Full Tilt: Ireland to India with a Bicycle
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Originally published in 1965, it is the diary of her bicycle trek from Dunkirk, across Europe, through Iran and Afghanistan, over the Himalayas to Pakistan and India. Murphy's immediate rapport with the people she alights among is vibrant and appealing and makes her travelogue unique. Venturing aloneaccompanied only by her bicycle, which she dubs Rozthe indomitable Murphy not only survives daunting physical rigors but gleans considerable enjoyment in getting to know peoples who were then even more remote than they are now.--Publishers Weekly. ""This book recounts a trip, taken mostly on bicycle, by a gritty Irishwoman in 1963. Her route was through Yugoslavia, Turkey, Iran, Afghanistan, Pakistan, and ended in New Delhi. She carried a pistol, got sunstroke, and suffered the usual stomach disorders. She endured bad accommodations but reaped much local hospitality, too, including a dinner with the Pakistani president. Most of the book concerns the high mountain country of Afghanistan and Pakistan...A spirited account.""--Library Journal.
1 Viyella shirt 1 gabardine wind-cheater 1 woollen balaclava helmet 1 skiing cap 1 pair of leather fur-lined gauntlets CHANGE OF CLOTHES 1 woollen vest 1 pair of woollen ankle-length underpants 1 Viyella shirt TOILET ARTICLES 1 bar of soap 1 face-cloth 1 hand-towel 1 toothbrush 1 tube of toothpaste MEDICAL SUPPLIES 3 tubes of insect repellent cream 100 Chlorinate tablets (for water purification) 1 ounce of potassium permanganate (against snake bite) 1 dozen Acromycin capsules
whatever for an indefinite period. These people don’t indulge in conversation as a pastime: they have occasional fierce arguments about some particular point and the rest is silence. I found it very pleasant today, just sitting cross-legged on my carpet (a posture which is no longer agonising as my joints are in training) looking out through the arched doorway at the blue sky and the few green trees growing beside the stream and the pale gold landscape and the donkey-traffic – little boys
spring thunderstorm began. For several minutes lightning was continuous – not flashes as we know them, but glaring sheets of blue illumination, revealing gaunt peaks on one side and sickening ravines on the other; yet it was all so beautiful and awe-inspiring that one simply forgot to be afraid. The thunder reverberating in the mountains was deafening – peal after peal, the echoes of each being drowned in the crash of the next. With all this came gusts of gale-force wind carrying enormous
and I held an emergency conference and he advised me to go to the German-built hospital in this town, fifty-five miles from Doshi. I’ll skip details of the journey – I did not observe the landscape and fainted twice more: I’m getting quite expert at it. A young Afghan doctor said that three ribs are broken; he plastered them and ordered me to bed and banned cycling for a month. This hospital is exactly what you would expect an Afghan hospital to be – even one built by Germans. A male nurse
once they have created this terrible idol of the Modern State it will enslave them for ever and then it will be too late for them to see that ‘the good old days’ were best; they will be forced to continue worshipping their idol whatever the cost to their humanity. However, they thought I was mad to find more happiness and peace in an Afghan village than in a European industrial city. One of my most pleasant memories of Kabul will be the walk home after dinner tonight, with the moon spilling