Waking did not come easy. Joleen’s 8:30 breakfast request was something she’d be taking a ribbing about. Mind, we did still had a lot to do and see so an early start would still be useful. Even if we were both wrecked from the partying the night before.

After a lovely breakfast of muesli, locally-made raspberry yoghurt (absolutely delicious) and proper sausages and bacon we donned boots and hiked out towards the lighthouse that sits opposite the Beacon. It was only a short walk from the B&B and we were surprised to find that it actually sits inside someone’s back garden.

As we were prowling around the cliff edge to get some shots, the house’s owner – a chap called Ken – popped out and told us we were more than welcome to come into the garden if we wanted. Although the lighthouse is on his property, he has nothing to do with it. It’s fully maintained and operated (automatically these days) by the council – white light to sea, red light to the harbour.

Ken’s owned the house for around 40 years, though has only settled there in moderately recent history after spending a lot of time travelling with his wife. He’s a real character and knows a load of history about the island, the lighthouse and the surrounding area. We only spent ten minutes or so chatting but you just know he’d be great to sit and talk to for an hour over a beer or a hot chocolate.

Today the weather was gorgeous, but during winter the winds will blow the waters into the cliffs and send waves over the lighthouse – and Ken’s house. Hence this being predominantly a summer abode for them! He had work to do, so we left him to potter as we clambered over the wall and had a better look at the lighthouse then walked back down to the Islander’s Rest to check the ferry times.

Where we found we’d just missed one and had two hours to wait for the next. Ah well. I could think of worse places to be stuck.

We killed time by reading and backing up photos, then marched off to catch the 14:30 boat back to the mainland. Just outside Baltimore we stopped at a hotel for a late lunch, then took a drive out to Sheep’s Head. This is a peninsula with some gorgeous views along its length. There was much stopping and snapping of photographs as we made our way along the rollercoaster-like bends and dips of the single track roads.

After reaching the end, we doubled back and headed for Bantry – again stopping and diverting slightly for photo ops. We found one viewpoint with a handy map of the sights visible from where we were standing. Joleen was astounded to see the Fastnet rock pictured on the map. And even more astounded that it was – on this clear day – very much visible even at a substantial distance.

Bantry is by far the largest place I’d been in for almost three days. A harbour town with some character – and a horrific new hotel complex that looks like a set of white blocks. Whoever gave that monstrosity planning permission needs to be shot.

Our options for the evening has been threefold: go to another session in Schule, stay at a Buddhist retreat, or visit another of Joleen’s friends. We narrowed down on option three and Joleen told me “you’ll love Feargal – he’s one of a kind”. After some of the people I’d met who I already considered quite “individual”, for her to make a point of mentioning this one almost filled me with forboding. I wasn’t sure what to expect.

And I’d not have expected what I did find. Feargal’s actually a couchsurfer, though more active as a host than a visitor. He’s also very popular. I can see why. The man’s mad, but in one of those wonderfully endearing ways. Imagine an ecological Wilf Lunn – the guy with the mad moustache who used to build crazy contraptions on children’s TV shows in the 80’s. Feargal’s house shouldn’t just be visited by couchsurfers, it should be a stopping point for tourists. It’s mental. Remember when you were a child and you’d think of these really wild things and wish “wouldn’t it be great if…”? Well, as far as household stuff goes, Feargal’s not let the “if” stop him. Or the “what”, come to think of it. He just “does”.

Feargal himself is small and unassuming. He’s very quiet but passionate about a lot of subjects. Conservation, recycling and so forth are very high up that list. So much stuff in his house is made from recycled junk. From the lamp in the spare room to the framework holding up his recycle collection bags in the kitchen. The soap holder in the bathroom is a large seashell suspended from wire wrapped round a bolt nailed into the wall – all junk found on the beach. The toilet roll holder is made of similar bits of scrap metal.

And the 6-or-so-person hammock suspended over his back yard.

Oh, yes. A huge hammock made from scaffolding poles and fishing net. Which Feargall wriggled his way up to with ease while Joleen and I scrambled up his wood-and-shopping trolley stairway like a pair of paraplegic gymnasts. We sat and chilled for a while then decided to get food. Indian was settled on which meant a short jaunt into town.

Ever ecological, Feargal suggested cycling in – a fine idea. Then I saw the bikes. A rusty girl’s bike with a basket full of driftwood and flotsam, and an ageing tandem. Sorry, not ageing. “Classic”.

It gets better. One of Feargal’s recent couchsurfers had adapted an old radio to run off the dynamo that’s meant to power the front light. With careful use of diodes and rechargeables, when you pedal, the batteries are charged and the radio runs from human power. The tape works if you have the light turned off and direct all your pedalling to the player.

Tape? Ah, yes. Feargal’s still using audio cassettes. I’ve not seen such a huge collection of cassettes in one place since I was in Jordan. And I’ve not even mentioned the tape player in the bathroom that comes on automatically when you switch the light on.

Well, I have now.

Where were we? Ah, yes. Bikes, stereos. Fluorescent jackets. And a stereo playing Ireland’s answer to Classic FM. “Don’t worry”, I was informed, “nobody will know where the music’s coming from.” I was cursing the radio for not playing Ride of the Valkyries when Feargal took off downhill with Joleen in fits of giggles on the back seat of the tandem. I followed, trying to video it before realising I needed both hands to brake, shoved my camera in my mouth, panicked and nearly swallowed the damn thing. Good job it’s waterproof.

The jaunt to the curry house was pretty short and Joleen was grinning like a loon by the time we got there. What struck me as bizarre was how the younger generation ignored us (or pretended to) while the older folk stood and stared at the numpties in bright jackets with the musical bike basket.

We ordered food and had a while to wait, so Feargal announced it was my turn on the back seat. Great. Death by tandem. I could think of better ways to die. But I’ve survived rickshaws, motos and tuk-tuks so I could hardly chicken out.

I’ll tell you, with two people pedalling they go fast. Within a couple of minutes we were at the beach where a chav/ned/whatever-the-Irish-call-them was showing off to his mates on a quad bike, kicking up sand and winding a dog up.

“Now you go in front,” said my Nemesis. I swear this guy was trying to kill me. I admire him for being prepared to wipe himself out in the process. That takes devotion. The thing is, he didn’t reckon with my amazing cycling skills. And sense of self-preservation. We made it back to the curry house in one piece, despite my efforts to slalom between some bollards set about two feet apart earning a squawk from the back seat. That’ll teach him.

I was relegated to the back seat for the cycle back to the house where our mixed bag of veggie Indian deliciousness was accompanied by gorgeous apple and blackberry juice. You know the tetrapaks you get “made from concentrate”? Feargal knows an organic shop that sell the concentrate. Lining the bottom of a glass is enough to mix with a pint of water and still make your teeth auto-dial the dentist. Lovely.

We chatted about all kinds of weird stuff (we now have mathematical proof that gravity doesn’t work at the North Pole) then retired; Feargal pausing only long enough to show me how to hang by your toes from a pull-up bar (he has seriously strong foot muscles). The man’s utterly and completely hatstand. Every country should have one.