One of the reasons I hung back was I was having heavy duty deja vu to trip to the west coast of Ireland. On the boat going over, my glasses had blown off. I had a slo-mo of seeing them smash on the steel deckplates before sliding out of the scuttles. I am 5.5 short sighted without the bins. Riding buddy Mike offered me his - which was fine and almost a perfect match, but I had to refuse as he would then must have been as blind as I was. Wobbled into Dublin (2pm on a Saturday) every optician we found was closed, except one. She said come back Monday, they could be ready by end of the following week.... Our departure day. Did a bit of hunting for junkshops, thrift shops, charity shops. In what was still a pretty poor country back then before the Celtic tiger, found none. I had memories of all those old card suitacases full of discarded glasses. Stayed the night in Naas with friends - they asked around but no one they knew had any spare glasses, so the following morning we set off for Cork where the ex was working. A few minor problems, mainly not being able to see the cow shit in the road before the front wheel got there. A few shimmies ensued. In Cork, an old guy had an old pair of bifocals he could spare - the main prescription was better than nothing but the near sight was a total loss, anything below horizontal was not there as far as I could see. But better than no specs. Having set out round Bantry and Kerry and Dingle, somewhere up in Clare, looking for the Burren, we came across a herd of cattle being driven up the road. Slowly. We pulled over - me very tentatively - because I now had a passenger and even less vision downwards, so the soft Irish verges were terra ingognita. I could detect the difference between grass and a puddle or was it a ditch? But that was about the limit of my visual acuity. So there I was, perched precariously and vulnerably at the side of the road, cows all around, stopping to examine any tasty bunch of grass or interesting looking human or maybe it was the guzzi. Several came very close. One nudging me quite hard in the direction I wanted to go least. When they were almost clear, one come past, nice and close, lifts its tail - and likely you don't need to be a farm boy to know what happens when a cow lifts its tail - liquid shrapnel ricocheting everywhere. I did manage to turn my head (and open face helmet) so there was no ingestion risk. And fortunately, I was wearing my trustry Helly Hansen PVC trawler man suit. Fortunately the rain and steaming Irish fog had removed most visual evidence of my encounter before we arrived at a B&B.