Blogging at 22:05 on Thursday 17th August from intended overnighting spot N 51.73988°, W 09.47337° / http://maps.google.com/maps?q=loc:51.73988%2C-09.47337
Last night's camp proved every bit as awful as we'd feared with various entirely ordinary town-based shenanigans carrying on well past our bedtime.
The 6.00am alarm came round way too soon and it was with bleary eyes and not a little grumpiness that we headed for the first possible ferry of the day to Sherkin Island.
For the sum of 12 Euro each (return) + 3 more per bike, we became two of only five early risers heading out to the island whilst Baltimore largely slept.
Sherkin is a difficult place to sum up concisely but if I had to try I'd probably err towards pleasant if unremarkable. It's certainly quiet, with only a couple of hundred or so residents who - from what we saw, anyway - essentially hid themselves away as much as possible. The bike allowed coverage of every single 'road' on the island and, as a result, to pass by virtually every dwelling and farm. During the three-hour jaunt, we saw literally only one obvious resident: a man who was shuffling along very slowly on what was seemingly his morning (or maybe even still yesterday evening's) constitutional walk, and who could easily have been over a century old. Perhaps two.
It could be that most residents were still nursing hangovers having been on the lash in Baltimore, but more likely that they just enjoyed the peace and isolation that such tiny-island life can bring. It may also have been the case that a few of the islanders who make a living from tourism had the good sense to wait until a few more Gringos had been shipped over before cracking out the ice creams and tat.
Apparently, the community is far from dominated by native Irish but is instead extremely diverse, with many of the houses on the island having been bought by people of numerous nationalities. It's also reported that the place is a bit of a magnet for arty types. There was some indication that this may be the case as there were more than a few signs of artisan crafts and a few washing lines sported long flowing dresses.
Regarding the islands approximately 10 kilometres of 'roads', well, they aren't. They're mainly sort of ex-roads, now largely covered in vegetation (pic).
An island 'bus' exists in the form of a battered VW transporter and, come time to return to the mainland, this was standing by at the ferry landing slip to transport anyone who wanted to be transported anywhere and - perhaps purely coincidentally - was being driven by a young woman adorned in a long, boldly coloured and very flowing ground-dragging dress.
I wouldn't personally want to live on the island but if I did would probably also hide away whilst Gringos gormlessly lollygagged around whilst forming opinionated nonsense.
Returning to the mainland we headed for a small spot next to an estuary that we'd spotted on the drive in to Baltimore for a spot of lunch (no overnight parking allowed, naturally). Frustratingly, there was already a works van parked there, which made it tricky to thread the truck into the few remaining square metres. Luckily, the van driver realised our aspiration and immediately shuffled his vehicle along a bit to allow us to easily park up.
I thanked him and after the usual questions about the truck he said that it was good to see us again. This was slightly confusing.
It turned out he lived a good hour's drive away in a small and pretty remote village but had - purely by chance - spotted the truck tucked away in the overnighting spot we'd used two nights ago. Today he was working near Baltimore and had decided to leave his work site and take a break in the picturesque spot by the estuary. We had a nice chat and he was good enough to tell me of some other pleasant places close to where he lived where we might want to again bespoil the countryside or ruin his break.
The spot by the estuary was indeed splendid and gave up many wader species, including greenshank (again), plus a good kingfisher sighting and a dozing group of lesser black-backed gulls.
Post lunch we had a steady bumble to where we now are, having been thwarted at every single waterside site we'd called at on route by what have become tediously routine but very clear and unequivocal 'no camping or overnight parking' signs. Indeed, in the wider environs around a few of the more touristy towns the offensive has been escalated and there's now sometimes even a prohibition on simply parking a caravan or camping car at any time of day.
As I've written before, we do fully understand and support prohibition on irresponsible motorhome use and you'd have to imagine such activity has been a real issue at most of the more obvious spots for the signage to be now so widespread. For sure it's been omnipresent across different counties along the whole south coast.
Anyway, we're currently at the coordinates show where, for now, we're seemingly allowed to park up and carry out benign freedoms associated with western democracies no matter what we drive around in.
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