Bikepacking in The Burren

A few years ago David Flanagan and Michael O'Dwyer devised a cycling route through The Burren that travelled through some of the area's most scenic spots while keeping off main roads for the most part. Dave sent me the track of their route soon afterwards, and this, combined with occasional inspiring photos in media feeds, meant the route was soon scribbled down on my ever-increasing to do list of Irish overnight adventures.

I find The Burren an absolutely magical place, so totally different to anywhere else in Ireland. We don't have wilderness in this country but in parts of this region it feels like we might. The stepped, flat summits of the limestone hills, the pockets of hazel scrub and thorn-bush laneways, the sudden appearance and vanishing of lakes, the lone boulders and stubborn trees sticking out on rocky flatlands, the blocky stone coast battered by enormous swells, the wildflowers... I could go on, but lists don't make for very good reading. The first time I came to The Burren I rented a bike at Doolin and cycled around, infatuated and inspired. I've since had countless climbing trips here, spent part of a winter living in Fanore, and made many more visits to walk and make photos and generally just marvel at the place. A two day cycling trip seemed a great way to get immersed in the area again.

The key to any good trip is to have good company, so I roped Dan in, knowing he was bike fit. However, his preferred style of cycling involves going very fast down very steep slopes with things in the way. I hadn't planned on this trip being anything like that. I was banking on Dan bringing his big, heavy, full-suspension bike to balance our abilities a bit (I'm not particularly bike fit). When I arrived at Dan's place the night before we were due to leave I got a bit of a shock upon seeing what he was planning on bringing. He'd decided to fix up his dad's old Viking racer, a bike older than either of us, complete with gear levers on the downtube, brake levers on the drops, dangly clip-in pedals that were too small for his shoes and fairly skinny tyres, one of which was quite rotten looking. The tool kit Dan had bought to do some fixing-up turned out to be useless as all the parts on the bike were imperial. It seemed to me like the biggest job done was taking an angle grinder to an old front rack to make it fit a bit better. I was part relieved that I probably wouldn't have to worry about trying to keep up with my bike-fit friend, and part worried that we'd be left stuck in some remote part of the Burren because Dan's dad's bottom bracket had exploded, having not been greased since 1983.

We left Killarney early and arrived in Ballyvaughan around 10am, just as the rain was starting to fizzle out. A boat in the harbour was hopping on her moorings, looking like she should have been taken to some sheltered marina months ago. It was breezy and damp and difficult to leave the warmth of the van. We finished breakfast and started saddling up the steeds. My bike for the trip was a Kona Rove, 2019 model, and I had a few bike-specific bags carefully arranged on it. The whole setup felt like an embarrassment of riches compared to Dan's knackered yoke. I didn't know whether to feel mortified about having such nice kit or feel sorry for Dan. He didn't seem too bothered though, and in fairness, the Viking more than made up for in character what it lacked in practicality.



We set off before half ten, glad to be moving and generating some warmth against the cold wind. We cruised through Ballyvaughan and soon swung right, off the main roads now and into the trip proper. I felt good, great even. I'd had this idea in my mind for long enough and now it was finally happening, with a good forecast, a fine bike and a fun friend. That great feeling lasted about 2.5km.

"How does my back tyre look?"

"It's fairly flat."

"Shit."



I stopped to pump up my rear and heard that lovely sound of air pissing out of a hole. Hhmmmm.... Bit of a false start. Dan found the wound while I rooted out the patch kit. Pre-glued they said. The first one was about as good as a damp stamp. I started for the spare tube but we tried another patch instead. It seemed better. Tube in, wheel on, pedals moving. A poor start, but at least the weather was brightening. We made it to our next turn and I didn't need Dan to tell me the tube was flat again. Out with the spare this time, though it wasn't comforting to think that with about 98% of the route left to go I mightn't be able to repair any more punctures. So much for having the better bike... Not to worry though, we were off the tarmac now and up on Aillwee Mountain, cycling over an improbable track with only the barest signs of development around. Small valleys in the landscape hinted at collapsed cave roofs underground, reminding me that most of what we rode over was hollow. The road was steady, only interrupted by gates here and there, and though we were climbing the legs were fresh and the position superb.





All of a sudden I rounded a corner to see Ballyvaughan below, and Galway Bay behind it, with sunlight and shadow dappling the terraced hills nearby. We rode a steep descent down the mountain, not being able to open up fully on the bikes we'd brought but it was great fun nonetheless. Some leafy lanes led us past a few farmyards and a spaniel bolted from one household, delighted to have company to race along with. He was still with us a while later, where we were now on a busier national road, and no amount of "go home!" seemed to be driving him back. Dan had the brainwave to drop him behind a stone wall and into the closest field. He'd be stuck between the four walls and we could be gone before he figured out an escape. I think Dan was still trying to get into the clips when the dog shot out from a hedge a little ways up the road. In the end we managed to outpace him, though it would have been nice to have him along for the spin too. With a few too many tarmac miles under us by now we turned left to start the next stage of the trip.



For the following few hours we pushed and carried the bikes over a hill and down into the Clab Valley. Had I been the one to imagine this route I probably wouldn't have had the idea to cross this much rough, unrideable ground (all 2km of it!), but I knew a good track waited at the other side of the hills and anyway, this wasn't so much a cycling trip as an adventure with bikes.





We'd been navigating using a map (remember them?), and the track we were pushing along at the moment wasn't marked. I took out my phone to check Google Maps and was a little dismayed to see we'd taken a wrong turn somewhere. Between punctures and pushing we'd hardly covered 20km in three hours, a poor distance on bikes. But we had no deadlines, so we stopped for lunch. The sun was well out by now and it was lovely to sit on the sheltered side of a stone wall and graze on snacks. Refuelled, we turned back and picked up the way we'd lost, running out of track again after a short while. While it wasn't steep anymore, it still wasn't rideable; just a typical Burren hilltop of broken patches of rock and grass, little humps and hollows and bits and pieces of old walls. The flat summit obscured any view towards where we were going, so it was difficult to pick the best line, but we persevered and eventually the head of Clab came into view. A final section of hike-a-bike led us past a beautiful wood cabin at the top of the valley, the kind I dream of on a daily basis. The trees on the north facing slope of the valley were all bare and wintry looking, while ivy-clad, south-facing crags were bathed in sunshine. We got back on the bikes and enjoyed another well-earned descent.







Keen to make up for a slow pace so far, we motored for the next while, and it was easily done on decent, but thankfully quiet, roads. I was glad it was October and not August. There were fewer tourists driving around and the cooler temperatures suited me better. We stopped for a look from the pass at Fahee. Autumn colours and sun and shade had the landscape looking beautiful. The speedy descent carried us down and around Mullaghmore, along high hedgerows heavy with hawthorn berries, past houses hidden in hollows of stone and wood. Turning west we passed the lake and stone landscape south of Mullaghmore, its profile like a washed up stack of whale vertebrae, sinking lopsided into the sand. The surface turned to gravel again, quieter now and more like where I wanted this trip to take me. A flooded stretch stopped us just after a remote farm in Cloonclouse. A crooning sheepdog came to say hi while we untied our shoes to walk the bikes through. I'd been waiting with the camera to capture Dan's spectacular splashing but he wisely suggested we wade through the watery bit, given it was almost knee deep.





It was while getting our shoes back on that Dan noticed the bulge in his front tyre. Much of the route so far involved rough doubletrack, the kind of ground you'd fly over on wider tyres but punishing stuff for a <30mm road tyre that had a few decades of drying out done. We abandoned our planned route to make straight for Kilfenora, in the hope the rental bike place there was open and stocked the right size tyre. We arrived to find the bike shop closed, but were glad to find a grocery shop (we hadn't passed one all day) to restock on water. Evening was coming on by now so we headed for an area of forestry north of Kilfenora with the hope of finding somewhere to camp.





And that we did, though it involved another carry across an awful area of recently clear-felled spruce. Thankfully there was a pleasant grassy knoll just beyond it, with distant sea views, a remote feel and little fear of anybody bothering us. I got the stove going while Dan pitched the tent. A crescent moon hung over the south-west, dipping as the evening darkened. It had been a good day. Any tiredness was an overall feeling after a full day outdoors, and not because my legs were ready to fall off. The night doesn't be long coming in this time of year, so bedtime came early.



After a bit of dozing the next morning I pulled back the tent fly to reveal a spectacular scene. Blood poured into the sky, and through my sleepy body as I hustled to get outside to my camera. There's nothing like a good sunrise to shift me out of the bed. The stove was lit again for porridge and tea. It was overcast but dead calm, to the point that midges threatened. We packed away our things and retraced our path through the warzone of broken branches, having failed to find the track we'd planned on taking that was marked on both the physical and internet maps we looked at. It must have been obliterated in the tree felling. Once again, the next winding section of the route was abandoned with the idea to get straight to Lisdoonvarna and, hopefully, a bike shop. I don't think we were missing much, just more gloomy conifer forestry.





The matchmaking festival billboards greeted us, in all their shameless glory. I should have taken a picture of them. Real Father Ted stuff. I might go next year, as a fly on the wall rather than a participant. Though who knows how it might go. I stocked up on water and snacks but Lisdoonvarna doesn't have a bike shop. We'd try our chances in Doolin. To complicate matters, Dan had received news of a funeral he needed to be at in Milltown Malbay that evening. Good thing he happened to be in Clare at least. We rode south out of town and shortly before the next junction I heard a loud bang. I didn't need to turn around to know what had happened. At least we weren't in the back of beyonds.



Dan rang the Doolin bike hire shop and as luck would have it the owner was going to pass by in a short while. He didn't know if he had the right size tyre but worst case scenario was renting a bike for the rest of the trip. I headed away along the next section on my own, conscious of the need to make decent time if we were to finish the whole route and still get to this funeral.



I had rearranged the southern half of Dave and Michael's original route to include some quiet looking tracks that would take me out onto better roads again at the Cliffs of Moher. I quite enjoyed these remote bog roads, though the way was fairly wet along some of them. At one point I was making pedal strokes with fully submerged feet but the sense of isolation and the views more than made up for this. Within a few moments either side of one bend I had views of at least six counties - to my north the mountains of Connemara were clearly inscribed above Galway Bay and land out beyond there seemed to me to be Achill Head. Away to the south east were the Galtees, and the Reeks and the mountains of the Dingle Peninsula were clear to the south. Granted the visibility was unusually good but I've not been to many places in Ireland where I could see so far at such a low altitude. I was also just loving my bike. Having never had anything better than a €200 budget bike in my life it felt amazing to be riding on the Kona. I'm sure most proper cycling enthusiasts would turn their noses up at it, but I've really enjoyed being on it since day one, and this feeling was only growing on this trip.



The descent to Doolin was fast and I arrived just in time. Not only had Dan blagged a lift to town but he'd also gotten a new tyre and tube for half nothing. We were on the road again, though soon we were off the road again. A gravel track led to a gate which led to some rough fields, which led to some little patches of hazel and blackthorn woods, where pushing became the order of the day again and brambles and thorns threatened our tyres. We dodged the last section of woods, but foolishly; what could have been an easy push through low trees ended up being a hike-a-bike "shortcut" across broken limestone pavement. All in the name of fun. Sometimes I think things are more enjoyable for being daft.







Lunch was had by the seaside at Ballyryan, with dolphins passing by. I'd been grazing all day and never feeling satisfied by it, though if it wasn't for the near-constant eating I'd probably have faded away early on in the day. The coast road led us around towards Fanore but we soon left it, to climb a painfully steep series of switchbacks that gained a rough mountaintop track parallel to the low tarmac below. It was hard to build up any momentum between grass and little bulges of limestone, but again, the location more than made up for the less than pristine riding conditions (which in fairness wouldn't have been an issue if either of us had brought some suitable tyres.) The views to the Aran Islands and the clarity of Connemara's mountains were amazing, with Galway Bay freakishly flat. It must have been the calm before Storm Lorenzo. The descent to the Caher Valley was gruelling enough, like riding downhill on uneven cobbles. I felt bad for my bike, though it came to no harm. I think I felt worse for Dan, who at this stage may have been wondering what he'd been duped into. At least the spin down the Caher Valley was easier going on the Viking.





The last stretch lay ahead of us, on a green road around Black Head before a final length of tarmac back to Dan's van. Thankfully the climbing was very gentle, though if it had been a smooth surface and we'd been able to keep any speed going it probably would have felt worse. As it was it made for a bumpy ride, my mudguards constantly slapping the tyres. Thankfully they had stayed inflated since yesterday morning's mishap.





Though it was difficult to get into a rhythm it was too spectacular a place to be to really care about uneven terrain. As we rounded the head and faced our finishing point I became acutely aware of not wanting the trip to end. Trips that involve carrying all you need with you and moving by your own steam are what appeal to me most as adventures. The idea of knowing you have enough to sleep outside somewhere beautiful and be warm and comfortable while you're doing it is... empowering? Seems like too strong a word given I'm a middle class white straight male under little if any suppression, but safe to say, I really enjoy these kinds of adventures.









At the end of the green track we met a bull. He seemed docile enough but the field (a generous term for a brambly patch between a wall and more brambles) was narrow. While I might have some small chance of outrunning a bull over a short distance, I definitely wasn't going to do it while carrying a bicycle. We managed to get ourselves and the bikes over a wall into a field of sheep instead, who were much less threatening. As we cycled across the smooth grass towards a distant gate I hope somebody in the adjacent house was looking on, because I think the sight of two men riding bikes across a field under the side of a mountain must have looked entertaining enough.



Thanks to Dan for the laughs along the way, thanks to Dave and Michael for imagining a great route, some of the best parts of which I wouldn't have found myself. You can find the route we rode here. Fit people would have little trouble doing it in a day, but it's very manageable for a punter as an overnight trip. Personally I'd find it less enjoyable without the overnight aspect. I rode it on 40mm tyres, wider would be nice if your bike takes them, but not essential and you certainly don't need any suspension. The vast majority of the pushing/carrying sections aren't really rideable on any conventional bike and there's no technical riding here, just some rougher surfaces now and again. Hopefully this is of some use to somebody. Enjoy.



* Updated, Jan 2022 - Karl Nelson has added a cool looking route to the bikepacking.com database that might complement this one and stretch it into a two night trip. I think the eastern section of that route combined with the western part of this one would make for a great adventure. Hope I can get up that way soon to try it out.