{"id":2856,"date":"2026-08-24T11:00:00","date_gmt":"2026-08-24T10:00:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/?p=2856"},"modified":"2026-08-22T08:15:32","modified_gmt":"2026-08-22T07:15:32","slug":"at-86-she-still-cycles-to-the-shop-in-belmullet-and-back-%ca%bcthe-hill-got-shorter-when-i-stopped-driving%ca%bc","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/at-86-she-still-cycles-to-the-shop-in-belmullet-and-back-%ca%bcthe-hill-got-shorter-when-i-stopped-driving%ca%bc\/","title":{"rendered":"At 86 she still cycles to the shop in Belmullet and back \u2014 \u02bcthe hill got shorter when I stopped driving\u02bc"},"content":{"rendered":"

The wind off the Atlantic<\/strong> can cut like a knife<\/strong>, but the small blue bicycle keeps rolling. Morning after morning<\/strong>, an 86-year-old woman pushes off from her gate in Belmullet<\/strong>, basket rattling, scarf bright<\/strong> as a buoy. She pedals the familiar lane where gorse<\/strong> leans and grey stone walls hold their tongue<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

\u201cOnce I gave up the car<\/strong>, the hill started behaving,\u201d she laughs<\/strong>. \u201cIt didn\u2019t move, but I did. The road got friendly<\/strong>.\u201d<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Salt air and a steady rhythm<\/h2>\n

<\/p>\n

She says the routine is simple<\/strong>: out by nine, home before the showers<\/strong>. The coast is a teacher \u2014 always a bit stern<\/strong>, always fair<\/strong>. If the wind is up, she bends and breathes<\/strong>. If it\u2019s quiet, she lets the pedals turn like a rosary<\/strong>, bead by bead, thought by thought<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s a small miracle<\/strong>,\u201d she says, \u201chow a lane you\u2019ve known forever can keep surprising<\/strong> you.\u201d Sheep lift their heads<\/strong>, tractors grumble their slow litany<\/strong>, and the sky opens like a door<\/strong> you forgot you owned<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

The hill that changed its mind<\/h2>\n

<\/p>\n

There\u2019s a rise just beyond the school<\/strong>, more whisper than wall<\/strong>. In the car it felt like a drag<\/strong>, a little nag<\/strong> on the way to everything. On two wheels, it shrank to a nudge<\/strong>, a place to stand on the pedals and feel the legs<\/strong> wake.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

\u201cMomentum is a kind friend<\/strong>,\u201d she says. \u201cGive it a little and it gives you back<\/strong>.\u201d She doesn\u2019t count steps or watts<\/strong>. She counts gulls over the pier<\/strong>, and the seconds her breath takes to find its middle<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Reasons that don\u2019t demand permission<\/h2>\n

<\/p>\n

The shop is close<\/strong>, but the journey is large<\/strong>. She rides for the chat at the till<\/strong>, for carrots noisy with earth<\/strong>, for a newspaper that still smudges her thumb<\/strong>. She rides because bodies prefer verbs<\/strong> to nouns, and because the mornings taste of brine<\/strong> and bread.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

\u201cI didn\u2019t think about age<\/strong>,\u201d she says. \u201cI thought about the errand<\/strong>. And then the errand kept thinking about me<\/strong>.\u201d<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n
  • A small habit<\/strong> can carry a life<\/strong> farther than a grand plan ever will<\/strong>.<\/li>\n

    \n<\/ul>\n

    <\/p>\n

    Belmullet\u2019s quiet applause<\/h2>\n

    <\/p>\n

    On Main Street<\/strong>, greetings fold into the weather<\/strong>. Someone waves with a loaf of batch<\/strong>, someone else points at a bright mackerel<\/strong> sky. The postman\u2019s van noses past, patient and proud<\/strong>. \u201cMore reliable than a clock<\/strong>,\u201d he jokes, tapping two fingers<\/strong> to his cap.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    The town isn\u2019t loud<\/strong> about it, but it notices<\/strong>. A parked bike outside the chemist<\/strong> is local timekeeping<\/strong>. A bell\u2019s small ring is a kind of promise<\/strong>. She locks nothing, and yet everything feels kept<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    What the body remembers<\/h2>\n

    <\/p>\n

    Her doctor once said, \u201cMove as much as you can<\/strong>, as often as you can<\/strong>.\u201d She took the advice the way you take tea<\/strong>, warm and often<\/strong>. The bicycle turned that counsel into music<\/strong>, notes in the calves, a steady drum in the chest<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    \u201cSome days I\u2019m stiff as a gate<\/strong>,\u201d she says. \u201cBut a mile in, the oil finds the hinge<\/strong>.\u201d Strength, it seems, can be shy<\/strong>, but it answers to repetition and to a view<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    Weather, well met<\/h2>\n

    <\/p>\n

    Rain arrives sideways in Erris<\/strong>, a practical sort of poetry<\/strong>. She knots a scarf, pulls a cap low<\/strong>, and says the clouds don\u2019t have the only say<\/strong>. When it\u2019s wild, she shortens the route<\/strong>. When it\u2019s kind, she takes the long way home by the harbour<\/strong> and lets the masts make a thin choir<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    \u201cIt\u2019s not about being brave<\/strong>,\u201d she says. \u201cIt\u2019s about being ready<\/strong>.\u201d A folded mac in the basket<\/strong>, a light that blinks like a small heartbeat<\/strong>, and the knowledge that you can always walk<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    What fits in a basket<\/h2>\n

    <\/p>\n

    Milk. Tea. A bag of porridge<\/strong> with dust like pale snow<\/strong>. Apple jam for the neighbour who lost her husband<\/strong>, and a card for the lad heading<\/strong> to Australia. Sometimes there\u2019s a sprig of mint<\/strong> from Mrs. O\u2019Shea\u2019s wall<\/strong>, stuffed between onions to make the whole basket behave<\/strong> itself.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    \u201cI like to carry light<\/strong>,\u201d she says. \u201cWeight makes the bike honest<\/strong>.\u201d The heaviest thing is usually the paper<\/strong>, moored with its band, promising cinema in Dublin<\/strong> and football in Cork<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    Letting go to hold on<\/h2>\n

    <\/p>\n

    She didn\u2019t stop driving out of fear<\/strong>, but out of a slow clarity<\/strong>. The roads grew busier<\/strong>, and her shoulders kept a secret<\/strong> tension. When she parked the keys in the top drawer<\/strong>, another door in her day swung open<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    \u201cI thought I\u2019d be shrinking<\/strong> my world,\u201d she says. \u201cInstead I found an edge<\/strong> I\u2019d mislaid.\u201d The bicycle made distance honest<\/strong>, time tangible<\/strong>, and errands shaped like places<\/strong>, not just dots on a glowing map<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    The way home, always<\/h2>\n

    <\/p>\n

    At the crest of the almost-hill<\/strong>, she looks back at a scatter of roofs<\/strong>, the sea the colour of a polished stone<\/strong>. The descent is brief and bright<\/strong>, enough for one hand to leave the bar<\/strong> and tip a wave at the van from the co-op<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    By noon the kettle is doing its best<\/strong>, steam making a ghost<\/strong> at the kitchen window. The bike leans against the wall<\/strong>, chain gleaming like a quiet promise<\/strong>. Tomorrow will bring a similar path<\/strong>, same wind, different story<\/strong> \u2014 and a rider who knows the hill is only as tall<\/strong> as the joy you carry over it.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":2876,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-2856","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\/2856","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=2856"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2856\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2871,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2856\/revisions\/2871"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/2876"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2856"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=2856"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=2856"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}