NOTES FROM A VERY SMALL ISLAND

Dreaming of escape on Ireland's far-flung islands, David Bradford finds the reality of remoteness not quite as simple as it seems

- Dav id Bradford

It’s been almost too hot,” Simon shouts above the roar as we stride along Galway seafront, leaning into the wind, eager for our first pint of the trip.

We'd almost walked past him — just a pair of rain-spattered glasses and a nose poking from the small ‘o’ of his waterproof hood. Too hot? From anyone else I'd assume irony, but Simon is a solicitor by trade, and I know when he’s about to deliver evidence. Sure enough, he recounts a glorious yet sweltering ride down through Donegal, the heatwave breaking only last night — just in time for our arrival.

It’s late June, and my partner Anton and I have one goal: to strike out west as far as the land will take us, not stopping at the coast but pushing on to the offshore islands, until there’s nothing in front of us but sea. The motivation is complicated, but we'll get to that. Our friend Simon has been here a week already, camp-and-ride touring in his van, and is joining us for a sociable finale to what has been, by his account, a Saharan slog. “Don’t worry,” I assure him as he savours a long draught of cold Guinness, “we won’t be succumbing to heatstroke over the next few days.” I hold up my phone: five grey clouds in a row, three with raindrops, one with a shyly peeping sun.

The next morning, it’s almost a relief that it’s 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 Mór