Eolaí and his Painting Tour: Week Twelve

Well, the Painting Tour is over, and like Odysseus, our weary wanderer is home. It's been nearly three months since the Brother set off on his cycle, during which time he's visited twenty-nine of Ireland's traditional counties, clocked up more than three thousand kilometres in the saddle, painted a hell of a lot of paintings, met huge numbers of wonderful people, lost a few pounds, got more familiar with the Irish weather than any man should ever do, and drank prodigious amounts of tea.

Not bad going, eh?

Last time we heard of him, he was in Antrim, having been collected by Grannymar just north of Cushendun, and with his giant bike stashed into her little car, had been taken home by her, there to be met by a king's feast of buttered tiger bread and Barry's tea. It was to be a packed couple of days.

Friday was a day for sightseeing, with Grannymar driving him hither and thither, to the Hole Stone, Lough Neagh, Antrim Castle and its gardens, Gleno Waterfall, Randalstown, and William of Orange's landing point at Carrickfergus. That she did all that driving after her recent fall amazes me; God only knows what she could have done if she'd not had a tumble. Still, as she said to me, the Brother's visit was just the distraction she needed from her cracked bones and numb face: she loved seeing the world from his perspective.

The bridge on the river Maine

Saturday saw him visiting Glenariff and Waterfoot, there to indulge in Thai yellow soup on the strand, before heading off leaving a briefly broken internet and an otherwise deeply impressed lady behind him; Grannymar's own take on the visit is well worth your perusal.

And he's off again...

He cycled south, and whizzed through Belfast as he chased the sunset into Down, his twenty-fifth county, there to settle for the night in the safety of Helen's Bay.

Chased and caught. Mission accomplished.

Sunday morning was spent painting one of the trips most beautiful paintings, a suitably blue take on the Hollywood shore, and then he got another lift, his second shortcut of the trip, this being a straightforward necessity at this stage: time was running out and the days are getting very short. Cycling even in the dusk is far from wise, as the Brother learned all too painfully fifteen years ago.

An atypically blue sky for the Brother, perhaps inspired by events in Croke Park...

Of course, there was more to Sunday than cycling and painting. The Brother naturally wanted to see the All Ireland Football Final, with Dublin in it for the first time since 1995, and beating Kerry by 1-12 to 1-11 with almost the last kick of the match.

Cycling through Armagh, his twenty-sixth county, he arrived in Newry as it was darkening, it being the last hostless night of the trip and the Brother seeking advice over somewhere to stay that wouldn't break the bank and that'd guarantee him a wifi connection. Suggestions were hurled from all sides, and in the end he found his spot and got stuck into a night of painting and more high-tech shenanigans.

Monday began with a colossal breakfast of sausages, eggs, black and white puddings, rashers, potato cake, soda farl, mushrooms, tomatoes, toast, and croissants. And, of course, tea. There's a reason why Ulster fries are the stuff of legend. Once he'd fuelled up for the day he got stuck into a commissioned painting, did some research and plotting for the way onward, and then was off again. Southwest he pedalled, across Armagh through Camlough, Silverbridge, and Crossmaglen, taking him back over the border into Monaghan, his twenty-seventh county, where it was raining. Again.

He made his way around the north and east of Lake Muckno, through Castleblaney and on through the rain to Ballybay, there to stay with John McGuirk, doyen of the new Irish right, to spend the evening eating Viennetta ice cream, watching telly, and teaching his host about politics.

Now this is what we in school used to call 'undulating countryside'.

The early hours of Tuesday were spent poring over maps again, and then it was once more time to paint. Monaghan, he said: the whole county. Deeming that impractical, he settled instead for a very wide view of McGuirk's farm, nestled as it is in drumlin country. Off he set then, confidently, having been advised by the Norwegians to expect sun.

(The Norwegians, it should be clarified, are not these merry fellows from Bergen, but are in fact an extraordinarily useful meteorological service. The Brother's reliance on these was just another example of just how high-tech this superficially old-fashioned painting tour was.)

Off he set then from Ballybay, keeping his eye out for Patrick Kavanagh's bank of youth, notoriously burgled by Monaghan's stony grey soil, he looped back to Doohamlet and followed the back roads to Lough Egish, leaving Monaghan by way of Carrickmacross and entering Meath, his twenty-eighth county, near Drumcondrath. On then, through Lobinstown and near Wilkinstown, racing against the darkness as he pushed himself on towards Navan, the heritage capital of Ireland.

Gorgeous though it is, I'd not want to be risking country roads in this light.

Wednesday was a day to surprise those who haven't been paying attention, an oddity that saw the Brother ending the day further from Dublin than he'd began it, which is perhaps a bit counter-intuitive, but is what happens when the counties are in the wrong order. As they are.

The Brother cycled into Navan proper, crossed the Boyne, and then cycled northeast along the river to Ardmulchan where he crossed over to its northern bank, cycling on through Tankardstown, Ivybrook, and Grangegeeth. Sadly, unlike Dustin the Turkey who lamented how he'd never been to Meath, the Brother merely lamented the weather, as it hammered down on him as he cycled, leaving him drenched right through to the Boyne*; he coped, but after the last couple of weeks he had to admit that he was getting rather tired of the weather.

Fwiw, this is Met Eireann he's looking at. The Brother isn't entirely faithful to the Norwegians.

And, to be fair, who'd blame him?

He pushed on through the incessant rain into Louth, his twenty-ninth county, making his way through Collon, Whiteriver, and Dunleer to his friends in Castlebellingham, with the weather suddenly deciding to brighten up towards the end, like someone who's sulked all day and then suddenly shows up with a breezy smile, as though oblivious to the fact that they've been ruining everyone else's fun. Finally, in deceptively gorgeous conditions, he reached his destination, and settled in happily at his hosts' house, there to enjoy a night in the final new county of the Painting Tour. Wine was consumed. Yesterday, the penultimate day of the painting tour, began with rashers and tea, as you'd hope, and then some more serious painting, this time of a Castlebellingham street scene.

The painting took much longer than he'd have hoped, and with the clock ticking and no scope for cycling before dark it was time for a third lift; earlier in the trip he'd have stayed another night, but the days are shorter now and the Brother needs to be in Lucan tomorrow, so ground needed covering quickly.

Ciaran Downey's grandmother's house having been carefully cropped from the view

No harm in that, anyway; he was to be staying in Meath which he'd already cycled through over the previous couple of days, so his hosts brought him via Clogherhead to Mornington, there to stay with an old blogging friend, to revel in curry and to drink perhaps a mite too much. Not just tea either. Champagne too, and other stuff as well, I rather suspect. It was a long night.

And so that brings us to today, the last day of the Painting Tour. The Eighth Day of this unique eight-day week. One last day, one last painting, and then time to saddle up and to have off for the last sixty or so kilometres of the journey, being cheered home by a huge crowd of Twitterati, virtually roaring their congratulations and support, with every tweet seeming a landmark.

45 kilometres out, and in Balbriggan he was technically in the new county of Fingal. Nobody cares about that. He was back in Dublin... Onward to Skerries, then, adding five kilometres to the journey, but what the heck, it's worth it and it's not every day you finish a journey like this. Might as well do it in style... Somewhere on the north Dublin coast, 32 kilometres away from home, and wishing the wind would drop... 14 kilometres out, in Santry, and a banana being eaten to keep the limbs moving, knowing that the last few kilometres would be in the dark but that most of them would be safely off road...

And then, with the tweets of support flowing in, and just moments after I tweeted to congratulate him on surely having bested that hill that lies waiting at the end of every trip home, he said the words we were all waiting for.

'Home. From a 3,000+ km cycle. To a smiling dog and a cup of tea. People of the internet, with the whole of my heart, thank you #paintingtour'

And with that, I thought I'd join a few others out there and pour myself a celebratory drink.

Thanks too from me to all of you who've been reading. It's been fun to write this and play a small and distant part in this whole affair. And anyone who, reading this, felt prompted to step out of the internet to offer the Brother a cup of tea or a bed for the night, well, thank you especially. I'd best head off to bed now, but as for the rest of you, the Brother's painting tomorrow at the Lucan Festival. If you can, you should go to see him.

And say hello for me.

________________________________________________________________________

* Yes, this is a joke. Not mine, mind, but a joke for all that.

Eolaí and his Painting Tour: Week Eleven

It's been a rough week in the Brother's Painting Tour of Ireland. With time fast running out, and him having to crack on if he's to get home in time to tend to the dog and make some money, nature has conspired such that what should have been a week of hard pedalling has seen him in the saddle for just four days.

As you'll remember, he cycled into a bunting-festooned Donegal town last Thursday evening, and on Friday he was treated to a drive up to Slieve League, site of Ireland's highest cliffs.

And not many taller in Europe, as it happens.

Yes, I know everyone thinks the Cliffs of Moher are the tallest in the land, but they're not; the cliffs at Slieve League are about three times as high, clocking in at a terrifying 601 metres. They're not quite as starkly vertical as the Cliffs of Moher, but they are taller. After the drive it was time to set off through the hills of Donegal...

Taking his time, unaware of the storms within and without due to play havoc with the trip, he cycled on the bog roads between Barnesmore Gap and Castelderg in Tyrone, his twenty-second county, revelling in such simple pleasures as the sight of a red corrugated roof. Weaving his way around the back roads, he made his way through Clady to Strabane, having started the day tweeting for a host there, and was very kindly offered one.

Saturday saw him being taken out to Sion Mills which he painted the weir at breakneck pace, and to great effect, before leaping back on the bike. To hear him describe the day, it sounds like a bizarre sporting event, like a triathlon for creative types. It's been a while since painting was an Olympic event, but maybe it's time to reintroduce the practice.

It baffles me how this could ever have been done at speed.

North then, hopping on the bike at four in the afternoon, chasing the sunset and battling the rain as he fought his way along the main Foyle road into Derry, his twenty-third county, pushing on to the coast before cutting inland just before Ballykelly. The weather having been at his back till this point, the last climb was a bit of a struggle, and things didn't quite got to plan when he reached his destination, as his Dunbrock hosts were out, but he was temporarily rescued by friends in Limavady, and drowned though he was, he was able to relax after having safely finished cycling for the day.

Problems started to rear their head on Sunday, as Hurricane Katia threatened to ravage Ulster.

-- I might not paint tomorrow, observed the Brother. I'm just thinking of eating. And drinking. And sitting down, thinking mostly, but sitting down.

-- I think after twenty-three counties you deserve a good sit, he was advised.

Unfortunately, it was about at this point, with the storm on its way, that the Brother's mifi decided to pack in, leaving him scarcely able to roam. Given that the trip's about social networking as much as anything else, this was a bodyblow. And the wind was rising.

He stayed put on Monday too, watching the wind from rural Derry, all too aware that it would have been suicidal to attempt pushing on to Antrim. This, surely, was the right decision, given how one of his followers more than a hundred miles south had commented on how there were 'human kites everywhere'.

(It's not been calm here either, nearly 250 miles south-east of where the Brother was; my housemates' parents' conservatory was destroyed by huge branches blown from trees.)

Unable to tweet to update us of his exploits, he ventured out again on Tuesday, cycling by a furious sea all the way to Portrush in Antrim, his twenty-fourth county. It hadn't been a pleasant journey, as -- struck by a bug -- he'd vomited his way past Magilligan, Coleraine, and Portstewart, all the way to Portrush, where he was beset by chills and unable to eat and could but vicariously enjoy the lovely meal his hosts had made for him.

If there was any consolation in how the day had gone, it lay in how Maman Poulet had let him know that Jean Byrne, meteorological icon of the Irish twitterati, had been named winner of the European Meteorological Society’s TV Weather Forecast Award for 2011. Given the way the weather had so ravaged the Brother's week, it was surely worth letting him know about one of the Irish climate's silver linings.

-- Oh my, said the Brother. Super.

She was due to be presented with her award in Berlin today. I can't wait to find out what she wore...

Things had improved internally by yesterday, but not enough for the Brother to chance another day in the saddle, so he slept and suffered and missed the first clear blue sky in weeks. In the evening he found the strength to go for a little walk, and so went down to the harbour, afterwards reflecting on how soon it'd be that he'd be home, as he stood outside his hosts' house watching the sun go down over Donegal.

As for today? He painted till lunchtime...

.. and then set off on the north Antrim coast, visiting Dunluce Castle, the Giant's Causeway, and Dunseverick Castle, as he chased the sunset again, this time aiming for hostless Cushendun, and climbing the hills to get there while the daylight lasted

The climbs slowed him down a bit, so he just a few kilometres north of Cushendun when he rescued by a lovely lady from south Antrim, armed with soup, tiger bread, and -- I can only presume -- a special fine-toothed saw to cut his bike into small pieces so it could be fitted into her car and taken to safety. Or something. 

There's only one more week to go in the Painting Tour, with the Brother hoping to make it to south Antrim tomorrow and then onward through Down, Armagh, Monaghan, Louth, and Meath before like a weary Odysseus, and after seeing and learning so much, he comes home. 29 Counties, so. 30 if he's very lucky and can squeeze Westmeath in too. Not quite the 32 he'd hoped for, but something to be very proud of for all that. The Midlands may have gotten a bit shortchanged, but given the route he's followed, it's easy to understand why. And I'm sure he'll be back.

Eleven weeks under a somewhat tighter belt...

If you think the Brother might be passing within twenty miles or so of where you live as he winds his counter-intuitive way home to Dublin, and if you have a bed to offer and fancy a painting, do get in touch with him. Or, you know, even if you have a whim to buy him lunch or tea and have a chat if he's passing through. Just let him know.

There's only a week left of the Painting Tour, and if you belatedly want to get onboard, you can follow it on the Brother's blog and above all on Twitter, where the hashtag's #paintingtour. The Brother's Facebook account's worth a shout too, but Twitter's where most of the real action is. 

Give Ireland's first digital nomad™ a shout -- the tour's about Irish social media as much as it is art and the Irish countryside, after all, and even if his equipment's misbehaving, I've no doubt there are people who'll pass on your messages.

Just tweet.

Eolaí and his Painting Tour: Week Ten

So, as you'll remember from last week, the brother was in Sligo, where, nine weeks into his Painting Tour of Ireland, he'd taken a trip out to Lough Gill, there to squint across to Innisfree. It was at Lough Gill that he saw a sign warning him of cars crawling, like Scottish plesiosaurs, from the lake, a phenomenon first documented by Yeats in his lesser-known work, 'Car Pool'.

Friday saw the Brother missing a Dalkey Open Bottle night and poring over maps and unfinished paintings as he plotted an ambitious week, taking in more counties than any week thus far. He'd opened with a five-county week, as you'll surely recall, but since then he's lingered more, visiting two new ones in his second week, one in each of his third and fourth weeks, two in each of his fifth and sixth weeks, none at all in his glorious Galwegian seventh week which included what may have been his favourite ever day in the saddle, one in his eighth, and one in his ninth. Fifteen counties he'd covered, but with time running out, he was needing to make plans, and hopefully plans that wouldn't entail him painting, like Picasso, while riding a bicycle.

With the poring and plotting done, it was time for him to stary pedalling and painting, cycling out to Ballygawley there to buy some potato cakes and perplex me by describing it as our namesake, but given its proper Irish name, he's absolutely right. Onwards then to Riverstown in the rain, aptly enough, where he shook his head at the superabundance of hanging baskets, that hallmark of the typically tidy Irish town, and carried on past Lough Arrow and into Roscommon, his sixteenth county.

This week we shall be mostly seeing lakes. And rain.

Onward he pedalled past Lough Key, where he'd had a holiday with the lads from over the road back in his early teens, and though he'd been hoping to make it to Carrick-on-Shannon, reason and the rain won out and he stopped in Boyle, sodden, starving, and saddlesore. Seemingly, it wasn't quite as devoid of people as photographic evidence would suggest. With a busy evening's painting ahead of him, he found a B&B and swiftly went in search of food, settling for a rather dangerous-sounding choice in Shop Street's Troy Deli: a twelve-inch pizza, festooned with kebab meat. Perhaps not advisable fare for normal people, but if you're touring Ireland under your own steam, I reckon it'd be safe enough. It takes calories to cover ground, after all. And, you know, it might be tasty.

-- Is that your bicycle, he was asked.
-- It is, yes.
-- There's a fair length on it.

And that was Friday. Saturday saw him waking up to a lovely view of Boyle Abbey, and then carrying on south-east, hitting Carrick at noon or so, crossing the bridge into Leitrim and pedalling another hundred yards or so to be treated to lunch by someone who's been following the Brother's exploits here -- and thank you so much! -- in the company of his brood, who were very impressed with my the Brother's beard and his energy. As the Brother later said, 'Today a stranger stepped out of the internet into offline life to treat me to lunch on the road. Follow @gkcwsc Make him love the twitter'.

Although the Brother had crossed over into Leitrim for his lunch, he didn't count that as a seventeenth county, feeling that being barely a hundred yards into a county hardly counted, especially when he'd be covering more ground there soon enough, so he cut back to Roscommon, carrying on through Kilmore and Forest View, crossing the Shannon at Termonberry, and entering his real seventeenth county, that being Longford. South he cycled then, through Clondra, Kilashee, and Lyneen until he reached Kenagh, his base for the night.

Kenagh, in case you're wondering, is where a youthful Dave Allen lost a chunk of a middle finger. I have no idea whether or not it's anywhere to be found in the neighbourhood, but if it is and you come across it, I imagine you'd be allowed to keep it. I learned this when I stayed in Kenagh myself a couple of years back, visiting the same friends who hosted the Brother on Saturday evening, a lovely couple whose wedding I once blighted by falling asleep in a way that did me no honour whatsoever. If you're good, I may tell you the story someday.

Sunday morning saw him being graced with an immense breakfast of rashers and eggs and lashings of sausages, all washed down with a balthazar or so of tea, and then settling in for some serious painting in the rain while my friends took themselves off on a cycle of their own, an organised 50 kilometres tour of Longford. Regretting the time constraints on the trip, not least because he'd not be able to get out to see the Corlea Trackway, a second-century BC road in the bog near Kenagh, he saddled up again, and set off, this time heading north. The rain was gone, he felt, and it was time he was too.

Off he went through Longford town, with its sinister courthouse and foreboding cathedral, and north through Drumlish and into Leitrim, which this time earned itself the title of Eolaí's Eighteenth County to accompany its prior title of Ireland's Only County Without Traffic Lights. Onward he rode, north to Cloone and then east through Carrigallen, before turning north again, edging his way a mile or so across the Leitrim border into Cavan, his nineteenth county, there to stay in Doogarry, a stone's throw from this charming spot.

His arrival was clearly a special event, with his host's nine-year-old son preparing for it by cleaning the bathroom for his first time ever. This must be what Billy Connolly had in mind when he said he reckoned he thought the Queen thought the whole world smelled of fresh paint...

Like I said. Lakes. Get used to it.

If Sunday had been notable for being his first three-county day since he made his way from Kerry to Limerick via Clare in the fifth week of his Odyssey, Monday's most memorable feature was to be the rain, it being the wettest day of the trip so far. It didn't start that way, though. No, first there was some painting in the sun, fuelled by tea and with a nervous eye on the sky, and then it was time to push on through the most diabolical of conditions. North he rode, lakes to the left and lakes to the right, pedalling on through Bawnboy and on to Swanlinbar, there to recover with potato cakes after a detour and a mudslide on a road that just wasn't there.

Over the border, then, into Fermanagh, the twentieth county of the trip, heading north to Letterbreen, and then west, through Belcoo to Cavan's Blacklion, but back then into Belcoo, more drenched than ever after the wettest day of the tour, there to spend the night in his twentieth county.

By this point it was getting difficult to tell where the puddles stopped and the lakes started.

Tuesday saw him making his way back through Blacklion again, cutting across Cavan along the southern shores of Lough Macnean. It wasn't long before he was back in Leitrim, with the wind almost blasting him under a van as he cycled through Glenfarne to Manorhamilton, and the rain swirling and crashing about him. A break in Manorhamilton was well deserved, as was the rather peculiar lunch that presented itself on the menu: a chicken, bacon, mushroom, and banana sandwich.

Yes, you read that right.

While the Brother was fighting with the elements and sampling gastronomic oddities, plans were being made for his return to Sligo, this time to stay with Annie West. Seeming, she had big plans for his arrival. According to her Twitter feed, she had contract cleaners, an interior designer and a couple of plasterers all getting things ready, while she herself was sorting out some William Morris wallpaper and a huge consignment of eighteenth-century Italian furniture for his room, all the while fretting about whether she'd be able to install an Adams fireplace before the Brother pedalled up the path. And that's not to mention the time she claimed to be putting into training the dog and cat to avert their eyes appropriately. Call be sceptical, but I think she might have been exaggerating ever so slightly, at least about the trumpets, bugles, guns, and bunting. Mind, I've not met the lady, so who am I to judge?

Before braving the elements once more, the Brother saw fit to delight the Battlestar Galactica fans among us with a fine Leitrim shot, and then it was off he set again, back into what he described as the 'windiest, blusteriest, paininthearseiest' day of cycling thus far. This time he left the main road, taking a quieter road to Glencar, past the lake and waterfall of 'The Stolen Child' fame, soon reaching Sligo again, turning north by Drumcliffe to be greeted by miles of bunting, trumpets, bugles, a twenty-one gun salute, and buckets of tea* as he brought to a close a rare and tempestuous four-county day.

Happy and safe and warm and dry that evening, he pored over maps and delighted to see that while he'd been battling against the elements, the tale of his Painting Tour, as told by John Lee, had been picked up by the Huffington Post.

After Tuesday's exploits, yesterday was very quiet, with hardly a tweet from the Brother, other than an understandably glum comment about how dispiriting the weather was -- there's not much joy in cycling in such apocalyptic conditions, especially when the nicer side roads have to be shunned in favour of the bigger, faster, dirtier roads, where puddles and vans can combine to such soul-destroying effect. To judge by Twitter, you'd think he'd ended it with his bike tended by ducks,  rumours starting to spread that he'd been kidnapped and wasn't to be allowed leave.

The Brother's favourite bike shot of the trip, taken during Wednesday night's dinner.

Instead, it seems he'd indeed spent the day painting Annie's house while she worked in her studio, before going up the road to stay with Donal Conaty, the Man Behind The Mire, there to dine and paint and chat and sleep.

And as for today? Well, the Brother started the day reckoning it'd be hard to leave Sligo -- and not because he was trapped in a Misery-style situation by a wannabe Kathy Bates, but just because he liked it so much there and weather looked to be getting ready to take arms against him yet again.

Still, the weather was good to begin with as he was taken for a drive by Streedagh Strand and up to the Horseshoe Pass; unfortunately his camera decided to pack in, leaving him to describe the day as the best he'd ever had for photographs he'd not taken. Back from the drive he had to race against time to manage a very hasty painting of his hosts' house before leaping onto the bike to make it Donegal town before sunset. The afternoon dash hit a hitch almost immediately, as soon after Mullaghmore he was struck down with stomach cramps, and so forced to rest on Leitrim's tiny coast, there to let his stomach settle and to take some tablets to help his left leg. The terrain may be easier now than it was in Cork and Kerry, but the weather can't be making things any easier on the Brother's legs -- when you have to fight with the bike to make it move, you're heading for trouble, and especially with the days getting shorter and there being less time available to cycle and to paint.

The tablets having done their work, and after his first ever power bar, he set off again, winding his way into Donegal, his twenty-first county, through Ballyshannon, and eventually arriving to a bunting-festooned Donegal town.**

Six counties in a week. You can't help admiring that. I'd still not put money on him managing every county in the country, given the logistics of what's left of the trip, but as Meatloaf would probably say, thirty out of thirty-two ain't bad. Or twenty-nine or twenty-eight, to be fair. The clock's ticking, and time shall be money.

So, what does the next week hold? Truth be told I'm not entirely sure, save that he's clearly planning on heading across Tyrone into Derry and from there into Antrim and Down. Other than that, I really don't know.

Still, if you think the Brother might be passing within twenty miles or so of where you live, especially if you're in Down, Armagh, Monaghan or, well, anywhere else that looks even plausible over the next fortnight as the Brother makes his way home to Dublin, and if you have a bed to offer and fancy a painting, do get in touch with him. As long as you have a kettle, tea, milk, and somewhere to doze, he'd love to hear from you.

There's only a fortnight left of the Painting Tour, and if you want to get onboard, you can follow it on the Brother's blog and above all on Twitter, where the hashtag's #paintingtour. The Brother's Facebook account's worth a shout too, but Twitter's where most of the real action is. 

Don't be afraid to give Ireland's first digital nomad™ a shout -- the tour's about Irish social media as much as it is art and the Irish countryside, after all.

* Or at least one of the above, after stopping cycling in sodden terror, but yards from his destination, with a storm bellowing around him, trucks roaring past, and his hostess waiting across the road in her car, having come out to look for his body.
** No, really. Look at the picture.

Eolaí and his Painting Tour: Week Nine

Years ago in Mayo, whilst spending my days bounding across bogland to one neolithic site after another, my afternoons poring over German analyses of ancient battles, my evenings having a jar in McGuire's bar, and my nights playing backgammon before a turf fire, I was introduced to a wonderful 1841 travel book, Caesar Otway's Sketches in Erris and Tyrawly, in which the inestimable Tipperary Anglican opined:

'We now came in sight of Lough Carrowmore, the largest lake in Erris; it is one of the three lakes which Partholan, if we are to believe Keating, discovered on his inspection of Ireland after his landing thereon -- others had not yet been formed. But though it be old, it is ugly; the eye looking northward from the road we are travelling on, taking in nearly its greatest length, about four miles; and it is far from beautiful -- the surrounding hills are neither grand nor varied in their forms, the desolate bog comes down on all sides, and surrounds it with its melancholy cincture; the islands are few and flat, and not even a furze, or bramble bush decorates their stony and wave-washed shores, over which the cormorant urges its slow and ungainly flight, and from whose rocks the curlew sends its melancholy pipe. I have not seen since I left the borders of Lough Derg, (where supersition disgraces what nature has made but ugly,) a more desolate, and at the same time unpleasing water, than Lough Carrowmore.'

You don't get that in Bill Bryson. 

We left the Brother last Thursday after he'd arrived in Bangor Erris, having cycled in the rain and the golden hour through the beauties of Ballycroy. The next day saw him setting off north again, along the western shore of Lough Carrowmore, through Barnatra and Inver, looking over towards Rossport before making his way to Pollatomish, there to stay at Kilcommon Lodge, one of my favourite places in Ireland, and I place to which I'd love to go back.

Though it be old, it is ugly. Right... it's worth clicking on the links for the colour original, btw

You'll know of Pollatomish, of course, if you've watched the news at all in Ireland over the last few years. It's an absolutely magical place in the most beautiful of surroundings, which sadly has been in the news for all the wrong reasons. There was a major landslide there in September 2003, and though that'd be problem enough, it pales into insignificance next to the story of the Corrib Gas Field, Shell to Sea, and The Pipe.

If you haven't seen The Pipe, or An Píopa in its Irish-language version, then you should track it down. Somehow. It's both heartbreaking and inspiring, and important too. The whole story is one people should know, inviting questions anybody interested in modern Ireland should be asking. I visited Broadhaven Bay a few times just as this whole storm was beginning to brew, so it's kind of personal to me, but I think it's something people need to know about. It's not just a story of the usual suspects blocking progress, and I don't think it's typical NIMBYism either. You might disagree with me, of course, but don't do it out of hand, Track down the film, and do some reading, and watch other documentaries, and even visit the area if you can. And think.

Saturday saw the Brother thinking Mayo was so beautiful he needed to see more of it, so off he set to look at the where all the action is regarding Shell's activity, before returning along the eastern shore of Lough Carrowmore through Bangor and Bellacorick, site of the famous Musical Bridge, to his next host, just outside Newport, where he'd planned on being a couple of nights earlier. 70 kilometres of cycling all told, and much of it in the rain, with him arriving in Newport drenched through.

Sunday was a day for painting, and for watching Dublin beat Donegal in what at least began as a very ugly match. 'Japers,' said the Brother, 'Japers, to think I stopped actually watching paint dry to watch this.' Still, Dublin won, the hard way, in what the Brother says was an amazing spectacle. They'll be facing Kerry in the final. It's been a while.

Leaving his hosts with a painting of Skerdagh School, on Monday he was off again, hoping to push himself to Enniscrone. Not sure of his route, he decided that to hold off deciding until he reached Pontoon, between Loughs Conn and Cullin, and by Lough Conn he stopped to drink some tea and eat some boxty. Onward he peddled to Ballina and beyond, before a sudden attack of common sense struck him with the thought that Enniscrone was too ambitious a destination, and he turned back to Ballina.

-- Can I get milk, a big glass, a carton? he asked the man in the B&B.
-- You want to drink milk?
-- I want to make tea all night.
-- I'll give you a big jug, said the man.

Tuesday began as it was destined to continue, with tea, and then the Brother set off, carrying on towards Enniscrone, stopping for potato cakes within sight of Nephin and Killala Bay in Sligo, his fifteenth county. Along the Sligo coast he cycled, past Dunmoran, and stopping for some purchases and another fine exchange.

-- Do you want a bag for those?
-- No thanks, I have my bike outside.
-- Petrol or diesel?
-- Legs. 

He carried on towards his destination, eventually reaching Sligo town, there to imbibe some tea*, to have a wander along the beach, and to watch the sun set.

Yesterday began with an improbably blue sky, and was a day for plotting, with the brother giving serious thought to the feasibility of a few of his planned counties. Without any hosts thus far, Leitrim, Roscommon, Fermanagh, Donegal, and Tyrone were all looking tricky, so lots of thinking was on the cards.

Not just thinking, though; the application of colour to canvas took place as you'd expect, with tea and potato cakes to keep the Brother going, and Ben Bulben away off in the background, as he sat painting and talking on Dunmoran Strand. It wasn't as warm as it might have been, though, and he regretted having left his jumper behind. Of course, the tide started to rise, impatient of the Brother's wishes, that being its wont, and him remembering difficulties at Cork's Garryvoe Beach, he withdrew to higher ground to watch the birds.

As for today? Well, he's been cycling round about, and taken a trip to Rosses Point, where a statue called 'Waiting on Shore' stands in memory of all those roundabout who've lost loved ones at sea; seemingly people have been known to rest trays full of biscuits in her hands. As the evening wore on, the Brother was nuzzled by a friendly Alsatian**, before being taken on a drive out to Innisfree, there to ponder, one presumes, just how simply he could live with bees and beans. And brushes, of course.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow

With the evening drawing to a close, he unveiled his plan for the next few days, an ambitious loop through five counties in five days. Roscommon's on the cards for tomorrow, and he's nowhere there to lay his head just yet, so if anyone's interested, please let him know.

Indeed, if you think there's any chance at all the Brother might be passing within twenty miles or so of where you live, especially if you're in the likes of Roscommon, Leitrim, Fermanagh, Donegal, or Tyrone, and if you have a bed to offer and fancy a painting, do get in touch with him. He's a man of simpler wants than Yeats's islander: somewhere to lay his head, food to eat, limitless tea, and to know where you are.

You can follow the last three weeks of the Painting Tour on the Brother's blog and especially on Twitter, using the hashtag  #paintingtour. His Facebook account's worth a shout too, but Twitter's where most of the real action is. Don't be afraid to give Ireland's first digital nomad™ a shout -- the tour's about social media in Ireland as much as it is art and the Irish countryside, after all.

* Barry's, of course.
** No, not Arsene Wenger, Alsatian though he is and doubtless well-disposed to Evertonians today. A German Shepherd. A dog. Keep up.

Eolaí and his Painting Tour: Week Eight

Years ago in UCD, when I was invigilating exams, I worked with a Polish girl who'd grown up in Berlin. In exasperation at the unpredictable nature of the Irish climate, she remarked that she often thought there should be an EU directive that'd insist on a common meteorological system throughout the Union.

-- And whose weather would we use?

-- A bit from everyone, she said.

-- But that'd be rubbish, I replied, sure there's nothing we have but rain.

-- No, she smiled. You have the most rainbows.

I thought of this today on seeing the Brother's photo of the glorious rainbow that greated him as he arrived this evening in Bangor Erris, in County Mayo. Gorgeous, isn't it? But I'm getting ahead of myself.

We left the Brother last week in County Galway, way out in Eyrephort at the end of the Sky Road west of Clifden, having completed a day that rivalled any he'd ever had in the saddle in his life -- and given that he's cycled to Istanbul and across America, that's saying a lot. The rain hammered down on Friday, and the setting was too gorgeous to flee from, so he stayed put and painted Toulouse, which in this case wasn't the French city but was in fact his hostess's dog, looking more than a little like the Brother's own DogDog, and a jovial companion for a walk along the beach.

He squeezed in a bit more sketching on Saturday before setting off, cycling along the coast and then cutting inland past Kylemore to Killary Harbour. On the way there, and in the most beautiful of surroundings, his gear cable broke, and to his twofold astonishment, he found that he had a replacement from when his American cycle kit of fifteen years earlier, and that he was able to fix it! The fjord being apparently devoid of Twitterati, he took the advice of one of his Twittering friends and stayed overnight at the Killary Adventure Centre, just west of Leenane, it being conveniently free of children who'd all headed off to Westport.

Sunday morning saw him bidding farewell to Leenane and cycling into Mayo, his fourteenth county; he had the roads rather to himself, with the county's attentions being on Croke Park, where Mayo was facing Kerry in an All-Ireland football semi-final. As Kerry's DatBeardyMan said after the Brother crossed over, 'ooh Mayo no less. Today you will be painting mostly misery'.  And indeed, despite a promising first half, the day was Kerry's, the Kingdom winning 1-20 to 1-11.

North the Brother cycled, through Delphi -- not, not that one -- and up to Louisburgh by Clew Bay, where he turned and cycled along the bay's southern shore, marvelling at the myriad islands and the Reek overlooking them all, as he made his way to the home of his Lecanvey hosts, there to shower and rest and refuel with tea, and to paint at Lecanvey Pier, listening to the sea while looking across the bay to Croagh Patrick.

As I've mentioned before, follow the links. This looks better in colour. Especially the sky.

Properly online again, as part of his apparent plan to acquire half the country's WPA keys, and following an online discussion about the value of cycling helmets -- after his American experience, the Brother's an ardent advocate for the things -- he posted a picture of the thrilling Connemara scenery in which he'd tended to his fourth puncture of the trip a couple of days earlier. This inspired a Twitter discussion in the dead of night about the merits of various kind of tyres, with one person singing the praises of 'bomb-proof' Schwalbe Marathons, saying he'd cycled 25,000km on one pair and suffered just ten punctures in total! 

Monday was a day for more painting, and one of the most beautiful sunsets one could imagine, and chicken pilaf, and Guinness. And, no doubt, tea. In the dead of night, with the bleakness of The Road on the telly, the tyre conversation of the previous evening was resumed, and in the course of all the chatter, a very kind person said she'd send over some new tyres from Dublin! It's nice to see such kindness in the real world with our screens filled with cannibalism and desolation and abandoned shopping trolleys. That's how it starts, you know.

On Tuesday the Brother was away again, making his way to Westport through just a few miles of scenery that he drily described as being 'a bit too nice', saying he was getting tired from looking and trying to take it all in. He took this as an opportunity to try some mounted commentary, as enabled by Bernie Goldbach's lapel microphone a couple of weeks back, describing his views as he pedalled towards the town. In Westport he stopped in the shadow of Saint Patrick -- no, not the one wielding swords on horseback -- to drink some tea and ponder a painting before heading out to stay with two of his Twitterati friends, and to smile fondly at seeing one of his paintings on display.

Wednesday saw him stationed a couple of miles south of Westport, sitting on a hill looking down at the town and painting a panorama for his hosts. It sounds as though there was a phenomenal amount to take in, but he made a valiantly vibrant attempt at a Moyhastin Panorama, painting almost till dark and then taking a trip to Boheh Stone to see the Rolling Sun, though getting there too late, arriving as it reached the bottom. Still, there was a second lovely Westport night, there to chat and have a pint in Moran's, to paint, and plot in the darkness.

That reminds me. Somebody online opined during the last week that the Brother sleeps while he cycles, so that he can paint through the night. It's a fine Chuck Norris style 'fact', and one worth repeating, even if it'd leaving you wondering how he manages to see the things he later paints. I wish I could remember who it was who said that, though as things stand all I can say with confidence is that it wasn't me, it wasn't the Brother, and it wasn't John Lee, who wrote a nice little piece about the Brother for Irish Central, beginning by contrasting the old-fashioned and radically modern aspects of my brother's exploits:

'So quaint -- itinerant artist pedaling through the Irish countryside, paying for a night’s lodging with a deftly done painting -- all so very analog. But it’s digital that drives this clockwise, one-man, two-to-three month, slo-mo, 32-county, social media cycling and painting tour of Ireland.'

It's worth a read, and not just for the lovely embedded video.

Anyway, that takes us today, and the Brother leaving beside a handprint or three as he said farewell to Westport, with his hosts wishing him and his knees well, and having to skip Newport for now -- he'll be back soon -- in order to get to Bangor Erris. Barring places he visited in week one, this'd be the part of the country he's visited that I know best. He set off via Mulranny, looking towards Corraun as he went, and then turned north.  On the way to Bangor he sheltered from the rain and admired the Paul Henry sky, and then carried on through the most magnificent scenery imaginable, stopping for tea at Ballycroy, and revelling in some of the most beautiful rain he'd ever seen with the setting sun of the golden hour backlighting the landscape. And then, as I said, there was that rainbow.

Tomorrow he should be staying in one of my favourite places in, well, the world, and then after that he'll be carrying on, one way or another*, to Sligo and beyond. I hope he's keeping track of how many kilometres of road and acres of canvas he's covered, not to mention how many mugs of tea he's downed. Those'd be figures to admire. Still, in the absence of hard numbers, it's worth keeping in mind just how far he's come, in the fourteen counties he'd graced to date with his pedalling presence.

As usual, this is the point where I say that if you think there's any chance at all he might be passing within twenty miles or so of where you live, and if you have a bed to offer and fancy a painting, and especially if you're in one of the spots he currently doesn't have a host, you should let him know. He doesn't require much: somewhere to lay his head, food to eat, limitless tea, and to know where you are. Just send a message to Ireland's first digital nomad™ -- the tour's about people and pixels as much as it's about painting and pedalling, after all.

You can follow the Painting Tour on the Brother's blog and especially on Twitter, using the hashtag  #paintingtour. His Facebook account's worth a shout too, but Twitter's where most of the real action is, even if it's sometimes reduced to musing on singing Cavanmen or undead action in the Middle East**. As I've said a few times now, I wouldn't bother following him on Google Latitude, though, given its habit of placing him at seemingly random locations in the past.

* As Debbie Harry would say.

** And I quote, 'While I'm at it, here's a crap undead joke: Where do zombies go on their holidays? Bahrainnnnnnn, of course. Urrrrrrrrr...'

Update: It seems the line '@eolai sleeps on the bike as he cycles. He stays in people’s houses to stay up all night painting,' was the brainchild of Galway's Allan Cavanagh. Thanks to Grannymar for having preserved it, and having alerted me to the fact.

Eolaí and his Painting Tour: Week Seven

Last Thursday, as you'll surely remember, the Brother brought his sixth week on the road to an end, clocking up a mighty ninety kilometres in the saddle as he pedalled his way into Galway, his thirteenth county.

Friday saw him waking in Ballinderreen, squinting at the screen with morning eyes in a house impressively garnished with his paintings, one of which is one of my favourites. The highlight of the day must surely have been a most peculiarly Celtic episode, with eight cattle running down in a street into a garden, only to be driven off by a small boy, wielding a hurl and accompanied by a dog. If that doesn't get you thinking about Cuchullain, well, your imagination's clearly not as prone as mine to flights of legendary whimsy. Appropriately enough, given the profoundly Irish nature of  Friday's highlight, as a guest-gift for his hosts he gave them a painting of the Poll na mBrón dolmen in County Clare.

He downed tools at half eight on Friday evening, and by ten he was in Galway City, there to stay with a man who advised him to bring lots of grey paint as it was hammering down. Galway had always been envisaged as the halfway point in the Brother's travels, where he'd take stock and make new plans; given time pressures and the need to get back to base in time for the Lucan Festival in a month or so's time, it's already starting to look as though Laois and Offaly may have to be forsaken; I guess we'll see, though.

Meanwhile on Twitter, others began to plot what they'd do on his return to Dublin, with a swift consensus being reached of a night in the Gravedigger's pub by Glasnevin Cemetery, though that conversation soon spiralled off into tales of Parnell being buried above a cholera pit, of Gravedigger's regulars gathering  on Brendan Behan's birthday to toast him with pints at his grave, and of Behan himself having come from a family of painters less artistic than the Brother.

Saturday was given over to painting the city from above, with Long Grass serving as his table, as ever.

Sunday in Galway City looked nice, thought the Brother: suspiciously so. Indeed, others soon warned him that Met Éireann had already been darkly hinting at ominous sounding 'weather from the west'. Still, he painted and pondered and cycled by the Corrib, and even gave some thought to going to bed early, having spent the previous four nights scorning sleep as best he could.

Monday saw Twitter reports of the Brother's doppelganger being spotted wielding a banjo and disembarking from a Chinese bus; or was it him? It was, he said: he'd a side gig where he engaged in sudden global travel to spook people by appearing and playing that music from Deliverance. Off he went to the Claddagh to try to paint in the rain, but to no avail; up with the paint but the rains came down and washed it away. And no, it wasn't anywhere near as delicate an operation as in the Flake advert -- down the rain hammered, washing the paint right off the canvas, through the hairs on the Brother's leg, and away. The end result, to be fair, wasn't without its unintentional charms, but still, the Brother took shelter, and spent the evening happily curled up on a dry couch.

Yes, I know I should be able to see beyond the Giraffe, but after that story, I just can't!

Tuesday was a day for walking, and for painting, and for making a second sally at the painting his previous day's inclement conditions had so thoroughly thwarted. I like this painting of the Long Walk as seen from the Claddagh, and though it's the sky that entrances me most, I can't help but smile at the giraffe down the end. 

Yesterday, then, saw him leaving Galway city, admiring the views as he went, and pedalling out past where TG4's based in Ballinahown, into Connemara. Long a lover of Connemara -- it was in Rosmuc that the Brother went to Irish college back in his summer holidays when I was but a whelp -- his plan was to make it past Pearse's cottage and then stop overnight in whatever random B&B he found. In the end, having cycled what our dad would call 70 kilometres -- that's 43 miles in old money -- he had to settle for the second B&B he tried, the first one having turned him away. Still, in the end there was tea to be drank and a shower to be indulged in, and all was well.

You should be following the links, btw. They take you to better pictures than this, and in colour too.

And today? Well, today must have been a great one, with him cycling out beyond Clifden on what he's saying is a candidate for his greatest day ever on a bicycle. Given the roads he's ridden and the sights he's seen, that's saying a lot, but I have no idea quite what's made this day so special, other than his views at breakfast, and his lakeside painting somewhere. It seems the route took him from Kylesalia to Loughaconeera and back, and then onward through Kilkernin, Carna, Glinsk, Cashel, and beyond Clifden on the Sky Road, heading out to Eyrephort. I've been doing image searches online to see what he might have seen, and have been bursting with envy, but that's just a stop-gap. I look forward to seeing what he saw, rendered in pixels and especially in pigments.

If you're new to this story, or even if you're not, it's well worth reading today's piece about the Brother on New Tech Post. He explains a lot about his relationship with Twitter, and how it has driven the tour, and about how wonderfully welcoming the Irish Twitterati have been:

'It’s great fun as a concept in a pub. There are times when my knees don’t think it’s that much fun. The overly-ambitious aim is thirty-two counties. That might not happen. If it doesn’t, fine. I’ll have met loads of people and painted lots of pictures and cycled around. 

The people of Twitter have been fantastic. From being taken for a drive to buy supplies, to giving me things, to packing me lunches, people have gone way, way above and beyond, it’s been fantastic.'

You should read the whole thing, and then follow the Painting Tour on the Brother's blog and especially on Twitter, where the hashtag's #paintingtour. His Facebook account's worth a shout too, but the real fun's on Twitter. As I've said a few times now, I wouldn't bother following him on Google Latitude, though, given its habit of placing him at seemingly random locations in the past. And perhaps most importantly, if you think there's any chance at all he might be passing within twenty miles or so of where you live, and if you have a bed to offer and fancy a painting, and especially if you're in one of the spots he currently doesn't have a host, you should let him know. 

Just send a message to Ireland's first digital nomad™. This is why it's called social networking.

Eolaí and his Painting Tour: Week Six

You'll remember how we left the Brother last Thursday as he coasted into Limerick to deposit himself at the home of Bock the Robber, he who once promised to mock me when I was on the radio, and then stayed eerily silent. Swiftly and happily filled with Bock's Chilli Surprise, he was happier still  in the pub a little later, filled with a fiery chilli and hunched over a perfect pint.

Friday was a day of wandering, with the Brother gazing up into the skies, presumably wondering whether what he'd seen had been a bird, a plane, or Jerry Seinfeld's mate, and admiring the Walls of Limerick. Saturday saw him wandering still, though with a bit of a limp, his foot starting to play up, which is hardly surprising given how he's cycled and painted a winding road halfway round the country. Still, limping though he may have been, he was reportedly looking pretty fresh as he ambled through the Milk Market. 

Culinary experimentation was the order of the day for him as he marshalled with pride a 'Celtic Egg', wrapping a hard-boiled egg in black pudding and musing whether there might be a market for 'Gaelic Eggs', with white pudding serving as the meaty armour. I'm not surprised he's going down this road; I'll not forget his delight at Sister the Eldest's back in the day when he experienced white pudding inside black pudding!

Gastonomic adventures complete, it was off to the pub again, there to watch Dublin beat Tyrone 0-22 to 0-15, in a match that the Brother had to admit wasn't really a game that any neutrals could have enjoyed. Seemingly the rain didn't skip Limerick that day, but settled in the pub as he was, he hardly noticed.

Sunday saw him cycling through east Limerick, admiring beautifully ramshackle houses, and stopping for a mineral -- that's a soft drink to people not from Ireland -- at Doon, before making his way through Cappawhite into Tipperary, his twelfth county. I must quiz him at some point about whether it's packed with orchards, as the Magners ads would have us believe. I've only set foot there twice, once to go to jax in Toomevara when I was eleven, and once to visit a graveyard in Carrick-on-Suir when I was fourteen or so, so I'm afraid I'm no expert on the county. Eventually, having cycled through a beautiful day of rain and sun, he reached the Rock of Cashel, and pulled up his Xtracycle to settle in for the night at Peggy O'Neill's B&B, there to chat at length with Bernie Goldbach, who described the Brother's 'subtle use of Twitter, Picplz, Latitude, Google Plus, Audioboo, Latitude and Street View [as] a case study in getting results from social media.'

Seemingly Bernie was ashamed of having kept my cycleworn brother talking beyond midnight, not being able to finish a chat with him in less than two hours, but given that I don't think I've ever really finished a chat with him in less than two decades, I don't think there's any shame in that. 

Up on Monday morning, the Brother had a gorgeous view from his window of Hore Abbey, a ruined thirteenth-century Cistercian monastery. Monday was a busy day, with no shortage of acrylic applied to canvas, and tea drank by the bucketload, not to mention a reviving bath being gloried in, with the internet largely being shunned, such that the Brother was shocked when he turned it on in the early hours of Tuesday, to learn what was happening in England. 

Bernie set the Brother up with a microphone to aid him in his audioblogging, and after they checked the lapel mike, the Brother turned around and cycled off into the distance, heading back westwards, leaving Bernie to muse on the trip thus far, describing the Brother as being, not merely 'a gold-plated member of the Irish Twitterati', but 'Ireland's first truly digital nomad'.

High praise, methinks.

It was clearly a remarkable day's cycle, the highlight of which was his seeing a group of swallows join forces in the air to drive off a hawk. Having said farewell to Cashel, he crossed the Suir by the Camus Bridge, and eventually left Tipperary and returned to Limerick, cycling through Abington, to new hosts in Castleconnell, as pretty as it was wet, there to revel in hospitality again, and to paint and plot into the night. Wednesday saw the Brother sitting painting in the company of a small child, and dining out on some fine Italian food, with him staying in Castleconnell again that evening, painting and poring over maps through the night, wondering about the practicalities of the rest of the trip.

Off we went again today, getting thoroughly damp as he cycled through the clouds, and past fields upon fields of stones upon stones, craving tea as he continued his constant sensory overload of being mesmerised by the scenery he was becoming part of.

And finally, then, after a long and glorious day of ninety kilometre's cycling, with him spotting a true avian highlight in a charm of goldfinches and taking advantage of a rare cessation of rain to photograph a beautiful wall, he entered Galway. Six weeks down, and thirteen counties visited.

There's more to come, of course, so rather than just tracking my summaries, you should follow the Painting Tour on his blog and especially on Twitter, where the hashtag's #paintingtour. I wouldn't bother following him on Google Latitude, though, given its habit of placing him somewhere he visited once upon a time. That was one of the great incidental revelations of Tuesday, when someone pointed out that it's not common for wireless mifi to have accurate gps support, such that most of them can easily revert to cached locations: this goes some way to explaining why several times in this trip Latitude's placed the Brother in Drogheda, Lucan, Cork, or anywhere really as long as it's eighty miles or so behind him!

Today's been a wet day, but when the right moment appeared the Brother hit the ground to capture this.

And again -- and especially importantly --  if you think there's any chance at all he might be passing within twenty miles or so of where you live and you have a bed to offer and fancy a painting, and especially if you're in one of the spots he currently doesn't have a host, you should let him know. Just send him a message to Ireland's first digital nomad™. It's not called social networking for nothing, you know...