I woke up in Westport in the most comfortable bed I’d slept in for weeks. After all the nights spent in youth hostel bunks, I seriously considered just spending the rest of the day on that amazing marshmallow mattress. But the smell of coffee and fried eggs had other plans for me because soon enough I found myself in the kitchen where Agnes, my kind-hearted hostess, was whipping up a hearty breakfast. As we ate, Agnes recommended a few things to do around Westport. Since I had so thoroughly enjoyed biking from Newport to Glenhest the day before, I decided to rent another bike and cycle the Great Western Greenway to Achill Island. An extension of the Wild Atlantic Way trail, Agnes told me all about how beautiful the scenery was along the coast. A quick look at the weather channel promised clear skies and sunny weather, but I opted to pack rain gear just in case. PRO TRAVEL TIP: rain gear is always worth bringing!

I found myself in a Westport bike hire shop by 10am discussing prices with a thankfully slow-speaking Irishman. For 15 Euros he told me I could have a 21-gear mountain bike until they closed shop at 7pm. For or an extra 10 Euros, I could ride the shuttle bus back from Achill Island to spare myself the return trip. I didn’t opt for the shuttle since it was only about 28 miles to Achill Island from Westport, making a round trip around 55ish miles–a very feasible distance to cycle in eight and a half hours. I find it interesting how often frugality fuels my ambition. After coughing up the rental fee and signing all the necessary papers, I was given a business card with an emergency number in case I ran into any trouble on the greenway. It’s a good thing I held on to that card…

I was off, feeling ecstatic about the adventure that lay ahead of me. I followed signs down from the main roads to the start of the Great Western Greenway, which started as a promisingly paved path meandering into the distance with a certain yellow-brick-road magnificence. I made a quick stop at a gas station near the start of the greenway to stock up on fresh fruit, nuts, and water for the long ride. I stuffed everything into the sling-on bag I’d brought with me. I get a lot of comments on my sling-on bag, many sarcastic and insincere, but I stand by it as being the ideal traveler’s day bag. For its spaciousness it is surprisingly lightweight and rolls up nice and small when not in use. But more importantly, as it is literally just a burlap sack emblazoned with a beer-drinking lizard and the words Tijuana Iguana, I feel quite safe from thieves due to its humble and derelict appearance.

I wasn’t the only one on the greenway that morning, passing at least a dozen people in the first hour alone. They were mostly older couples out for a leisurely ride by the looks of them. I would give them a friendly wave as I passed by at speed, enjoying the private thrill of winning a race that only I knew about. I quickly worked up a sweat and made a quick stop by some stone ruins to remove my jacket. Agnes had been right; every which way you looked out here held postcard-worthy views. After briefly passing through the familiar town of Newport, the greenway devolved to a dirt and gravel trail that plunged into the Irish wilderness. I zipped through small forests, between herds of wandering sheep, and over multiple stone bridges where gushing freshwater streams flowed toward the Atlantic. When the ocean finally came into view, it did not disappoint. I coasted around a corner and was promptly greeted by a sprawling saltwater bay dotted with rocky islands. The skies were clear and the sun was directly overhead, allowing me an encouraging view of Achill Island in the distance.

The greenway followed the coast for a while before veering back inland into another small forest. I passed a number of small lakes and waterfalls in those woods that looked more than inviting for a refreshing dip. As I daydreamed about a November swim, I felt the bike stutter underneath me and suddenly the pedals spun wildly. I dismounted and was mortified to find that the chain had snapped. It was not a clean break either, and despite my best MacGyver attempts at jerry-rigging it back together with dental floss and paperclips, the chain remained determinedly broken. I pulled out the card with the emergency phone number for the bike shop, but my phone had no service to speak of. After allowing myself a private fit of maniacal laughter at the situation, I began to push the bike onwards.

After about a half hour of slow progress, I encountered a family walking the opposite way on the trail. The father was kind enough to let me borrow his mobile phone, which amazingly had service out in the middle of nowhere, to call the bike shop. They apologized that my bike had broken on me and said that they would shuttle a replacement bike out to me ASAP; they just needed to know where I was. Well that was a problem because I had no idea where I was. I gave the phone back to the man and asked him to please convey to the bike people where they could find me. The man babbled a bunch of nearby lake and road names that sounded like Game of Thrones characters before finally settling on a practical meeting place for me and my replacement bike. After hanging up, he directed me to a point up the trail where the greenway intersected with a major road. I thanked him graciously for the help and waved goodbye as he continued in the opposite direction with his family.

At the intersection, I sat on a large rock and unpacked the small lunch I’d brought with me. As I ate, I heard a low rumble in the distance followed shortly by an icy wind. I looked over my shoulder and saw some very ominous looking clouds blowing toward me. After such a long streak of good luck, the bleak situation I now found myself in seemed genuinely entertaining by comparison. I allowed myself another fit of maniacal laughter as I unpacked my rain gear. It was all I could do to watch the clouds roll in, blotting out the midday sun and stealing all the warmth of the day. When the storm finally reached me, it wasn’t rain, but marble-sized hail that came falling from the sky. I stuffed my rain jacket hood full of apples and bags of peanuts to protect my head from the worst of it. “Clear skies and sunny weather all along the northwest coast,” the weatherman had said. Meteorology is such a racket.

The hail had subsided to a light rain by the time the shuttle arrived with my replacement bike an hour later. The driver tersely apologized for the inconvenience of being stranded in a hailstorm before unloading my new bike and leaving in a hurry. I could only assume that he had other stranded people with broken rental bikes to attend to. I hopped on the new bike and got back on the trail, cycling against the wind and thankfully away from the storm. The skies began to clear ahead of me and I was greeted by a glorious Irish rainbow pointing me toward Achill Island. The gravel trail merged into a paved path and then eventually into a small road. Soon the ocean came back into view and I found myself coasting gleefully downhill toward the bridge that connected the mainland to Achill Island.

I found the end of the rainbow I’d seen earlier; it came down right on top of Connaughton’s bar at the Achill Sound Hotel. I went inside for a warm drink. It was a classy place, but very quiet. I ordered a bucket-sized coffee from the bartender and warmed myself by the wood-burning stove. After savoring the warmth of Connaughton’s bar for a bit, I decided to head back to Westport. The greenway continued for another dozen miles to the western edge of the island, but after my hour-long setback, I was worried about running out of daylight on my return journey. When I reemerged from the bar, I found a double rainbow pointing back the way I had come. I took it as a good omen.

I made it back to the bike rental shop without incident. I harbored no ill-feelings towards the guys there for supplying me with a faulty bike as I was thoroughly satisfied with the day’s adventure; the broken chain and hailstorm had made the experience all the more memorable. There was a hot dinner waiting back at the house with Agnes her family, and they recommended more things for me to do in the coming days. After some discussion, they sold me on the idea of hiking to the summit of a nearby mountain, Croagh Patrick. When I stood up to help carry the dirty dishes to the kitchen, I felt my legs wobble like jello under me. Maybe I’d wait a day before hiking any mountains…