September 8, 2025 — 4:00am
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Sometimes I feel sorry for Ireland. There it is, minding its own business, being generally awesome, when along comes the likes of me, one minute weeping for joy, the next blubbering from a range of other emotions.
When I say, “the likes of me”, I mean we of Irish heritage. The land from whence our people come seems to get us right in the feels when we go there.
Photo: Jamie Brown
The Irish diaspora is vast. In Australia, almost 10 per cent have blood connection to the Emerald Isle, and in Tasmania, that shoots up to an estimated 18 to 25 per cent. (My family is from Tasmania, two branches getting there from Ireland by way of convict ships).
The Irish can’t turn around without some Australian or Canadian or American visitor propping up a bar, telling tales of their roots, crying into their Guinness and singing Danny Boy in honour of the ancestors.
The Irish don’t seem to mind, though, and if they do, they’re too nice to say so.
But I really test the friendship, when, in the village of Leitrim in the county of the same name, I have my latest bout of Ireland-induced teariness. But there’s no bar involved – I’m in a bicycle shop called Electric Bike Trails.
Tootling in Ireland.
I used to adore cycling. Well, I loved what I called “tootling”. There was no Lycra involved, just the joy of the careful and low-speed scenic ride on a step through. I’d tootled in Italy, Switzerland, the US and other places, admiring scenery, stopping for coffee, singing songs, feeling the freedom only tootling on a bicycle gives. A bike was a direct portal to carefree moments of childhood.
Then, in 2018 I got hit by a car on my own bike, near my own home, through no fault of my own, an incident that resulted in five major surgeries. I was stripped of one of my great pleasures. In its place: fear. “Never again,” I said, when asked, as I was quite often, if I’d ever get back in the bike saddle.
In 2025, I am travelling to Ireland for the fifth time when I am offered the opportunity to ride an e-bike along a section of the Shannon Blueway. Surprisingly, I don’t say no immediately. Blueways – waterway trails for small personal craft and, parallel on the banks, for hikers and cyclists – abound in the Hidden Heartlands, as the northern central part of Ireland is called. The gentle waterways meander through peaceful, picturesque scenery.
I actually like the idea of a triumphant return to two wheels in the home of my ancestors amid all that nature, beauty and Irishness. (And no cars.)
Suddenly, the time comes for that opportunity to be realised. I am about to put on the bike helmet – and I still haven’t said no – when I am overcome by it all. My eyes well up as Seamus Gibbons, the owner of Electric Bike Trails talks my group through our ride. “No” lingers on my lips.
That’s when co-owner Eileen Gibbons notices my discomfort. She takes it upon herself to quietly pair me with a bike. She adjusts the seat to my height then leads me to a carpark behind the shop.
“Why don’t you have a test ride here for a bit? See how you go. No pressure.”
And with that, she disappears, leaving me, my helmet and e-bike alone together.
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The great AFL coach, John Kennedy famously once said, “Don’t think, do.” And that is exactly how it happens. I get on that bike and wobble my way around that carpark.
And then, in the same spirit of blind faith, I am riding, somewhat less wobbly, the Shannon Blueway along the Shannon-Erne Waterway, a canal that links the rivers Shannon and Erne. The path is edged in ferns, foxgloves and wild roses. I pass fields of buttercups, sheep grazing and birds singing.
And before I know it, Ireland has me crying again, this time for delight – and in gratitude – in part for the fact that the Irish don’t seem to mind the blub. But mostly for joy reclaimed.
The writer travelled as a guest of Tourism Ireland.
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Julietta Jameson is a freelance travel writer who would rather be in Rome, but her hometown Melbourne is a happy compromise.Connect via email.Traveller GuidesFrom our partners