prepared for the worst, but found that the stand had come unhitched, and was trailing on the ground! We were thankful, after 12 miles, to come to a village named Wellington Bridge, and, being absolutely "done up", we gladly put up at the inn in the place. which turned out to be primitive but comfortable.
    The next day we rode to Fermoy,and how we managed the 81 miles is now a wonder to us, as the roads were terribly bumpy and inches deep in dust.At Ballyhack there is an interesting-looking ruin of a castle, but we spent our time here in getting across the river on the ferry to Passage. This was rather a bigger undertaking than it sounds as the machines had to be bodily lifted off the slimy little jetty into a fishing boat, where they were propped up on seats in the stern, whilst four burly fishermen rowed us across.
    There was not even a jetty the other side, and the machines had to be hoisted out and carried up some narrow steps covered in seaweed. Any moment it seemed as if they might topple over into the water. Then began the bargaining, and, amidst tales of lavish generosity of previous motorcycling visitors, we finally settled for a few shillings! This ferry should be avoided if possible, especially

by those who are at all nervous of the safe handling of their motor-bicycles; however, except for a broken number plate, ours escaped injury.
    The road up from the little harbour gave promise of better riding, and we sped up the long incline but this soon deteriorated and became as bad as before. It seemed a long way from Waterford to Dungarvan, and after riding some 20 miles from Waterford we came to a point where another road joined ours, and to our horror found that the signpost indicated Dungarvan in that direction, from which we had just come, and Stradbally along the other road. We were badly in need of lunch, and made inquiries at a cottage near by and to our relief and amusement heard that Dungarvan wan “on straight,” and that the signpost was “wrong for Dungarvan but right for Stradbally!” A mile or two more brought us to the former place, where we gave the machines and inner men some much need replenishment.
    The roads about this part were much better as regards surface, but abominably dusty, so that, where possible (and this was not often), we rode

on the path, pedestrians willingly moving for us. The paths had an unpleasant habit of suddenly narrowing away to nothing, necessitating a hurried dismount or a plunge down a high kerb into the road!
    We now got into the beautiful valley of the River Blackwater at Cappoquin, and from here to Lismore the road was delightfully shady and dustless. Lismore Castle, standing majestically above the river was a grand sight.
    From this point there are two roads to Fermoy, one north and the other one south of the river, and as luck would have it, we were recommended the worse, and after another awful shaking up arrived at Fermoy.
This last stretch would have been impossible had we been unable to cool our dust clogged throats with lager beer (pronounced “lagger”), the popular teetotal drink in this part of Ireland.
    This was the end of the first stage of our journey, and we stayed with friends at Fermoy till Monday. We had been recommended before leaving England to take a bunch of spare spokes with us and these would doubtless have been necessary on any but machines of the soundest construction.
    On Monday we made for Cork, as we wanted to call on some friends here before going on into Kerry. Cork is a very picturesque old city, the quays and market being especially interesting, but it is not a nice place to motorcycle through, with its narrow-gauge tramlines, stone setts, and broken glass. My back tyre suffered to the extent of a small burst through the last-named. After leaving Cork our road lay through Dripsey and Coachford to Macroom where we stopped for the night. At Dripsey we stopped for another “laggerr”. The inn was a truly primitive affair, and the lady who served us wore a short skirt and no stockings, but she was quite equal to ejecting undesirables from her hostelry, as it afterwards appeared. We were just riding off, when we heard shouts and imprecations in the bar and a woman then shot head foremost out of the doorway into the road where she fell heavily; out of the doorway the fist and powerful arm of the proprietress were extended, and more blows would doubtless have followed but for the restraint of one of the men! After a flow of abuse, little of which we understood, the one in the road moved off.
    The following morning Macroom market was in full swing, and we were awakened by the squeals of pigs, the

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