Bikepacking in Wexford: An Alternative Therapy

I was at a loose end the other weekend. Vicky was working, my Irish friends (all 3 of them) were out of town, and I’d nothing on the agenda (besides the handful of unfinished books, half completed web development courses, a car that needs cleaning and clothes that need taking to the charity shop, but of course they are destined to stay there until I realise I’m fast approaching my 30s, have a crisis and decide to pull my finger out). I wanted to explore some other places in Ireland, but had done a lot of driving lately, so figured an overnight bike-pack on the East coast could be on the cards.

I had the intention of setting off on Saturday around 11:00, but instead procrastinated the shit out of every task on my to-do list, and ended up leaving the house at half 5. Had this not been early summer, impending darkness would’ve scuppered my adventure entirely. Bikepacking is basically an exercise in faffing (usually with my arch nemesis, the stuff sack) where getting out the door with your bags packed and secured is half the battle. It’s for that reason those bags have seen a pitiful amount of action, certainly not enough to justify the eye-watering price tag. It’s a good job that waking up in nature, packing your stuff and moving to the next destination on your own accord is such a rejuvenating activity, because after wrestling with clips, zips and bungee cords, you’ll be just as stressed as you were during the trip’s inception, when you decided that you need to ‘get away from it all’.

Anxiety is a word that’s thrown about an awful lot nowadays. It’s a big word that means different things to different people, so I can’t say for sure whether I’ve really suffered from it. What I can say, is that I come closest to it on days like today, where I’m alone, with no immediate plan or obligation. I start to get inside my own head, and allow debilitating thoughts to fester, overanalysing the minutia of every decision or possible outcome. I’ll ignore the ‘alone’ component of that equation, for I could write a post entirely on loneliness, plus most people are aware of (but not acting on) the prevailing dogma that close social ties are almost as vital to human life as food and water. It’s the absence of a plan that instead I’d like to focus on. They say idol hands are the devil’s plaything, and to me an empty calendar, although seductive on the face of it, is the easiest way to let that crafty fucker wreak havoc with your head. I don’t mean this to sound like a self-help specialist, or one of those mental masturbators with a podcast; I simply mean that I need an overall structure, or an initial reason to leave the house, to set me on my way and stop procrastination setting in. I could stare at a wall from dawn till dusk for all I care, so long as I had a clear intention, and preferably left the house to do so.

Even planning a short overnighter in the tent sends me in a mental spiral. On this occasion my worries revolved around:

1. Finding a decent wild camping spot

2. Finding food this evening before the bonk sets in

3. Checking my sleeping bag was warm enough

4. Searching online for a better sleeping bag

5. Reading reviews of sleeping bags I can’t afford

6. Forgetting that I live in Southern Ireland, where 1 hour drone delivery slots are fanciful fiction, meaning any conclusion I draw from this won’t make a blind bit of difference to the trip I was meant to embark on 5 hours ago.

Analysis turns to paralysis, which morphs into self hatred, as you kick yourself for not taking advantage of a sunny day. Anyway, after several hours of soul searching, and a phone call to Vicky (who I doubt even knows what a bikepack is, but by this point I just wanted to relinquish all responsibility and have someone tell me what to do) I finally crossed the threshold, and got on the road. My bike was feeling noticeably heavier with my sleeping paraphernalia strapped to it but it's amazing the weight that had lifted from my shoulders as soon as I got on my way. It's as though a switch had flipped in my brain, from the hypothetical, to the here and now. Whether I'd packed the right kit or not, whether I was heading in the right direction or not, it didn't matter. I was reacting to the problems in real time, instead of theoreticising about them, and the result is liberating.

As planned, I headed East, and boarded the small car ferry that crosses the mouth of the river Suir, linking Waterford with Wexford. From there I cruised along country roads, golden hour sunshine already upon me. A wild camp in Wicklow was already off the table, given the time, but I decided to head in the direction of Rosslare, the harbour town that welcomed me on to Irish soil almost 9 months ago. Food outlets in Ireland close stupidly early, so I made sure to stop at the 'last outpost' of Wellington Bridge for a pizza, before finding a secluded spot on the beach to rest my head.

I pondered on what it was I was trying to achieve, as I chowed down on my margherita in the forecourt of a petrol station (the crem dela crem of gastronomic experiences in this particular town). Why do I feel the need to do this sort of thing? I mean it's an uncomfortable feeling, right? When your Egyptian cotton sheets and '7 functions in 1' air fryer are nowhere to be seen, you feel quite vulnerable. But look past the eating in a petrol station forecourt, fingers still covered in dust and chain oil, to the freedom and simplicity of it all, and it all seems to click. Suddenly, the question becomes 'why did I not do this sooner?'.

I made it to Cullenstown Head, a little peninsula which on the map looked far too secluded and remote to cause any disturbance by pitching a tent. But this is a small island, and chances are you're not the only one who thinks they've stumbled upon a hidden gem. Dozens upon dozens of campervans, all probably bought on a post pandemic whim, driven by campers far more organised than myself, who'd arrived way ahead of sunset to seek out the best spot along the bay, from which to grill some burgers and crack open a cold one. I settled for the last, nettle infested patch of land remaining, unfurled my sleeping bag and ate the flapjack I'd saved as a dessert from the petrol station.

I hadn't packed my stove, so although peeling back the canvas to watch the waves lap at the shore the next morning was sweet, I was yearning for those even sweeter coffee aromas, so packed up and hit the road pretty fast. As I was unpegging my tent, it caught a gust of wind and almost went flying of the edge of a cliff, saved only by a spectacular diving catch in the nick of time. Funny story actually - turns out one of Vicky's mates was one of those aforementioned campers further down the bay, and had witnessed the spectacular save firsthand. We only realised when she showed me a picture of their idyllic camping spot at a BBQ the following week.

On the quest for coffee, I bumped into another cyclist who was feeling far perkier and more social than I, whom proceeded to ask 101 questions about my living situation, music taste and stance on drugs. He was Ukranian, and had been living here in a hostel, of all places, since fleeing his homeland at the start of 2022. He'd been doing a bit of translating for refugees coming off the boats at Rosslare harbour, but was keen to find more substantial work, being a programmer himself. Finding out I was also in tech had obviously sparked his interest, hence the 101 questions. We had a coffee together in town, and I couldn't help thinking about the serendipity of these chance encounters, and how you'd never stumble on them if you stayed at home in your comfort zone.

I bashed the self-help podcasts earlier, but god knows I lap ‘em up on the daily. I was listening to one on the journey back home, and found one of its ‘pearls of wisdom’ to be particularly poignant. They were talking about deviating from your daily routine, which over time becomes far too comfortable, so much so that your brain essentially shuts off after sufficient repetition, in an attempt to preserve vital energy. It’s the novel experiences in one’s life that bring about adaptation, form new neural pathways and stave off ageing and stagnation in the brain. That’s all well and good for preventing Alzheimer's, but how does it affect me in the here and now? If you reflect on the past month, year or even decade, I bet the events that stick out – the ones that would make up your cheesy ‘This Is Your Life’ montage – are those in which you deviated from the daily routine. I myself might hone in on key memories like passing my driving test, completing my first Ironman, starting a web dev bootcamp or moving to Italy. All of those were particularly uncomfortable experiences at the time, probably because my brain had to step up to the plate and operate outside of autopilot, but they are the experiences that really matter upon reflection, the ones that opened a new chapter in my life.

All of us are aware of that existential angst that comes with the perception of time slipping by. One minute you’re singing ‘Auld Lange Syne’, the next you’ve woken up and it’s festival season again. The days spent grinding on the hamster wheel blend into one, separated only by a few cherry-picked moments, like that city break to Brussels or a heatwave BBQ in the garden. The sensation will only accelerate, if you don’t slam the brakes on from time to time, change lanes or do a uey altogether. 2021/22 was - perceptually speaking - the longest period of my life (bar the first 8 years, in which a six week summer holiday seemed to stretch out into eternity) because I was housesitting all over the UK, changing my environment from month to month. Even the most mundane activity like getting a haircut turned into a novel, sometimes perilous (talking about those Turkish establishments) adventure.

Of course, throwing monotony to the wind comes with a word of caution. After all, routine strengthens the pathways that already exist in the brain, making us more efficient and providing the mental capacity to focus on tasks more demanding than a simple haircut. I would certainly never abandon the morning routine that has centered me after repeatedly waking up in unfamiliar surroundings and given me the home comfort we all crave as humans. I may have but the brakes on, but I also encountered my old friend burnout all too frequently, as I struggled to develop myself professionally during a life on the move.

In less than 24 hours then, I'd gone 360 in my own headspace, and learnt that rapid action is sometimes the only cure to the anxiety that can arise from idleness. I vowed to do a trip like this, or at least change my physical surroundings in some way, whenever those gremlins take hold. I'd go as far as to prescribe it quarterly for anyone feeling the same way. Cycling to the woods and shitting in a trench may not be your cup of tea, but frankly it's not mine either, and then again, medicine is rarely ever palatable.