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Click here to return to News and Events. 24 Cyclists complete the 180 miles Drumlins Challenge - close to the Gate of HeavenAugust 2008
All set to go, as the 24 cyclists line up at the start in Carrickmacross The sun-drenched town square was a-buzz with activity and excitement. The whole of Carrickmacross had gathered here. “Where is my helmet?” “You have a slow puncture there” “Make sure your brakes are working - you’ll need them.” There was great back-clapping with friends wishing us well, while at the same time assuring us that we were half-mad. Some good-humoured cynics were puzzled that we had nothing better to do with our time. Others were intrigued or inspired. The more philosophically-minded wanted to know the why. The response to this was as varied as the participants. There was no Marco Polo or Christopher Columbus among us setting out in search of a continent. We were more of the ilk of Edmund Hillary. We were in search of a challenge, doing it for the sheer fun of it, the freedom of it, and the celebration of health and of camaraderie, a focal point, a goal to reach. “Enough philosophising: Three, Two, One, Go” cried our Captain, Michael. We were off - not too fast to begin with. Just fast enough to let the spectators savour the power and energy of the team and regret that they were not joining us; slow enough to let their eyes feast on the blaze of colour afforded by the variety of club jerseys. You see, there was an international and cosmopolitan flavour to this team. Comprising members from Vancouver, From Athens, from Northern Ireland and of course the local stalwarts - twenty four cyclists and three support cars. Halfway down the street we veered sharp right for the Shercock road, amid a cacophony of noise - cars hooting, children running and cheering, dogs barking. “May the road rise with you and the wind always be on your back” quipped a group of would-be well wishers knowing fine well that the drumlins would accommodate their first wish while the wind had no such intention as we headed due west. You never heard of drumlins! By the time you have completed this cycle tour you will know all about them. Suffice it to know at this point that they are a Cavan speciality –symmetrically shaped hills in the form of a whale’s back, some big, some small and some “brutal”, demanding sheer exertion on the ascent to be rewarded by exhilaration on the descent. The Shercock road offered little challenge but it led me along a journey of nostalgia. For me this was home country with every inch of the road conjuring up its own memories. Already we are on the outskirts of Shercock, approaching the Bleach where you will be steeped in social and economic history. Your snow-white linen sheets, tablecloths and crispy white collars owe their origin to this and similar regions in Cavan. Flax, the raw material of linen, was grown abundantly here, was bleached or “drowned” to use the local term, in the acidic waters of the bog holes which also served to preserve such perishable goods as Butter. Today the Bleach bears little resemblance to its glorious past. Green lawns replace the bog-cotton and the teeming wild life. The Bleach Road has graduated to the status of ring road. We chose to follow the main access road. The old Lios, or Fort, stood majestically on the hill to our left and beside it the new golf course sloped away. We rounded the bend and up the side of a mini drumlin to the main street. Most towns are nestled in valleys. Shercock however is a proud town perched atop the “whale’s back” and looking down over the surrounding valleys with their five beautiful lakes. There were new buildings everywhere, evidence of our booming economy, but the Fair Green was still there untouched. It lay there silent, this Fair Hill that had once been the heart of the town. On the first Wednesday of every month from six o’clock in the morning, cattle, sheep, pigs and horses filled the country roads and converged on this hill, once one of the biggest fairs in the country. “Be quiet until I sell my pigs” cried the farmer. He was addressing the preacher perched on a barrel and preaching about the love of God to a bustling unheeding crowd. “Let us split the difference” agreed the farmers as they spat on their palms and shook hands. The deal was clinched. Oh you never realised the significance of the mingled spittle which could never be separated apart again - symbol of a commitment that could never be broken, a symbol going back to biblical times. So you see, cycling involves more than pedalling. Already it has connected us with many aspects of our past and present, rich, cultural and social life. 
As our eye sweeps along this wide main street of Shercock, we are conscious that we are travelling on Royal ground. We are, in fact, following the chariot route of the ancient Kings of Ireland, leading from Tara to Dún na Rí, the Kings’ Fortress, Kingscourt, through Shercock and swinging right out of the town to the beautiful Lough Sillan. This is more than a lake. It is a magnet for the town. By early afternoon on this lovely July day, it will be alive. As we pass by we remember its tragic history, the loss of a whole generation of school children some ninety years ago. Today the lake is silent and calm in its entire three and a half mile expanse. At times it shied away from the road and just winked at us through the trees. Later, it would curve back towards the road and soothe us as it lapped against the rocks or plopped against the soft grassy verge. Over to your right you will see the Cromlech, an ancient burial monument, dating back thousands of years. We were on a mission, so there was no time to examine the ancient ogham script carved into the edges of the stone uprights. “Freewheel” cried my pilot. No, we had not taken to the air. The pilot controls and drives the tandem from the front while the role of the stoker is to supply energy and power. Soon we were pedalling along the main street of a town named after one of Cromwell’s most notorious henchmen, Coote, who lies buried under the main street. He was far from our thoughts today. “Mind yourselves at the Crooked Bridge” I could hear my mother’s warning. The Crooked Bridge is gone now. So too, are the roadside shrubberies once tended by my flower-loving aunt as a heart-warming welcome to the quaint little village of Tullyvin. After the freedom of the open roads, the narrow streets of Cavan town did not allure us. We turned left at the bridge on to the by-pass and set our sights on Belturbet. Not that we intended stopping here. Our immediate destination was four miles farther on. Once we spotted S.R. carved out in the hedgerow, saw the golf course and heard the merry song of the fountain, we knew we had arrived. At this point we had covered forty five miles. After a welcome rest, we were well able for the challenge of the next forty five miles and the Iron Mountain. You never associated mountains with Cavan. Well as the name implies, these mountains supplied the iron needs of farm and household in Ireland for many centuries. Coal was also mined in this region. Fifty metres to your left, you can see and hear a tiny babbling stream. That is none other than the Shannon as it rises from its source in the Shannon Pot in the Culcagh mountains. By the time you reach your destination this evening in Carrick on Shannon, it will have graduated to the status of largest and most powerful river in Ireland, the very heart blood of the country. As you proceed on your journey through Dowra, Leitrim and Drumshanbo, if you take time to look into the woods you will see an unusual feature - a series of caves facing the numerous tributaries of the Shannon. These caves were the precursors of the modern steam room. In older days, your fever would be cured by alternate sessions in the boiling heat of the steam room, followed by dousing in the icy waters of the adjacent river. None of our team admitted to having a fever, yet all were pedalling feverishly. Our destination was in sight. We had done it; we had completed our first day and with no apparent diminution of energy. As we assembled in the hotel dining room later that evening, the casual onlooker could be excused for failing to observe that this lively group had completed ninety miles and was contemplating an equal distance the following day. After a good night’s sleep, we were ready for the challenge. We were homeward bound and the wind would be on our back as we headed due east. The dual carriageway would by-pass Longford but it was busy and noisy, precluding all opportunity for conversation or admiring the environment. So we hurried on through Edgeworthstown and set our sights on Granard and the warm welcome we would receive from Kitty Kiernan’s Greville Hotel. Kitty Kiernan herself, and Michael Collins, smiled down on us from the wall as we enjoyed our welcome break. No fault to the company, but we were eager to move on. After the noisy dual carriageway, we were looking forward to finding again the narrow, twisting, hilly roads of Cavan. “Come back Paddy Reilly to Ballyjamesduff” the words of the song echoed in our ears. With wings on our feet, we reached the town centre in record time. “This must surely be the last of the drumlins” exclaimed my pilot as we called the Granny Gear into play and puffed our way up out of Ballyjamesduff. I am glad I did not have enough breath left to answer him at this point. Finally we reached the summit, plunged into the valley, up the next drumlin and so the rhythm continued. The silence and peace on these country roads were palpable, broken only by the chirping of birds or the cows swishing flies away with their tails. Calves ran along the hedges in an effort to keep up with us. A horse and foal looked wistfully over a gate, indicating that they would like to join us. Unless you had completed intense training there was no point in joining us. In a flash, we had reached Virginia and once we reached Bailieboro, we knew we had the back of it broken; we were on home ground. Flagging spirits revived as we put in a last spurt of energy for this final lap. As we cruised along the Shercock road and on to Carrickmacross, on this beautiful summer evening we mused with Patrick Pearse: "The beauty of the world hath made me sad, We had sown our hopes and desire to cycle the four counties; we had reaped and at this point we did indeed feel “close to the Gate of Heaven” Sr. Brid Smith |
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