By the time you read this, I’ll have set off (at least I hope so) on my run around Ireland. This past week leading up to the run has been an ultra marathon in itself, packing everything we need for 10 weeks on the road, organising routes, fixing up the motorhome (which had way more problems than we'd bargained for), visiting my brother who decided to return from Japan this week for the first time in six years, racing to catch the ferry to Ireland - which we just about caught by the skin of our teeth, hurtling in our motorhome across Anglesey in the rain like some caped crusaders from the Wacky Races.
And then we arrived in Ireland, to a warm welcome from my aunt, lots of talk about my grandparents, life in rural Ireland in the 1940s, Black and Tan murders, stories about my Dad blasting Jimi Hendrix out to a bemused Galway in the late 1960s.
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