Rally driving, road rage, a singing chef and a dip in the fountain
This was the day when the fun and laughs did not stop from the moment to set off to collapsing into bed at 2am.
At this point we had reached the halfway point of our tour, and we were up and ready, I was determined to follow the group this time and see what it was like in the convoy. We had a wonderful route over moors planned by the OTR guys.
So, I tucked into the convoy determined to enjoy it. For the first hour I followed one of the little Yaris GR rally cars through the mountains, The owner, Simon, had to do all the work watching for dangers ahead as we headed across the cliffs, I momentarily looked around and enjoyed the scenery and when I looked back, he was gone, you can’t relax for a second with these guys.
We came along a beautiful coast road and the OTR guys found a little coffee van in the middle of nowhere on top of the cliffs. To our surprise, in this wind torn wilderness, there was a museum to the worlds oldest farming settlement from some 5000bc, I did find this at little bit of an incredible claim, but as I couldn’t prove it wrong, I guess we have to accept it, but by far the most interesting thing about the Failte museum was the toilets, that we needed after our coffee!
As we headed through the next town the group got split up and I found myself out in front setting the pace, whilst and knowing the cars behind me would overtake if I didn’t put my foot down, I really pushed myself as we flew across the moorland roads, it was absolutely exhilarating pushing the Porsche in a way that I had never done before. Having Sandy and Mr Blowey behind me itching to overtake if I gave them a chance, I kept me foot to the floor.
Arms locked on the steering wheel like Colin McRae the rally driver, the manual gearbox being pushed to the limit, the roar of the engine to keep revs in the middle range, eyes firmly fixed on the road ahead I had absolutely no idea what the scenery was like because I was firmly fixed on the road ahead and determined to make up distance in the bends so that the supercharged Jag of Sandy wouldn’t overtake me on the straight. As Wooksie said, it was like being in a rally car, at the end of it we pulled into the little coastal town of Mallaranny to give us chance to calm down.
My friend Mr Blowey pulled in behind me and opened with the words “Thank god you took that cork out of your ass mate”, which I took to mean well done. Then things really kicked off, there wasn’t much space in the road, Mr Blowey was stood beside his car, but another car driven by a pensioner insisted on pushing through as he stood there.
At this point there was a loud howling noise coming from Mr Blowey, basically the car had driven over his foot, and he was not happy. The car stopped and was pursued by Mr Blowey hurling abuse. It bought back memories of our younger days where such things had turned into quite major incidents as punishment for stupidity was administered, but now in his older and calmer years, he noticed the driver was about 80 so limped back to the car after handing out some obscenities as punishment.
This wasn’t the end of it though, because he had to put the roof up on his convertible. Daz’s mate Pompey Ian was stood close by and was given instructions on what he had to do to help. To be fair, after a long drive, Ian had other things on his mind and didn’t quite follow the instructions about putting all his weight on the boot lid. Ian, unfortunately, took his weight off the boot lid too soon and before we knew it, the boot lid was jammed with all sorts of bits poking out in the wrong places.
This was now all getting too much for Mr Blowey and he cracked, lots of rude words and he pretty much blamed Ian for wrecking his holiday, wrecking his car, and the Iranian war. To be honest I could see he was holding back his violent tendencies as best he could, bearing in mind his foot was throbbing like a good un as well.
Luckily Aston Martin Stuart turned up, with a calm disposition and his excellent toolkit, and before we knew it the damage had been recovered, so we all sat down for a nice lunch on the seafront in the sun prepared for the next escapade.
After the excitement I was only too glad to settle into a drive along the coast, enjoy the scenery as we followed the Sky Road along the cliffs and into our hotel for the night, a genuine castle called Abbeyglen Castle with the promise of a great night out, but not before another trauma for Mr Blowey.
After we had all checked in, Mr Blowey had to pop up to our room to collect his stuff. Fortunately for us we had been given the best room, not only did we have fabulous view of the coast, but we also had a patio door out on to a turret that acted as a balcony.
Mr Blowey looked at our room, stomped around the balcony in silence, checked the bathroom, let out a fearsome growl and stormed out of the room. It transpired he had a room with a lovely view in the rear of 2 trees, and he managed his frustration by stamping down the corridor back to his room, refusing to speak to me again. This was the 3rd consecutive night that we had a better room, and he was struggling with the unfairness, his throbbing foot and the burgeoning repair bill for his car.
Saturday night dinner was a grand affair and even Mr Blowey cheered up. The owner of the castle gave a wonderful speech about the history of the hotel, and then we moved on to dinner where he became the centre piece of entertainment, even sharing his Irish version of Bohemian Rhapsody.
Not only that, but we also had the services of the Singing Chef, who sang Irish ditties between courses, it was a truly fun experience and we had a wonderful time. The food and service also fantastic, life couldn’t be better.
But it didn’t stop there, England were playing Norway in the World Cup, so we all headed to the bar to watch the game. Strangely, the Scots were having a great time when England were 1 0 down, so much so that Sandy’s daughter, the vivacious Louise who had already been lots of fun up to now, stepped up a gear and bought a round of Baby Gunnesses, which inspired others to do the same and before we knew it everyone was singing and laughing.
Not so much when England scored their second goal, but that didn’t stop the banter with more Scots in the shape of father and son team Cam and Fraser getting in on the act as well, booing every England move and cheering Norway wildly, so much so that a couple of genuine Norwegians couldn’t stand the noise and went back to their rooms. The Scots even decided to wear their own football shirts as an declaration of war.
Even better, Wookie’s (who had also gone to bed by now) won the sweepstake with the time of England’s second goal, so we won a pot of about £40. The next morning, we realised that the money had disappeared overnight, did the barman take it, but we then came up with the most likely explanation,
I’d used it to buy a round. This round, amongst many others, pushed Pompey Ian over the top and he collapsed with bout of Guiness poisoning.
Things deteriorated further at the end, for some reason I’d promised to jump in the fountain if England won, so I did. Cam and Fraser were too drunk to get a photo, and I started to suffer from exposure waiting for this photo to be taken. I headed back to our posh bedroom and couldn’t sleep, because every time I rolled over, I started giggling again, which didn’t please Claire very much.
The next day we were all rather subdued at breakfast, armed with sore heads we headed off on the longest day of the tour, 280 miles to Cork, with the only aspiration being to get to the next hotel without any more incidents.
