Farce.

So here's how it starts: Demps calls me in Jan to ask what I'm doing in the summer, suggests we go on a cycling trip to Ireland and I agree. What a brilliant idea!

Fast forward six months to July. Realising that we might need to book something, or actually make some sort of tentative arrangement I secure two adults/two bikes passage by ferry to Dublin and - to his amazement ' Bloody hell, you've changed!' I check out train times to the South Eastern part of the Emerald Isle.

For those of you not in the know we are probably two of the least planny (new word) types of people you have ever met, out collective motto being something in the region of 'I'll just turn up and see how it goes' or 'Let's just tag along' or 'It'll be fine'. Hmmm.

So, this year's adventure (because every year needs at least one) is a cycling trip. We have tents. And money. We have three spare inner tubes each and transport planned as far as Dublin. We have ten days and a whole Ring (Kerry's) to explore. We do not have a map, nor do we have any cooking camping equipment. We do have a 'Visit Ireland' pamphlet (thanks Joe), some great tips (thanks again Joe) and a waterproof each (this IS Ireland after all). We have some Irish ancestry each and a shared understanding of the French language. I have a tin opener and a voice recording of David Hasslehoff, just in case we get glum. Demps has his witty repartee (probably why I'm bringing Hasslehoff).

What could possibly go wrong?

Ahem.