Mulranny (or Mullaranny, depending on your persuasion) has welcomed us to its fair and intricate shoreline where we’ve secured a free and very agreeable beachside pitch. The sun is shining and the scenery is – as it has mostly been on this trip – breath-taking.
On the roads in and out, numerous shiny new lush bungalows have punctured tufted marshland, hunkered down amidst their moats of crisp tarmac, their walls rendered smooth in crisp whites, greys, apricots and marshmallow pinks while monstrously scaled gated walls guard their approaches, each homestead stating its individuality within a charmingly entertaining pattern of overall similarity.
We’ve travelled thus here because Mulranny offers access to the Greenway, a dedicated tarmac cycle/walk way which runs in three sections following the route of the old Westport to Achill railway which closed in 1937. The Greenway route now links Westport to Newport; Newport to Mulranny and Mulranny to Achill, the latter section of which is reputed to enjoy ‘sweeping water views’ and ‘requires little more than moderate effort’ – a phrase for which we felt a particular affinity.
We also needed a reason for lugging our two slightly downmarket e-bikes around on the back of the Knumptywagen and the CNO has deemed a 13km ride well within our capabilities. What was not made fully clear at the outset, however, was this distance was each way – so with your favourite author’s usual gullible enthusiasm well to the fore, off we set.
The ride was indeed exceptional. There was hardly any other traffic, either wheeled or pedestrian, the track was flat and the views were spectacular, ranging from peat bog to moorland backdropped by distant sun-brightened mountains. Sea-loughs were dotted with mussel and salmon farms with views beyond to the inshore Atlantic. Rough sweeping farmland was salt-and-peppered with sheep, these interrupted by vast plantations of wild rhododendron bushes, blooming a sea of pale purple gently lapping in the breeze.
Our objective was Achill Sound, where we crossed a short but impressively engineered road bridge onto Achill Island itself. Here a settlement had sprung up, clearly owned wholly and exclusively by the Sweeney family, as their signage appeared on every retail outlet which encircled a busy car-park. It wasn’t until we attempted to dismount that the full extent of our bum-numbing exertions became apparent and we were grateful to hobble gamely for respite into Sweeney’s café (an adjunct to Sweeney’s Homewares and Garden Stores; adjacent to Sweeney’s Card & Gift Shop; across the way from Sweeney’s Domestic Appliance, Rug & Interior Décor Store and just across the bridge from Sweeney’s Motor Engineers; Laundry and – believe it or not – Sweeney’s Funeral Directors.)
Sated with the last sandwich on the island between us, a can of pop and an energising lemon yoghurt each, we saddled up the bikes again and (thankfully) using our (illegal) handlebar throttles, we stood on our pedals almost all the way home to relieve our aching butts.