The next morning, it\u2019s almost a relief that it\u2019s only drizzling as we collect the bikes and load them into the van. A short drive takes us to Rossaveel, where the passenger ferry departs for our first island: Inishmore (Inis M\u00f3r, meaning \u2018big island\u2019), the largest of the Aran archipelago. Overnight provisions strapped to our bikes<\/a>, we freewheel down to the quayside and join the queue huddled under an undersized shelter. Standing there waiting to swap a landmass with almost limitless riding terrain for a 12-square-mile rock in the Atlantic, I remind the other two that we\u2019re here on a voyage of discovery.<\/p>\n Best picks for you<\/p>\n Earlier in the year, I\u2019d read about an Irish government policy offering up to \u20ac84,000 (\u00a373,000) to anyone willing to buy a derelict property on an offshore island and make it habitable again. It was part of an effort to reverse a stark trend: in 1911, Ireland had 124 inhabited islands with a combined population of 24,700; by 2016, that number had fallen to just 2,734 islanders on 23 islands. Coming from a corner of southern England where new housing estates are being thrown up on every scrap of brownfield despite our already jammed, potholed roads, depopulation struck me as an enviable problem. Then again, I was probably romanticising \u2013 and if I was to avoid the clich\u00e9 of looking to the islands to fulfil, in the words of historian Diarmaid Ferriter, \u201ca utopian ideal of escape from oppressive urbanisation,\u201d I needed to get a real taste of island life.<\/p>\n The edge of Europe<\/p>\n Disembarking onto Inishmore, any notion of underpopulation vanishes. The place is abuzz with tourists, most of them zooming around on hired bikes. Pedalling west towards our B&B, we find ourselves in near nose-to-tail traffic: wobbling riders of all ages, veering as the views distract them or as sightseer minibuses steam past in the opposite direction. It\u2019s a joyful scene \u2013 so many families enjoying themselves on bikes \u2013 but the theme-park vibe isn\u2019t quite what I\u2019d had in mind. My worry lifts as I\u2019m reminded that tourists move in predictable herds. Beyond the cafe and the Aran sweater shop at the island\u2019s central crossroads, the roads empty and the western horizon is ours. Even more miraculously, the sun is beginning to break through the clouds.<\/p>\n \n Making the most of the sunshine at Kilmurvey Beach on Inishmore<\/p>\n (Image credit: Anton Thompson-McCormick)<\/p>\n With blue sky expanding above us, the road first kicks up with a near-20% ramp, before easing into a gradual descent towards the Aran Islands\u2019 westernmost tip. On either side, green fields give way to a vast limestone patio that was scoured smooth by Ice Age glaciers but which looks like a runway laid expressly to launch us off the edge of the continent. The road ends where the glittering Atlantic begins, and as we roll down onto the promontory, I understand what Seamus Heaney was getting at when he called the Aran Islands \u201cthree stepping stones out of Europe\u201d. Standing with the ocean lapping at my feet, the thought that the next landfall is America makes the world feel suddenly too big and too small at the same time.<\/p>\n That evening, as we ride back towards the harbour for dinner, a strange grunting cuts through the otherwise perfect silence. Not quite a honk, not quite a bark \u2013 more like a dog trying to cough up a goose \u2013 it\u2019s coming from the rocky outcrops on our left. We stop, squint our eyes and realise that some of the rocks are squirming: a group of at least eight seals are holding a very vocal soir\u00e9e. Minutes later, at our own feeding frenzy at Joe Watty\u2019s pub, we plot the next day: a quick historical excursion before a dash back for the ferry and onward to our next island. Simon insists on three courses, worried by a rumour that a planned power outage might jeopardise his full Irish breakfast.<\/p>\n \u201cA GROUP OF AT LEAST EIGHT SEALS ARE HOLDING A VERY VOCAL SOIR\u00c9E\u201d<\/p>\n Faithful to our plan, we rise early and hike up to D\u00fan Aonghasa, the clifftop fort built some 3,000 years ago. Three massive stone walls enclose a semicircle around the cliff edge \u2013 though why a sheer drop into the Atlantic ever needed defending is anyone\u2019s guess. As we clamber inside, Simon is still lamenting his cold breakfast when a lone Frenchman raises his clarinet and starts playing a reedy dirge. It creates such a haunting ambience that I\u2019m convinced this place was built for ceremony, not war. Between us and the sea, there\u2019s no fence, no railing, just open sky \u2013 and I\u2019m not about to become the day\u2019s sacrifice. Dropping to my stomach, I wriggle seal-like to peer over the edge. Far below, gulls and gannets are specks against the dark sea, and scale is once again called in question: the 100m drop looks at least a kilometre.<\/p>\n By midday, we\u2019re back on the ferry, watching Inishmore recede behind us. Our first task back on the mainland is to get ourselves rapidly ensconced in the nearest Spar, stuffing our faces with baguettes and flapjacks<\/a> to fuel the afternoon\u2019s \u2018transition stage\u2019 to Clifden. The route northwest is classic Connemara: long, serene stretches of peat bog, sparkling loughs on either side, and the horizon jagged with the Twelve Pins and Maumturks. With the wind behind us and only gentle undulations to overcome, we pass more donkeys than cars, and very nearly sail all the way without incident \u2013 until Anton takes an unexplained tumble less than 500m from the hotel door. Thankfully it\u2019s just a graze \u2013 nothing that can\u2019t be salved by Clifden\u2019s plentiful supply of liquid medicinals.<\/p>\n \n Heading for Clifden through peat bogs backdropped by the Maumturks\u00a0<\/p>\n (Image credit: Anton Thompson-McCormick)<\/p>\n Taking the Sky Road<\/p>\n Morning brings bright sun, a chilly breeze and the promise of our next island. The direct route to the ferry is only a few miles, but when the scenic alternative is called the Sky Road, it\u2019s impossible to resist. Sweeping views over the bay more than justify the extra climb while demanding more photo stops than our ferry schedule allows; by the time we roll onto Cleggan quay the boat is already being loaded. \u201cI\u2019ll probably say this only once: water creates spray,\u201d deadpans the gruff ferryman, \u201cand there\u2019s a good few million gallons of the stuff out there,\u201d he rolls his eyes seaward as he shepherds us below deck.<\/p>\n \n “More donkeys than cars” \u2013 as if proof were needed<\/p>\n (Image credit: Anton Thompson-McCormick)<\/p>\n Stepping ashore on Inishbofin (Inis B\u00f3 Finne, meaning \u2018island of the white cow\u2019) \u2013 current population 180, down from 1,400 in 1841 \u2013 the contrast with Inishmore is immediate: no hint of tourist trap, and no other cyclists in sight. After dropping our panniers<\/a> at the hotel, we pedal to the shop-cum-post office for snacks but end up with a haul of gifts from the gloriously eclectic stock: everything from pro-Palestine pendants to langoustine-shaped beanbags. When the jovial shopkeeper tells us he has lived here for a year, I ask how he\u2019s adjusted to island life. \u201cThey\u2019ll carry me off at gunpoint or in a box,\u201d he replies, and I guess that means he likes it. Before we can find out, he shoos us out the door towards the harbour ruins, warning the tide will cut us off unless we get a move on.<\/p>\n The star-shaped fort at the harbour mouth was built after Inishbofin fell to Oliver Cromwell in 1652, having held out longer than anywhere else. Sheltering from the wind behind its thick stone walls, I shiver at the thought of the priests rounded up and imprisoned here. With the sea encroaching, we hurry back across the causeway, and it takes a moment to realise why I\u2019m singing Elvis Costello on repeat. After one too many choruses of \u2018Oliver\u2019s Army\u2019, Simon interrupts to point out that beneath the chirpy melody lies a tirade against centuries of British colonialism in Ireland, Palestine and beyond. Only on this western fringe could 400 years of history leap so lyrically into the present. Speaking of wild edges, the tide has kept us to a tight schedule, so we\u2019ve the rest of the afternoon free for a lap of the island.<\/p>\n As we plot our route at the roadside, a farmer pulls up and starts untying a gate: \u201cAre you lost? You\u2019d do well to get lost here.\u201d He has a point \u2013 Inishbofin is only 3.4 miles long by two miles wide. \u201cI need you to help me. You\u2019ll stand there, and you there,\u201d he commands, and we grin noncommittally, assuming he\u2019s joking \u2013 until he roars off into the field, dispatching his sheepdog. Only then do we realise we\u2019re human barricades, blocking the flock\u2019s escape down the road. The pressure feels absurdly high, but proving ourselves up to the task brings an almost unseemly sense of achievement. Stragglers safely through, we resume our ride and promptly take a wrong turn \u2013 lost after all \u2013 just as the first fat drops of rain spatter our forearms. Within minutes it\u2019s lashing down, and we hightail it to the nearest shelter, a cafe serving homemade cakes and local beers. As the storm begins to look set in for the evening, so too, inevitably, does our drinking.<\/p>\n \n Accidental shepherds \u2013 earning our keep on Inishbofin\u00a0<\/p>\n (Image credit: Anton Thompson-McCormick)<\/p>\n Change as good as a rest<\/p>\n Back at the Doonmore \u2013 the westernmost hotel in the British Isles \u2013 dinner is served in what Andrew Murray, the owner, tells us was once his great-grandfather\u2019s bedroom. We continue to drink as steadily as the rain, proudly recounting our special moment as herdsmen. Murray nods and says he can explain it, but only in Irish: meitheal. There is no equivalent word in English, but it has to do with neighbourliness and mutual reliance \u2013 something island communities can\u2019t survive without. It reminds him of another special quality of Inishbofin which he recognised only after Covid. Returning guests suddenly seemed extra appreciative of the island, and he couldn\u2019t understand why \u2013 until someone pointed it out: here, nothing had changed.<\/p>\n \u201cCOULD I START AFRESH HERE? IT\u2019S A TEMPTING IDEA\u201d<\/p>\n By the time we squeeze into the hotel\u2019s wood-panelled bar, every table is taken, with more still arriving, coats and boots dripping. We edge in at the bar, and before long fiddles and an accordion appear at a corner table. There\u2019s no mic, no announcement \u2013 only a quiet word from Murray that the lead musician is a member of Idaho country-rock band Reckless Kelly. His songs are mostly cowboy ballads full of time-worn longing, and in the pauses between them, he and the others mull over their origins \u2013 old Irish and English folk tunes carried back and forth, slowly reshaped to fit new landscapes. Listening in, I\u2019m struck by the endless ache and energy of departures, and reminded that ours is close at hand: we leave in the morning.<\/p>\n I think again about that grant, the islands\u2019 need for newcomers. Could I buy a derelict cottage here, start afresh? It\u2019s a tempting idea: the constancy, the kindness, the music. Yet it\u2019s daunting too: the remoteness, the power cuts, the endless rain that has us drinking instead of riding. The next morning, with weather and time against us and our heads as thick as the mizzle, we walk the island\u2019s road-free Westquarter. It\u2019s not just unspoiled, but Edenic: gannets slicing into shoals offshore, flutey flypasts from territorial oystercatchers, seals bobbing in the bays. Can all this really stay the same, I wonder, as another squall slaps my face. \u201cAny sign of your heatwave?\u201d I ask Simon as he scans the sea through binoculars. Anton half-jokes that if climate change carries on, this could end up the only place still cool enough for a summer holiday, Europe\u2019s last party island. It\u2019s a sobering thought, and one that makes up my mind: we\u2019ll have to come back, not for what\u2019s stayed the same, but to see how much has changed.<\/p>\n \n The trip gets an unplugged swansong at Inishbofin\u2019s Doonmore Hotel<\/p>\n (Image credit: Anton Thompson-McCormick)<\/p>\n Key travel information<\/p>\n \u25cf How to get there <\/p>\n We flew with Easyjet from London Gatwick to Shannon (\u00a360-\u00a3100 return), then took an hour\u2019s taxi ride to Galway. The Inishmore and Inishbofin ferry crossings take 30-40min and cost approx \u20ac25 return.<\/p>\n \u25cf Where to stay <\/p>\n On Inishmore we stayed at Kilmurvey House, a large B&B beside the main beach (from \u20ac149; kilmurvey-house.com<\/a>). In Clifden, the Quay House offers harbour views and startling animal skins (from \u20ac190; thequayhouse. com<\/a>). On Inishbofin, Murray\u2019s Doonmore Hotel is the heart of the island\u2019s music scene (from \u20ac120; doonmore.com<\/a>). All prices are double\/twin room per night.<\/p>\n \u25cf Bike hire <\/p>\n Our bikes were provided by West Ireland Cycling in Galway, which offers a quality fleet of Trek touring, road and gravel bikes (\u20ac25\u2013\u20ac50 per day): westirelandcycling.com<\/a>.<\/p>\n \u25cf Irish islands by bike <\/p>\n A longer trip could follow the Wild Atlantic Way, hopping between the Arans, Inishbofin, Inishturk and Clare Island before a final night of live music in Westport.<\/p>\n Thanks to Claire McCune and Tourism Ireland.<\/p>\n This article was first published in the 23 October 2025 print edition of Cycling Weekly magazine \u2013 available to buy on the newsstand every Thursday (UK only) while digital versions are available on Apple News<\/a> and Readly<\/a>. Subscriptions through Magazine’s Direct<\/a>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"“It\u2019s been almost too hot,\u201d Simon shouts above the roar as we stride along Galway seafront, leaning into…\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":277561,"comment_status":"","ping_status":"","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[37],"tags":[4985,101,56,54,55],"class_list":["post-277560","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","category-cycling","tag-cycling","tag-sports","tag-uk","tag-united-kingdom","tag-unitedkingdom"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.newsbeep.com\/uk\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/277560","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.newsbeep.com\/uk\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.newsbeep.com\/uk\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.newsbeep.com\/uk\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.newsbeep.com\/uk\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=277560"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.newsbeep.com\/uk\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/277560\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.newsbeep.com\/uk\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/277561"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.newsbeep.com\/uk\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=277560"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.newsbeep.com\/uk\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=277560"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.newsbeep.com\/uk\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=277560"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}![\"David](\"https:\/\/www.newsbeep.com\/uk\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/11\/7N6bnRtF63t9NXuuqfm24T.jpg\")
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