THE WHOLE HOGGE With Jacqueline Hogge

CLARE Island is one of those places that has been on my list of must-visit destinations ever since it was immortalised in the Sawdocs' legendary song from the 1990s. So having the opportunity to tick it off the list this weekend, I set sail from Roonagh, as Leo recommends, and kissed all my cares goodbye. Well not quite. I had just about made the ferry without time to stop at an ATM for cash so wasn't quite sure how the day would fare with the sum total of €12 in my purse.[private] Not that such minor matters would have a bearing on the day, which I decided would be a research expedition to determine whether or not the island would be a suitable place for a family day out. The ferry proved a pleasantly short crossing and soon I was following signs for the hotel, where I hoped I may secure the services of a laser terminal to purchase some brunch. A short walk along the coast led me to a modest and unassuming hotel, that didn't appear to be open even though it was 11am on a Saturday morning at the height of the tourist season. So I gave up on the notion of food and kept walking along the coast, where I happened upon an ancient shipwreck. It was at this point I realised the potential folly of walking alone in such a remote area and almost instantly a wily old sheepdog appeared it seemed from nowhere and offered his companionship for what turned out to be a beautiful coastal walk. In the distance I could see a stately looking lighthouse which seemed a good bet for getting an ever more panoramic view of Clew Bay, but with aching heels and a growling tummy I headed back to the quay in search of sustenance. A freshly baked scone and pot of tea satisfied me enough to go in search of a bicycle on which to explore the island further, however, the crowds that had somehow passed me by had beaten me to it and there was only one bike left to hire. It was a gent's mountain bike that seemed a little too large for my short legs, but after haggling with the owner of the shop, I handed over what was left of my cash and ventured up the road, wobbling like someone who had consumed one too many beers. Thankfully there weren't many witnesses to what must have looked like an outtake from an episode of Father Ted as first the gears locked and then one of the pedals refused to grip with my foot, despite my best efforts. I reasoned it was my own ineptitude as opposed to the bike itself and persevered until the chain came off and that's when I got a bit cross. Pulling over to the roadside, I managed to reattach the chain but finding my rhythm with the pedals took a little longer. I was on my own again too, as my canine companion took serious umbrage at the fact I'd abandoned him in favour of a bike and he high tailed it into the distance. I'm sure the fact he was mortified at my horrific attempts at cycling influenced his decision. They say you never forget how to ride a bike and after a very clumsy start I managed to take control of the situation. What you do definitely forget though is the sheer discomfort of a bicycle saddle, an ordeal that had obviously been wiped from my memory after my last stint aboard two wheels, almost a decade ago. Destination Lighthouse was the goal and thankfully the lack of cars meant I was able to make my way along the hilly track with the only traffic being of the pedestrian kind. Soon the whitewashed lighthouse complex came into view atop yet another sheer climb so accepting the limitations of my criminal lack of fitness, I disembarked and continued the ascent on foot. This was where some of the tourists had been hiding, a family choosing to picnic on the grassy knolls surrounding the lighthouse, which as I made my way up struck me as a strange choice of location. But on reaching the summit I discovered the gates to the lighthouse area were in fact locked. Had I not been completely out of breath and on the verge of respiratory failure I would have turned on my wheels and immediately returned to the quayside, but the burning sensation in my chest necessitated rest and recouperation, which I did in an equally idyllic setting on some spectacular cliffs in the vicinity. Savouring the silence of my perch, the only noise being the wind as it swirled overhead, the view of the Mayo coastline was sublime. It wasn't bathed in sunshine or blue skies, but the vista of Louisburgh, past Croagh Patrick and out to Achill Head was as stunning a landscape as you'd see anywhere in the world. I decided at this point that while the island is impressive, it's not quite the right location for children as young as mine, whose cycling exploits are limited by need for stabilisers. All that sea air was doing nothing to sate my appetite and soon I was thundering downhill in the hope that somewhere on the island would accept plastic in exchange for food and drink. The pay off for near death on the way up was the adrenaline rush on the way down the hill, aboard my oversized bike, as I careered along stony pathways, determined to stay upright at all costs. Arriving back at the beach, disheveled from all that wind in my hair, I decided to have another crack at finding some food. Lo and behold, the previously dormant hotel was, on closer inspection, a hub of activity with all the tourists indulging in less physical exploits than my adventures in the great outdoors. Still, the joy of an open prawn sandwich washed down with an ice cold lemonade was refreshment enough and meant I could finally rest my weary bones on something infinitely more comfortable than a saddle. While Leo reckoned he could get home some other day, alas the ferry timetable had to be adhered to in my case and it wasn't long before I was back in my car at Roonagh. I had intentions of removing the safety wheels from my little lady's bike this summer, but on the basis of my Tour de Clare Island experience, I'll be encouraging her to seek instruction in how to actually ride a bike from someone else. [/private]