Blissed out on beaches with ageing bladder

Double Vision with Charlie Adley

After days of solitude in Ballycroy, I head to Achill Island, where I find the same stunning scenery. Yet instead of contemplating my navel, the universe and all points between on a silent empty beach, I sit at Keem strand listening to the diesel rumble of the tea van’s generator.

With its turquoise waters and golden sand tucked into a tiny cove between the mountains, Keem will always be a spectacular beach, but now, under the wiggly metal Wild Atlantic Way logo statue, you can buy plastic toys and flat whites.

“Bloody great!” I hear you say.

Indeed, but not for me.

People are everywhere, and I’d rather be alone.

Everyone else seems more than happy to be part of a crowd, so acknowledging yet again how weird I am, I hit the road.

My drive into Achill passed as a melancholy song of faded tourist glory. Broken down hotels and boarded up pubs, and everywhere places called ‘lifestyle shops’, to attract the surfing crowds.

Everywhere has two contrasting sides, so I take a left turn to Doogort, and yes, great choice!

Here is the west of Ireland in its natural old-fashioned glory, ready and willing to embrace any tourists who happen to pass by. Such an admirably laid-back ethic was always going to fail economically, and now, by merely changing ‘West Coast of Ireland’ to ‘Wild Atlantic Way’ the miracle of marketing is working wonders.

Sitting on a rock at Doogort Silver Strand, I sup my soul food to the rhythmic Ssscrusssshh of gentle waves pulling pebbles. Just me and way down the far end of the beach, a mother and child.

Above a huge gull spirals on the thermals, its vast wings flapping not an inch.

The only sound: the ocean.

Much as I could sit here for hours, the noise of the water has hastened my need for a pee. In effect there are two states of middle-aged male existence: needing a pee or not needing a pee. Fuss not, I’m all medically checked out, as we men must keep an eye on our prostate glands.

Yoga helps with that, I find. Otherwise there’d be no way I could get down there for a look! Mind you, prostate cancer is no laughing matter.

Men in their fifties discover a new sense of urgency, as I do now, but no chance. An old fella with his Scottie dog has been keeping a disapproving eye on me for a while.

There’s no natural cover, only a gap between two Portakabins, but no. That’d just confirm the old fella’s suspicions.

He would love that.

Read the full column in this week’s Connacht Tribune.