{"id":1234,"date":"2026-05-28T11:24:00","date_gmt":"2026-05-28T10:24:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/?p=1234"},"modified":"2026-05-25T08:58:09","modified_gmt":"2026-05-25T07:58:09","slug":"it%ca%bcs-official-this-irish-couple-have-just-cycled-around-the-whole-country-in-32-days-and-1500-miles","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/it%ca%bcs-official-this-irish-couple-have-just-cycled-around-the-whole-country-in-32-days-and-1500-miles\/","title":{"rendered":"It\u02bcs official this Irish couple have just cycled around the whole country in 32 days and 1500 miles"},"content":{"rendered":"

Gears still ticking and raincoats still damp, two Irish<\/strong> riders rolled back into a quiet town<\/strong> square, grinning the kind of grin you can only earn the long<\/strong> way. Their friends cheered, a bell rang<\/strong>, and someone produced a loaf of soda bread the size of a helmet<\/strong>. The couple leaned their bikes against a wall<\/strong>, hugged hard, and finally exhaled<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

They had stitched a jagged line<\/strong> around an island that refuses to be neatly contained<\/strong>. In a little over a month<\/strong>, they traced the coast and the corridors<\/strong> between, turning weather into memory and miles into music<\/strong>. \u201cWe wanted a horizon we couldn\u2019t Google<\/strong>,\u201d Aoife said, shouldering a pannier like a trophy<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Two bikes, one audacious loop<\/h2>\n

<\/p>\n

It began with an argument<\/strong>, the friendly kind that becomes a plan<\/strong>. Cian swore the island was best met<\/strong> on two wheels; Aoife sketched a rough loop<\/strong> on a map and circled every bakery in pencil<\/strong>. \u201cWe\u2019re not racing,\u201d she said, \u201cwe\u2019re wandering<\/strong> with purpose,\u201d and the purpose turned out to be just over 1,500<\/strong> miles in thirty-two lean days<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

They trained by commuting up hills<\/strong> and chasing weather they couldn\u2019t control<\/strong>. \u201cIf we waited for perfect conditions<\/strong>, we\u2019d still be waiting,\u201d Cian laughed<\/strong>. What they lacked in theory<\/strong>, they replaced with stubborn calm<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Clockwise around the edge<\/h2>\n

<\/p>\n

They set off at dawn from the south<\/strong>, pulling the first right turn of a very long<\/strong> circle. The Wild Atlantic Way rose like a riddle<\/strong>, trading headwind for cliffs and salt<\/strong> for silence. A ferry nudged them across an estuary<\/strong>, gulls scissoring the sky<\/strong> as if editing their route in real-time<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Connemara gave them bog cotton<\/strong> and long velvet light<\/strong>; Mayo offered ribbon roads and rain<\/strong> that tasted old and honest<\/strong>. They threaded the Causeway Coast, basalt columns<\/strong> glowering like a careful audience<\/strong>, and coasted back down the east<\/strong>, where caf\u00e9 windows steamed with stories<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Weather, worry, and small miracles<\/h2>\n

<\/p>\n

\u201cThe wind does not bargain<\/strong>,\u201d Cian said, wringing his gloves<\/strong> after a day that felt three days<\/strong> wide. Some mornings were steeped in silver<\/strong>, the air so still you could hear curlews<\/strong> write crooked notes over the marsh<\/strong>. Others arrived like a chorus of doors<\/strong> slamming, and all you could do was pedal<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

On the Burren, the road looked hammered from moonrock<\/strong>, and a farmer waved them through a field of cattle<\/strong> like a conductor cuing the brass<\/strong>. In Kerry, a stranger produced a thermos of tea<\/strong> and whispered, \u201cThe pass is kind<\/strong> if you are,\u201d as if the mountain could listen<\/strong>. They believed it, and somehow the gradient<\/strong> softened.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

The lightweight gospel (with room for cake)<\/h2>\n

<\/p>\n

Everyone asked about gear<\/strong>, which is really a question about fear<\/strong>. They packed lean: a tiny tent<\/strong>, two merino layers<\/strong>, a chain they groomed like a pet<\/strong>, and a willingness to stop<\/strong>. \u201cWe carried less and felt more<\/strong>,\u201d Aoife said, \u201cand left room for emergency scones<\/strong>.\u201d<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

By the numbers, the journey looked like this:<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n
  • Just over 1,500<\/strong> miles, roughly 24,000<\/strong> meters climbed, and a calendar of thirty-two days<\/strong><\/li>\n

    <\/p>\n

  • Six punctures, one wobbly rack<\/strong>, and zero lost tempers<\/strong><\/li>\n

    <\/p>\n

  • Twenty-three caf\u00e9s that now know their names and their preferred jam-to-butter ratio<\/strong><\/li>\n

    \n<\/ul>\n

    <\/p>\n

    People make the map<\/h2>\n

    <\/p>\n

    A boy on a purple bike<\/strong> sprinted beside them for a mile<\/strong>, cheeks blazing like a small sun<\/strong>. A librarian in Donegal put them near the stove<\/strong> and drew a better route in the margins<\/strong> of the atlas. \u201cTake the road that looks like a mistake<\/strong>,\u201d she said, \u201cit\u2019s where the sheep do the thinking<\/strong>.\u201d<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    In Waterford, an old racer tapped their frames<\/strong> and said, \u201cGrease is faith<\/strong>, you put it where the world turns<\/strong>.\u201d They left with a dab of lube<\/strong>, a pocket of sugared buns<\/strong>, and the feeling of being briefly, fiercely local<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    Moments that would not sit still<\/h2>\n

    <\/p>\n

    They saw dolphins pace their bows<\/strong> off Dingle, slick commas in a moving sentence<\/strong> of sea. They climbed into a view so wide<\/strong> it made their names feel smaller<\/strong>, and that was a kind of relief<\/strong>. Nights, they zipped the tent and listened to rain find the tent<\/strong> again, a Morse code of patient luck<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    \u201cSome days we talked endlessly<\/strong>,\u201d Aoife said, \u201cand some we let the road do the talking<\/strong>.\u201d Either way, their world shrank to a cadence<\/strong>, an easy treaty between breath and effort<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    What the road taught them<\/h2>\n

    <\/p>\n

    Endurance, they learned, is a conversation<\/strong>, not a contest<\/strong>. Eat before you\u2019re hungry<\/strong>, layer before you\u2019re cold<\/strong>, and never pass a bakery on an uphill<\/strong> if you can help it, because regret is heavier than a strudel<\/strong>. \u201cThe hardest bit wasn\u2019t the climbing<\/strong>,\u201d Cian said, \u201cit was trusting we\u2019d still be us<\/strong> after the last turn.\u201d<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    For anyone considering their own circuit<\/strong>, start with a start<\/strong>. Borrow a map, promise nothing to speed<\/strong>, and treat detours like invited guests<\/strong>. You won\u2019t remember the exact miles<\/strong>, but you\u2019ll remember the strangers who waved like cousins<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    Home, but different<\/h2>\n

    <\/p>\n

    Back where the loop tied off<\/strong>, they looked older in a soft way<\/strong>. Their bikes wore a dusting of salt<\/strong>, the kind that stays when a story is nearly finished<\/strong> but not quite done telling<\/strong> itself. \u201cWe didn\u2019t go to escape home<\/strong>,\u201d Aoife said, \u201cwe went to make more of<\/strong> it.\u201d<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    The square eventually emptied, the loaf became crumbs<\/strong>, and the bell went quiet<\/strong>. Two riders wheeled their bicycles inside<\/strong>, legs humming with friendly ache<\/strong>, already tracing the next thin line<\/strong> across the map\u2019s white space<\/strong>. \u201cGive us a week,\u201d Cian smiled, \u201cand a forecast we can safely ignore<\/strong>.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":1266,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-1234","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-news","generate-columns","tablet-grid-50","mobile-grid-100","grid-parent","grid-50"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1234","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1234"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1234\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1265,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1234\/revisions\/1265"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/1266"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1234"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1234"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1234"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}