At 79 heʼs cycling every greenway in the country this summer and rating the cafés as he goes — ʼthe Old Rail Trailʼs the flattest and the scones the bestʼ

He starts at dawn with a mug of tea and a folded map, the day sketched in pencil and optimism. By the time most of us are scrolling our phones, he’s already tracing green threads across the country, hunting for well-poured coffees and perfectly buttered scones.

At 79, he pedals with purpose, not haste, greeting hedgerows and rivers with a nod, and café counters with a veteran critic’s eye. “Mileage is grand,” he says, “but a good slice of cake can make a mile feel twice as sweet.”

The man and the map

His name is Michael, and his plan is enthrallingly simple: ride every greenway he can reach this summer, scribble notes about the coffee and chat, and stitch a season into one long memory. He works in penciled arrows, not GPS, and trusts his legs more than any algorithm.

“I like when a trail whispers history,” he adds, pointing at a mossed bridge, “and when a café remembers your name by the second visit.”

A summer on easy gradients

Michael moves like weather: Waterford to Dungarvan one week, Westport to Achill the next, with pauses at Mullingar, Athlone, and Rathkeale strung between. The Royal Canal Greenway gives him miles to think; the Great Western Greenway gives him hills to taste. He calls the Limerick path a “green corridor of cattle and cloud,” and the South East Greenway “a river of rusty memories turned smooth as slate.”

He rides early to avoid crowds, late to meet locals, and always, always, stops where the windows steam and the pastries gleam.

How the café ratings work

“I’m not a snob,” Michael insists, “but my standards travel with me.” His pocket notebook is soft as a handkerchief, pages dimpled with rings of espresso and raindrops like small moons. He swears by a tiny rubric that never fails:

• Warm welcome, honest prices, and a clean loo. Fresh bakes, hot plates, and coffee with a crema that lingers. Decent tap water, a plug for a tired phone, and staff who know the weather by its smell.

“Perfection is a myth,” he chuckles, “but kindness is a policy any café can adopt.”

Roadside wisdom at 79

He rides a steel-framed tourer, blue and faithful, with tyres wide enough to ignore small troubles. At his cadence, conversation finds its breath. He waves at toddlers in trailers, nods to club riders with metronomic knees, and shares the same short sermon at every bench: stretch, sip water, and don’t skip the jam.

“People think the legs go first,” he says, “but it’s the courage that sneaks away. The trick is to invite it out for a scone, then ride until it stays.”

Trails that linger in the legs

Some paths leave a signature. Waterford’s coast sings of salt and harbours, a tune made for easy, loping gears. The Great Western rolls like a soft accordian, scenic, patient, eventually grand. The Royal Canal can feel endless and meditative, reeds bowing to a bicycle’s hush. Limerick’s old line cuts through stone and field, with echoes that fit inside your helmet and rattle there all afternoon.

When rain comes, Michael simply shrugs. “Wet roads wash the noise away,” he says. “You hear your breath, you taste the day, and the coffee after becomes its own small holiday.”

A flat favourite and a buttery crumb

Ask him for the smoothest spin, and he grins like a magician unveiling a familiar coin. The Old Rail Trail, he says, is “pancake-flat in the best sense, kind to old knees and new dreams.” He laughs at himself, pockets crinkling with receipts and candied peel. “You can let your thoughts wander, and they’ll never fall too far behind your wheels.”

And the bakes? “I’ve had scones that crumble like tired castles, and scones that melt like good news,” he says. “Somewhere along that line, I bit into the season’s best: warm, gently salted, with butter that refused to be shy.” He won’t name the exact stop, not yet. “Let people ride and find it. The search is half the spice.”

What he carries, what he leaves

In his saddle bag: a small pump, a light jacket, two plasters, spare spectacles, and a stubby pencil he sharpens with a penknife. On his wrist: a strip of neon tape his granddaughter insists he never removes. In his head: station names, cake prices, and the smell of orange zest when a door swings open.

What he leaves behind is mostly worry. “I keep a pocket for the day’s delights, and another for things not worth keeping,” he says. “If the chain squeaks, I oil it. If my heart squeaks, I pedal until it sings.”

A calendar made of crumbs

By August, the map will be scuffed and honest, a ledger of benches, bridges, and plates licked almost clean. He hopes to stitch his notes into a modest zine, part guide, part love letter to the slow lanes of a small island.

“People race for records,” he smiles, “but I ride for recipes—for the way a baker’s laugh turns a grey sky blue, for the way a good espresso steadies a wobbly hour.” He zips his jacket, taps the bell, and pushes into another morning. The chain mutters, the tyres whisper, and somewhere ahead, a warm door is already opening.