Day 6: Galway to Clifden

Day six begun with a miraculous vision - Greg was awake, up and dressed before 8am. He opened the door to the van, framed by dazzling light. At first the team's senses rejected the vision - we couldn't believe our eyes - but in time we released it had actually happened and set about making th most of the early start. To take some of the strain off our heroic support team, Tom took over breakfast duty and soon realised how difficult the seemingly simple task of preparing breakfast for everyone at the same time is in such cramped conditions. He produced some disappointing boiled eggs and cold toast.

The efficient start was cancelled out as a mile out of the camp site Greg got a puncture. The bike team, rusty after such a long puncture - free run took ages to make the repair and could have compiled a 'common errors when performing bike maintenance' training video from their efforts. We eventually managed to get Greg back up and running however, at this stage blissfully unaware of the drama unfolding just a few minutes down the road back at the van.

We finally set off properly into hard slog along the coast on a busy road through uninspiring scenery. It was Saturday so the road was dotted with cyclists out for a weekend spin, and plenty of heavily laden tourers. The highlight of these were two Scandinavian heavy-metal touring cyclists displaying the odd combination of white ponytails, leather jackets and bike panniers. After 20 miles we passed an isolated convenience shop, swung round a corner and immediately found ourselves on a vast deserted plain, stretching out to a band of craggy mountains on the horizon.

What followed was miles of perfect cycling on nigh-on perfect roads, with the sun and the wind on our backs we kept up a fast 20mph as the road dipped and and twisted across the plain - we were in cycling nirvana (again, still unaware of what was happening back at camp). Along the way, Tom befriended another animal, this time a tiny roadside pony. When it started nibbling his pristine Brooks leather handlebar tape however, the blossoming relationship was swiftly terminated.

As we started getting hungry, we passed a road side cafe with incredible views over the lakes and mountains, but it was slightly too early to stop and we pressed on. It was to be the last civilisation we saw for the next two hours as we pushed even deeper into the wilderness through pine tree thickets then finally onto the peat bogs. The landscape was now very barren and we were in it alone. A strong headwind and short sharp hills sapped our energy, but our spirits were kept alight as we drank in the breathtaking scenery. Long peat channels dissected the tufty moorland, and piles of peat drying by the side of the road were a constant feature, as were the typically suicidal sheep darting out in front of our wheels.

Finally we reached civilisation in form of old pub, set back off the road. There were two locals silently drinking on opposite sides of the bar. One an amazing old welly-booted Irish farmer with wooly sideburns and moustache dual wielding half a Guinness and a whiskey. The other a younger, less caricatured version. Without warning, after about an hour of this silent ritual, they both got up, left the pub and got into the same car. We were left mulling over this strange relationship as we finished off our steak pie and Guinnesses (Guinnei?). As we started our final fifteen miles of the day, Dad remarked that he could have used the lunch break to check his phone, but we were already saddled up and moving, so we pressed on. 

After a brief tour of the bright, modern town of Clifden we arrived at the campsite. As the receptionist welcomed us to the site, Dad confidently joked that we hoped his wife was here already. We set off to track down the much needed warmth and comfort of the van but after splitting up to scour every pitch on the site, we rejoined to confirm they weren't here. For the first time that day, Dad checked his phone to find a list of text messages and missed calls from mum. 'Can't find van keys', 'Have u got van keys', then one at 3.30pm: 'Found van keys'.

With panic setting in, Tom and Greg picked a pitch, installed themselves horizontally on a grassy knoll and waited for the van to turn up. Dad walked down to the reception to report what had happened, asking if he could stay with the tough looking receptionist as his 'wife was going to be quite angry'. Soon the familiar site of the van swung into view. Mum wasn't happy. The support team enjoyed a default night off as Dad stoically battled gale force winds to put up the tent.

It was our final night with Nick and Ellen, and we finally found the craic. It was in the cosy and traditional 'Guy's Bar' in the form of a fiddler and singer/guitarist who accompanied a fine meal with classic Irish tunes, rounding off a perfect night with the Waterboy's 'Fisherman's Blues'. After a round of Jamesons and a few old stories, we said goodbye to Nick, who once again had excelled himself in his dedication to using the Probert Challenge as an excuse for a holiday. Thanks Nick, and Ellen it was a pleasure to meet you!