I'm back from a long weekend in Ireland, celebrating my father's 70th birthday. And very life-affirming and jolly it was too. Family gatherings are minefields of course, but everything on this trip worked a treat, from the choice of hotel to the dining and day trips. Even the weather wasn't too bad, which for Ireland in July is little short of a facking miracle.
The irony of the trip for me was the fact that The Tour de France passed about twenty feet from my front door during the my absence. Me, who's been following professional cycling for a quarter of century, when it was about as popular in England as kabbadi or bull-fighting. I suppose it's probably just as well I wasn't there; I don't suppose I could have resisted the temptation to headbutt some Johnny-come-lately at the roadside as he held forth to his missus on why Chris Froome would probably win the bunch sprint on The Mall.
Mrs O and I arrived home literally as the stage was finishing on The Mall. We watched the highlights last night, and I have to say it was amazing watching the streets that I know like the bee of my aitch full of world-famous cyclists. Former Tour winner Andy Schleck had the misfortune to crash at a bus-stop at Waterworks Roundabout, which is about a mile from my house. That bus-stop has already taken on cult status among local road men. I myself will be visiting it this evening on the way home. Wish I brought me camera.
No comments:
Post a Comment