireland. Monday began with him eating his breakfast with mixed feelings, noting that every time he finishes a rasher himself, he misses his dog. Even with another night's rest, he set off that day at far from peak condition, his calf still hurting from the cramp that'd first struck him on Friday, and his knees still far from happy with the punishment they were getting, ploughing his lonely and determined way past sights both bleak and beautiful.

Still, tired and sore though he was, he found time to admire gorgeous views whilst drinking tea and made it to Glengarriff, aching and exhausted from spending the day marvelling in pain at the beauty all around him. The view out his window was great, and perhaps nicer still in the morning.

I was reassured to see him tweeting again on Tuesday, as in the dead of night he'd tweeted a deperate cry that his tablet had died, rendering him computerless, but following a friend's advice and trying the hard reset had been all he'd needed to do to resuscitate the beast. He said his goodbyes to Glengarriff, where the local Gaelic club had obviously won something recently, and headed north, to torture his knees further by climbing through the mountains to Kenmare. Off he went, then, to great encouragement and with someone else having attempted a rendering of him with the air of, as someone said, 'the conquering barbarian about him'. Somehow his knees did the job and got him through Caha Pass, over the mountains, and out of Cork into Kerry, his ninth county, in one piece, consumed though he was with a bottomless craving for tea as he arrived in Kenmare and settled down in the street to paint.

More painting in Kenmare was on Wednesday's agenda, as he supped his tea and wondered how the weather would turn out. It was -- technically -- dry, but it was dark and cool and hinting at rain. Taking his paints to the street again, he settled down outside the aptly named Cupán Tae where €2.50 got him three pots of tea, and he'd no shortage of people to talk to. Onward and upward then on a few mouthfuls of brown bread to Moll's Gap, and down along a bumpy twisty road, thankfully free of coaches, through Muckross to Killarney itself, pushing just a few miles further to a little cottage and hot teapot, wrapped in cosy anticipation. During the night he fell asleep at the table last night, and waking shivering and with tingling feet, he took some more tea, making everything seem better, and then went to bed.

As for today? Well, last I looked he'd been watching a match, and muttering darkly about how frustrating it can be when you're chasing the sunset while painting a field of hay, only for the farmer to come along and start baling it. Now if only you could make the sun stand still...

As I keep saying, you can and should follow him on his blog and especially on Twitter, where his hashtag's #paintingtour. And again, as I've also said before, if you think there's a chance he might be passing within twenty miles or so of where you live and you have a bed to offer and fancy a painting, you should let him know. Just send him a message. It's not called social networking for nothing...

Eolaí and his Painting Tour: Week Three

You remember Tuesday, when all the rest of us were wondering how the interrogation of Rupert and James Murdoch was going, admiring the forensic questioning by Tom Watson, Louise Mensch, and Paul Farrelly, and sighing at the opportunities wasted by the other eejits? Well, while all that was going on, the Brother was sitting on the bank at the side of a Cork road, painting a bridge over a river, more-or-less oblivious to the slices being cut from Murdoch's cucumber.

Yep, week three of the Brother's Painting Tour of Ireland has drawn to a close. In his first week he'd cycled and painted his way through Dublin, Kildare, Wicklow, Carlow, and Kilkenny, while his second one saw him pedalling through Carlow and Wicklow into Wexford, from where he turned west and had been pushing on through Waterford. We'd left him in Dungarvan...

He painted into the night in Dungarvan, as he does, working through his back-up supply of Barry's teabags, and wishing he could have brought a teapot. With his various devices leaking power more quickly than his knees, he turned them off to charge up and concentrated on the painting.

Friday morning was damp and overcast, as he plotted his journey west and when asked what he'd like for breakfast decided the main criterion was size: 'Something big'. The staff at the B&B gave him a second pot of  tea without him needing to ask. He needed it. He recorded some optimistic words for us, and then set off, heading south to Rinn, one of the less obviously likely spots for a Gaeltacht, and onwards, but before long being barraged with rain, such that, as he put it, 'Don't remember cycling with my eyes closed before.' Still, he made his way to St Declan's Hermitage -- reputed site of one of Ireland's pre-Patrician Christian settlements -- where he sat on an Ardmore clifftop and painted in the rain. Onward then, thoroughly sodden, past a rain-scorning fire in Ardmore with the smoke filling the bay, past the Round Tower and over the bridge on the Blackwater Estuary into Cork, his eighth county, there to take shelter from the rain in Youghal.

(Youghal's B&B, he has since revealed, had the most impractically conical taps, which couldn't be turned off until he'd dried his hands, and even then required the aid of a towel. A design flaw, methinks.)

On Saturday morning he recorded another message for us, left his B&B, had a look around, and set off again, fighting the wind as he pedalled southwest to Garryvoe Beach, where he settled down in the wind to paint at the beach, looking over towards Ballycotton island and setting about a commissioned painting of Ballycotton lighthouse, till the rains came down and the winds blew and beat against him, scattering his painting and his canvases, hiding from sight all he'd been painting. Gathering his stuff he sheltered as best he could in the rocks as the tide started to rise, creeping towards his bike, crippled as it was by a bungee hook having caught itself in a wheel, twisted around an axle and locked onto the spokes. With the water two feet from the bike, he dragged it to what he thought was safety and desperately tried to prise out the hook with a paintbrush, snapping the brush as he did so. Still the tide rose, and so he emptied the bike, and carried it and everything to safety among the rocks, there to call for help and wait, on the rocks, for the cavalry to arrive and whisk him away to Carrigtwohill.

Arrive they did, and it wasn't long before the Brother could pronounce himself 'Happy, and safe, and warm, and dry, and full of food, and fixed of bicycle, and full of wine. At home Hannigan.' 

Sunday was a day of rest, from cycling if not from painting, as he got stuck in to that on his stool in the garden, painting a little corner of the Hannigans' world for them.

Monday then saw him setting out a afresh, with Google Latitude, hitherto falsely claiming he was in Drogheda, now lying and placing him in Lucan. Off he went then past some very colourful houses zigzagging his way across Great Island towards Cobh, where he set himself up to paint and learned that our old Maths teacher hadn't told us the whole truth when he'd said that between two stools you fall to the grounds. Sometimes one can collapse of its own accord, and to your public embarrassment. 

Yes, that's Cobh Cathedral, sadly in the news for all the wrong reasons nowadays.

Still, with the painting done it was time to take another ferry, to cycle on to Carrigaline, and to accept the hospitality of the Swearing Lady and her Gentleman.

(Somewhere along the way he saw this lovely view. No, I can't for the life of me figure out where. Sometimes it's as difficult to disentangle the narrative threads as it is to -- well -- unhook a rogue bungee cord.)

Tuesday was another scheduled rest from cycling -- despite having crossed continents with them back in the day, the Brother's knees aren't what they once were, and besides, there's not much point cycling between friends if you're not going to spend time with them -- but painting was still on the agenda, and shopping too, successfully for canvases and less so for vaseline. While the rest of us were busy watching Rupert and James Murdoch and Rebekah Brooks trying to deceive parliament*, he settled in at the side of a Cork road, by a bridge over a river, painting under a grey sky. Well, it was grey to start with. It was green when he was done. With the painting finished, and somewhat perturbed by Corkonian men winking at him, he settled in to savour some tea and to adjust his Painting Tour Website, with particular reference to what he eats, all the while half-watching a gory Japanese film, avoiding the gore by ducking behind the computer screen.

Wednesday morning saw him painting till lunchtime, working out his route, and then setting off again, though progress was slow as he pedalled west, with him suffering from stomach cramps. Still, he took a break at Inishannon, where he responded to some Twitter banter about him and the Tour de France by posting a picture he painted once of what he saw as he approached Grenoble and the Alps on a bicycle, before riding over the Col du Lautaret back in 1996. Slowed down though he was, and sticking to the back roads, he resumed the cycle and carried on towards Clonakilty and beyond, craving tea the whole while. Still, it wasn't long before his mission was accomplished and he could merrily proclaim, '8 mugs of tea, a beer, and a big plate of lasagne - me and the bike are settled in Clonakilty'.

And so to today, day 21 of the Painting Tour, with Clonakilty to be his base till Saturday, as he's a few paintings to be doing. Last I heard he looked like he was working very hard.

As I've said more than once now, keep following him on his blog and especially on Twitter, where his hashtag's #paintingtour. And again, as I've also said before, if you think there's a chance he might be passing within twenty miles or so of where you live and you have a bed to offer and fancy a painting, you should let him know. Just send him a message. It's not called social networking for nothing...

* In my humble™ opinion.

Eolaí and his Painting Tour: Week Two

And so the Brother's Odyssey continues.

We left him a week ago on a Kilkenny hillside, surrounded by singing sheep. He rested after that, and painted in the rain and then last Saturday pedalled his way from Carlow through Wicklow into north Wexford, where on Sunday he painted at Tara Hill and greenfly menaced him, doing their best to go for a swim in his tea.

Monday saw him summarising how things had been going thus far, and then set off on his first day of cycling without a host, and him making his way from north of Gorey towards Wexford town. He stopped by the beach at Courttown, as you do, and at an old friend's house, forgetting he was away in Turkey, and again to have lunch by the memorial for those who died in the sinking of the emigrant ship Pomona in 1859. Using Twitter -- that being a big part of the trip, after all -- he spread the word that he was looking for somewhere to stay, and planning on funding the night by selling a painting.

'We've just one room left and it's very small,' said one lady.

'There's only one of me and I'm very small,' he said, drawing her gaze away from his still-ample bolg.

Utterly knackered on Tuesday after the previous day's exploits, he set himself up at Wexford's Crescent Quay to finish the painting he'd been too exhausted to finish the previous day.

Off he went then to Kilmore Quay, fifteen miles or so away to the south and a place I know all too well from studying Ordnance Survey maps and town plans in Leaving Cert geography classes. The brother knows it rather better now, having worked on a couple of paintings there, and done some sketching in his notebook, and admired the Vigil Statue in the Memorial Garden, and gone for a cycle along the south coast in the evening.

Yesterday, he said in the morning, was the nicest day in the history of the Universe. He pedalled on west from Kilmore Quay, stopping to look at the curlews and oystercatchers, before making his way through Wellingtonbridge and on to Arthurstown, taking a ferry from Ballyhack over the estuary of the Three Sisters, the Nore, the Suir, and the Barrow to Passage East.

Finally and into his seventh county -- Waterford -- with knees aflame he made it to Tramore, and on a couple of miles further.

Today's been a Waterford day, cycling through his second Kill village of the trip, and eventually getting him to Dungarvan far later than he'd have wished. I'm fond of Dungarvan, as I'd a lovely family holiday there when I was fourteen or so; I don't remember too much of it, alas, other than the grey house we stayed in, the apple tree in the garden, days out at the beach, looking for cheap books in Dungarvan's shops, watching Zulu in the living room, and a long walk with my Dad on country roads at night where on spotting a white line in the centre of the road I declared with relief that we'd obviously hit civilization at last.

The Brother's knees, as ever on this trip, are killing him. I'm thinking he should get himself some Glucosamine; Sister the Eldest got me on it years ago. My favourite version was Jointace, with cod liver oil being the carrier; I don't know whether it made a real difference in itself or whether it just had a hell of a placebo effect, but it did the job.

Anyway, two weeks down, and seven counties cycled through. Only twenty-five more to go. Keep following him on his blog and especially on Twitter, where his hashtag's #paintingtour. And again, as I've said before, if you think there's a chance he might be passing within twenty miles or so of where you live and you have a bed to offer and fancy a painting, you should let him know. Just send him a message. It's not called social networking for nothing...

Eolaí and his Painting Tour: Week One

Well, the Brother's cycling trip seems to be going well so far, barring a near-disastrous tube explosion early on. 

Over the first couple of days of the trip, he cycled through the hills of South Dublin, where he painted Glenasmole before cycling into Kildare where he visited the cemetery where Arthur Griffith is buried, and then went on to Sallins. From Sallins he made his way through the Wicklow Gap and on to Wicklow town, where he marvelled at the sunrise after a long night with his host, had a fine view of a coastguard rescue, and then sat painting on a windy hillside in Wicklow before crossing the Dereen into Carlow, where he did a colourful take on Duckett's Grove for his hosts. He's somewhere in Kilkenny now, a week into his travels, and is currently painting on a sunny hill, with cows lazing to the right of him, birds arguing behind him, and the whole world in front of him.

One of his hosts has posted the picture he did as a guest-gift. Nice, eh? 

You should follow his exploits, on his blog and more particularly on Twitter. And, y'know, if you reckon he might be passing within twenty miles or so, and you have a bed to offer and fancy a painting, you should let him know. Just send him a message. It's not called social networking for nothing...

Eolai's Cycling Tour of Ireland - And He's Off!

So, the Brother's finally set off on his jaunt -- a 32-County Painting Tour of Ireland. It was nodded to in a couple of pieces in yesterday's Irish Independent. 

He posted a thoughtful and witty and oddly poignant little recording on Audioboo in the early hours, before he'd packed and set out. It's worth a listen. I'm not sure where he is right now, but a few hours back he was painting in the hills south of Dublin somewhere.

The bike's impressively loaded, as you'll see, thanks to the Brother's Xtracycle, which he happily refers to on a regular basis as the best thing he ever bought. As far as I can tell he's carting around paints, brushes, canvas, a seat, tools, and all the other stuff you'd expect if you were cycling round a whole country, covering two or three thousand miles over a couple of months. Which, of course, you would do, wouldn't you?

Anyway, you should follow his adventures on his website, and on Twitter. I expect there'll be no shortage of pictures. It's about Irish social networking and the internet as much as it's about cycling and painting, after all.