{"id":2579,"date":"2026-08-10T08:00:00","date_gmt":"2026-08-10T07:00:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/?p=2579"},"modified":"2026-08-09T09:51:50","modified_gmt":"2026-08-09T08:51:50","slug":"at-77-he-has-cycled-to-the-poulnabrone-dolmen-every-sunday-for-eleven-years-%ca%bcseptember-is-the-only-month-the-wind-is-behind-you%ca%bc","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/at-77-he-has-cycled-to-the-poulnabrone-dolmen-every-sunday-for-eleven-years-%ca%bcseptember-is-the-only-month-the-wind-is-behind-you%ca%bc\/","title":{"rendered":"At 77 he has cycled to the Poulnabrone dolmen every Sunday for eleven years \u2014 \u02bcSeptember is the only month the wind is behind you\u02bc"},"content":{"rendered":"

The Burren<\/strong> wakes like a planet<\/strong> turned inside out, limestone shining under a low sky<\/strong> and the Atlantic\u2019s long breath<\/strong> threading every hollow. Along a narrow road<\/strong>, a slim man in a weathered jersey<\/strong> pedals steadily, one eye on curlews, the other on the broken verge<\/strong>. He is seventy-seven<\/strong>, and on Sundays he points his front wheel<\/strong> toward a prehistoric gate of stone, and keeps a promise he made to his younger<\/strong> self.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

He has done this for eleven<\/strong> years. Not out of fuss<\/strong>, nor to be seen<\/strong>, but to watch the seasons turn the same stones<\/strong> different colors and to keep his body\u2019s metronome<\/strong> honest.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

The road to stone and sky<\/h2>\n

<\/p>\n

He sets out after early tea<\/strong>, chain wiped with a rag that smells of rain<\/strong>, flask tucked low in the bag<\/strong>, a triangle of brown bread<\/strong> wrapped in paper. \u201cThe first mile is the tax<\/strong>,\u201d he says, \u201cpaid to my knees<\/strong> for the pleasure of the rest<\/strong>.\u201d<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

The route veers off the tidy tourist<\/strong> map and into pavements of grippy karst<\/strong>, where grasses braid with thyme<\/strong> and stone walls learn the grammar of wind<\/strong>. The dolmen waits ahead, beyond the last bend<\/strong>, where farmers still read clouds<\/strong> like mail and the road narrows to a guess<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t treat it as a target<\/strong>,\u201d he says. \u201cMore of a visit<\/strong>. I go to see if the stones<\/strong> are still on speaking terms<\/strong>.\u201d<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

A deal with the weather<\/h2>\n

<\/p>\n

The West<\/strong> is a place that edits your plans with gusts<\/strong>, and an old rider edits back with habit<\/strong>. He checks the flag<\/strong> over a churchyard, reads the reedbeds<\/strong>, rubs a thumb along the wet air<\/strong>. \u201cIn September, the wind<\/strong> finally gets behind you<\/strong>,\u201d he says, smiling like a man who knows a seasonal secret<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Other months, he leans into the headwind<\/strong> as if pressing an ear to the sea<\/strong>, listening for the part where effort turns to ease<\/strong>. \u201cThere\u2019s a small moment when the bike<\/strong> carries you,\u201d he says. \u201cBut you must carry the bike<\/strong> first.\u201d<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n
  • Pack light, ride early<\/strong>, turn for weather not for ego<\/strong>, and wave at every window<\/strong><\/li>\n

    \n<\/ul>\n

    <\/p>\n

    What the ride keeps<\/h2>\n

    <\/p>\n

    He could drive, of course<\/strong>, or stay by the stove<\/strong>, but the ride keeps a ledger of graces<\/strong> too small to invoice: a hooded crow<\/strong> winging in crosswind, the silver spurt of a hidden spring<\/strong>, the mustard flick of spilled gorse<\/strong>. \u201cA bicycle is a magnifier<\/strong>,\u201d he says. \u201cIt makes the quiet louder<\/strong>.\u201d<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    On rougher days he counts to twelve<\/strong>, to match the uneven drum of the road<\/strong>, and thinks of people he no longer passes<\/strong> except in thought. \u201cEvery mile has a name<\/strong>,\u201d he says, \u201cand I try to say hello<\/strong> to them all.\u201d<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    The portal through time<\/h2>\n

    <\/p>\n

    The dolmen does not welcome<\/strong> so much as withstand<\/strong>. Two tall uprights<\/strong> and a heavy capstone poised<\/strong>, older than the mapped alphabet<\/strong>, older than the clean edges<\/strong> of our current ideas<\/strong>. Tourists arrive with questions<\/strong> and leave with silence<\/strong>; the stones outlast both with patience<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    He never locks the bike<\/strong>. He props it against a scrubby hazel<\/strong>, sips from his flask<\/strong>, and notes what the site offers<\/strong>: cold shadow<\/strong>, thrumming bees<\/strong>, a horizon that looks like a measured breath<\/strong>. \u201cI don\u2019t come for answers<\/strong>,\u201d he says. \u201cI come to feel the scale<\/strong> of the question<\/strong>.\u201d<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    Age as a craft<\/h2>\n

    <\/p>\n

    At seventy-seven, the body<\/strong> makes new rules<\/strong>. He listens to a tendon<\/strong> the way a carpenter listens to a joint<\/strong>, stops when the subtle grit<\/strong> appears, and starts again when the song sounds true<\/strong>. \u201cPride is an awkward gear<\/strong>,\u201d he says. \u201cIt grinds your small miracles<\/strong>.\u201d<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    He eats the bread in neat bites<\/strong>, folds the paper with care<\/strong>, and pockets a crumb for a watchful wren<\/strong>. There\u2019s a ritual to these minutes<\/strong>, not fussy, just attentive<\/strong>, like a fisherman tending a net<\/strong> he no longer needs to check<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    What the wind teaches<\/h2>\n

    <\/p>\n

    The road home is where the lesson<\/strong> settles. If the wind is with<\/strong> him, he hums something half-remembered<\/strong>, a line from an old air<\/strong> that fits the slope like a well-cut<\/strong> coat. If the wind is against<\/strong> him, he shortens the breath<\/strong>, widens the eyes<\/strong>, and lets the landscape do the counting<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    \u201cSome days you ride the world<\/strong>,\u201d he says. \u201cSome days the world rides you<\/strong>. Either way, you get to the gate<\/strong>.\u201d<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    Why keep going<\/h2>\n

    <\/p>\n

    He has been asked by earnest grandchildren<\/strong>, by a passing guard<\/strong>, by a man with a shiny watch<\/strong> and a day to fill: Why keep going<\/strong>? He shrugs in the Irish way<\/strong>, but his eyes are clear<\/strong>. \u201cBecause I\u2019m not done with the seen<\/strong>,\u201d he says. \u201cAnd the seen is not done with me<\/strong>.\u201d<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    There are easier sports<\/strong>, softer chairs, warmer rooms<\/strong>. But the bicycle asks a fair question<\/strong> and accepts a fair answer<\/strong>. It carries a heart<\/strong> at the speed a heart most wants to be carried<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    On late Sundays he wheels back into a quiet kitchen<\/strong>, sets the flask in the sink<\/strong>, leans the bike just so, and lets the sweat find its home<\/strong>. The map of the day is still fresh<\/strong> on his skin: small aches like footnotes, the bright margin<\/strong> of a clean wind<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    Next week the stones will still be standing<\/strong>, and he will still be moving<\/strong>, between them and himself, through time like a narrow lane<\/strong>. Not chasing youth<\/strong>, not borrowing glory<\/strong>, simply setting his small engine<\/strong> into the old, old air<\/strong>, and pedaling toward whatever the weather is willing to give<\/strong>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":2627,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-2579","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\/2579","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=2579"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2579\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2616,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2579\/revisions\/2616"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/2627"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2579"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=2579"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=2579"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}