Glendalough: The Myth, the Mist and the Midges

Now, there have been times on my journey across Ireland in which I made some seemingly wise decisions. Some even bordering on brilliant. And there have been other times when I, after the fact, said to myself: 'Self, what the hell were you thinking?' Now, as it happens, the time I spent in the Glendalough Valley was an experience that was as wonderful as it was god-awful. Let me elaborate upon that last statement.

        I arrived in the Glendalough Valley in the owner of Captain Halpin’s Bunkhouse somewhat beat up old van accompanied by my friends Anna, Eike, and Myles, all of whom were staying at the hostel in Wicklow and who also happened to be my roommates.

At the end of the day, everyone had plans to head back to the hostel, well, except for me. The day before I had come up with the bright idea to take all my gear with me and spend the night alone in the hills of Glendalough. At the time I am sure I was thinking to myself, 'This is going to be awesome!' Hindsight they say, is 20-20.  

       As the day drew to a close, I certainly had some reservations as I watched all my new friends drive away in Ian’s van back to the comfort and confines of the hostel.  Had I known then what I know now, my ass would have loaded up in that van so quick it would have made your head spin. But no, I had to be the great adventurer. Taming the wilds of Ireland alone. Forging ahead into the distant horizon. Going where no man has gone…well, you get my drift. 

          My first order of business was to find a place to pitch my tent as camping in the valley itself was not allowed. I had to find a site that wasn’t a three-day hike out of the glen and was in a place where I felt comfortable and safe. To circumvent all of these issues I did what any mountain woman would do. I left the wilds of the valley via the park entrance, walked across the road, up the hillside, and found a place to pitch my tent behind a tree just outside the park boundaries. “Ha-ha,” I said to myself. I am a damn genius. From my perch behind the small solitary tree, I could look down not only on the parking lot of the park and the visitors center but the local hotel as well. Now this is what I call wilderness camping at its finest!  

        So, with that, I pitched my tent on the hillside being harassed in part by the few midges that had decided to join me. No biggie I thought 'I can handle a few pesky bugs.' However, by the time I had my tent erected, which takes all of about 5 minutes, I was beginning to regret my decision to stay behind. The longer I was out there the more midges joined the party until I unceremoniously left my tent behind, walked briskly back down the hill into the park, and finished my day with another short hike because at that point constant motion was essential to my survival. 

        Now, those of you who have read my blogs before must be thinking, she has dealt with this before, why on earth did she not bring some repellent? Well, that is a great question. And the answer is: NOTHING repels midges. There isn't anything thing that exists on God’s green earth that can combat those little flying Piranha teeth. What does work? Keep moving. Hey, no problem, at least for a few more hours. But eventually, I would have to go back to my tent. And when I did, it was war. And guess who was on the losing end...again. Sitting peacefully on the side of the hill watching the sun go down over the majestic Glendalough Valley was out.

However, lying in my tent with the door zipped up tight was in. 

         One must understand that midges are so small and so crafty that they can somehow, someway, get in through the screen door of any tent. I don’t care how expensive and bad-ass you think your tent may be. Therefore, I could not even leave the tent flap open to gaze outside into the valley below me. By seven o'clock that evening with four hours of daylight to go and another five until sun up, I laid on my back in my tent watching the million or so midges that had now found me and were trying, and often succeeding, to enter my humble domain. I had not brought my laptop, no book, no motor car, not a single luxury (sung to the theme of Gilligan’s Island) and I had only a partial charge on my iPod. It was, to say the least, going to be a very, very, long night. 

          Now, I did have three other sources of entertainment. One was listening to the midges bounce off the tent as they tried to get to me through the tent, the door, and any other crack or crevasse that they could find. The second was to go spastic on occasion. Like a cross between the karate kid kicking someone’s ass and a Ginsu knife on the Home Shopping Network: all going off inside my tent at once. This all to kill the little bastards that kept making a great impression of Houdini and appearing out of thin air, again, and again, and again inside my tent. Then of course there was my third and most successful form of entertainment: snacking. I spent the evening lying on my front, back, stomach, or side, shoveling whatever I could find into my mouth, watching and listening intently to the midges like they were on late-night television, and flying into an occasional fit. I swear I laughed at myself a lot that night at how ridiculous this all must have looked to the universe.
         The next morning I awoke, after maybe two hours of sleep, to the sound of a gentle rain falling on my temporary home. I thought to myself “Well at least there won’t be any midges to contend with.” Unfortunately, that was not to be the case. As I unzipped the door to my tent I realized that what I thought was rain pelting my sleeping quarters was actually….yup, you guessed it, four trillion midges. I took a deep breath of exasperation, ate 250 midges in doing so, and immediately re-zipped the tent door and thought…fuck. I considered my options. Grabbing my gear, leaving the tent behind, and high-tailing it out of there, was on the top of the list. Couldn’t do it. That is in essence littering. So there was no way I could do that. Throughout my camping experiences in Ireland, I have done pretty much everything in that tent, sleeping, writing, brushing my teeth, getting dressed, all while lying flat on my back. 

         That morning I must have looked like the three stooges all wrapped into one as I, laughing at myself once again, dressed from head to toe including my boots (no easy task I’m tellin ’ya), packed all my gear, including all the wrappers and garbage from my marathon eating session, and made my great escape. I, at a frantic pace, opened the door, shot out of the tent like a cannonball, rolled nimbly to my feet (just like GI Joe), and pulling my rucksack haphazardly behind me, un-staked my tent, grabbed it by one corner, and literally fled down the side of the mountain with its white and blue exterior flapping in the wake of my speedy descent. I was followed by a veritable sea of midges. All, in my mind’s eye, wearing tiny little napkins tucked in their tiny little shirts, holding knives and forks in their tiny little wings, and making nummy-nummy-nummy noises. It took me the entire hillside and then some, to outrun the little buggers. By the time I ran through the park entrance past the parking lot and reached the picnic tables at the visitor’s center, I had outrun their entire ravenous army. No small feat for a woman with my short legs and stature. Victory was at long last...mine. If you can call it that. 

        I found out after the fact that all my friends had gone back to the hostel, enjoyed nice warm showers, drank ice cold beers, had themselves a little music session right there at the hostel, and afterward got a great night's sleep in a nice comfy bunk. Ouch. 

However, I must say that the reward for my stalwartness was that at 5 o'clock in the morning, which is when my “great escape” occurred, there was no one at the park, anywhere around on the trails, or in the valley itself. I literally had the entire place, miles, and miles of wilderness, in all its wide wonder, all to myself. I did not lay eyes on another human being for 6 or 7 hours and it was a true gift to be able to wander the hills and valleys of Glendalough in such solitude. It was a treasure to behold. Now as stories go this is a pretty good one. I will have to say unequivocally that the trials and tribulations I had to endure were worth the experience, the solitude and the sheer joy that I garnered from that part of my incredible journey across an amazing country known to those who love her as...“The Bog.”

The Old Boathouse

                                                    

    Have you ever had one of those days where you know, without a doubt, that you will never have an experience like the one you just had ever again? It is like you know inside of yourself that those moments in time were special. Unique to that place, and space, and time. And as you are living it, you know it. 

     That was the feeling I had as I approached the old boat house, that stood on the edge of the rocks which stretched as far as the eye could see, along Wicklow Bay. The owner of the hostel in which I was staying had told me that it was “National Heritage Day” in Ireland. He told me that there would be traditional Irish music at “The Old Boat House” that evening and urged me to go. I immediately thought to myself "How cool." A bunch of pub musicians getting together at a local bar in celebration of their heritage. I could not have been more wrong about that assumption or pleased that I was. First and foremost the “boathouse” was just that; an old lifeboat house which, since the year eighteen and sixty-six, sat at the back of Leitrim Place and had, over the years, seen a lifetime of men sail out to brave the sea; to make a living for their families, to rescue those in need, or return a lost soul to a family that waited ever vigilant upon the shoreline. 

     Time seemed to stand still as I stepped up to the old wooden door, worn and tattered from the constant battering of the wind and the rain which howled past and seemed to beat ever gently upon it; as if waiting for someone to answer. I turned the handle, stepped across the threshold, and found myself instantaneously engulfed in the warm glow of the inner circle of the community of Wicklow. The room was filled with people. Not musicians from the local pubs, but young girls who sat twirling their fingers in their hair. It was filled with young boys laughing and dragging the toes of their sneakers across the faded wooden floor, as they impatiently waited for the next song to begin. There were young men who sat bemused. There were old men beyond 80 years and then some, that held within their wrinkled faces; strong eyes of crystal blue, quick smiles, and the knowledge of the ages.

     There were women who wore cotton dresses, who sat with their hands folder in their laps while chatting with their daughters; all of whom were seemingly waiting for the town elder to begin the next song. 

      I tried as hard as I could to be unobtrusive and quietly made my way the few steps to the back of the room. I nodded at two of my roommates from the hostel who were sitting in folding metal chairs, each looking rather unsure of themselves. I smiled and eased myself down into a chair next to them as a hush fell over the room. The boys straightened in their seats, and the girls tucked their fiddles under their chins. A chair scrapped across the floor, and the rest of the players, young and old, plucked and strummed in preparation. And then, simultaneously, without so much as a cue, the music began. Simply at first. Then then with the vigor of those comfortable in their surroundings and a certainty of their own skill.

      The room was filled not just with the sound of traditional music, but with a depth of purpose that I can only describe as a legacy defined. It was as if hundreds of years of tradition, of heritage, of pride, was at that moment being passed down from one generation to the next. I could literally taste the past in the notes that drifted across the room and fell upon my grateful soul. As the music played I closed my eyes, opened my heart, and felt an unimaginable sense of peace and belonging well up inside of me. This was it. This was why I  had come to Ireland. To live and to experience this very moment in time. And as the night progressed I began to realize that this wasn't just about “traditional music” but about tradition. There was to follow: readings of Gaelic legend, traditional Irish dancing, and of course wine and song. I found myself wrapped in the warmth and deep-seated love of these people and the beauty of their Gaelic culture.  

      The singers came one by one to welcome me and my friends. One of the elders began to open up bottles of wine, passing them about with little plastic glasses which were of course accompanied by smiles, music, and the hushed sound of children giggling. The women tried to teach me some Gaelic words, the men an Irish jig, and the children an ancient Irish song.  It was as if these people did not want their heritage to just be a thing of the past, but were breathing life into it right then and there in that little boat house. They were ensuring its survival as they gently and patiently handed down music, stories, and dance that had existed for centuries, to the children who sat within. The children who would in time, pass what they had learned down to their children and to their children’s children. 

      It was a simply beautiful evening that I was blessed to share with those people...my people. I was treated as if, and I certainly felt as if, I belonged there. They did not approach me as an outsider but accepted me as one who loved the land, the legacy, and the tradition of Ireland as much as they did. They shared with me, in the glow of the evening, something special. Something…magical. I will never forget the stories that were told, the music that was played, and the love and laughter that were given to me so freely in the old boathouse that still sits quietly on the quay in an extraordinary place called Wicklow Town which lies nestled beside the echoes of a deep blue Irish Sea.

From the Sea to the Summit

Once again time and travel have graced me with gifts beyond measure; great friends, spectacular beauty, and oddly enough, a lesson in patience. If I had to pick my most memorable journey of the past week I would certainly have to say that the climb to the top of Croagh Patrick was the ultimate in personal growth and life’s lessons learned. It pushed me past what I thought I could endure both mentally and physically and in some weird way gave me strength in return. Patience is a virtue they say and one that has not always graced my illustrious personality. But I will have to say that thus far there isn't anything in this life that has taught me the art of patience as well or as thoroughly as a single, solitary, majestic mountain known as Cruach Phádraig. 
And, thus the story goes as follows: 

It was an unusually clear blue morning as I made my way towards the path that would take me to the rocky peak and as I gazed upon the mountain from below I could discern the slow progression of time etched upon its face which the mountainside seemed to patiently endure. I was intimidated to say the least. But soon my thoughts turned to my approach, to the task of reaching the pinnacle of the stately mountain, and subsequently, to the arduous journey back from its peak. I was in awe. 

I do not believe that I have ever known the true meaning of the word patience until the day I climbed that mighty mountain. Nor had the term “one step at a time” been more real, more…apparent, or more important than during my time on that mountain. There were at times brief respites where I looked forward towards my goal or back to whence I had come, but only for the briefest of moments and I found it was during those times that I would miss a step...falter. Wavering for that one split second in time instantaneously brought my focus back to the task at hand, that next step, and nothing else. I found that when I began to reach that state of mind where I garnered such complete focus wrapped tightly in a ragged determination to reach the top, I became a different person within myself. I could feel my whole being thrive on that mountain and in that circumstance. It was in that existence that I became deeply interwoven with that place. And as such, after my fear of heights had been conquered, when I finally reached the summit and looked across the vast horizon it felt as if, since the beginning of all time, Ireland herself had been patiently waiting for my arrival. After the exuberance and exhilaration began to gently subside and I turned and looked at the daunting task of returning to the fields and valleys below, I,  for the first, time understood completely what that journey, that climb, that struggle to reach the summit had taught me. I knew without question that I had been given a gift. A gift that had sat silently waiting for me to appear. The gift of a deep and true understanding of the nature of patience. And as I took my first step towards my descent, I knew I had been changed forever…

Doolin: Now Doolin has always held a special place in my heart. I fell in love with its rustic charm and small-town feel last year as my daughter Kristy and I took a walk out to the ocean down the Aille River. We only had a few hours to enjoy the village but I swore right then and there I would return. This time I was able to truly enjoy the flavor of Doolin as well as make some lasting memories with two amazing friends. 

Maclean: Mac thanks for the memories. Your crystal blue eyes, warm heart, and brilliant smile will, without a doubt, be etched upon my mind forever. May peace and happiness follow you wherever you go from here my friend.

Pierrick: I absolutely, positively, adored my friend Pierrick. The day I arrived in Doolin I was sitting at an old wooden table in the hostel enjoying the warmth that emanated from the fireplace when I walked Pierrick. I smiled at him and said hello and he responded in kind and thus, in the simplest of ways, we began what would become a grand friendship. Pierrick did not go out that particular evening as he had decided to hike to the Cliffs of Moher the next day and I, after having one too many Guinness’ at the pub that evening, opted to take the bus. We did however run into each other on the Cliffs as I was heading down the trail and he was heading back, so although we didn't get to wander the cliffs together we were able to sit next to each other on the bus on the trip back to Doolin. Back at the hostel, I got a quick nap and Pierrick had something to eat. Afterward, we sat in the hostel next to the fireplace and shared some beer that I had bought at the store the day before. I had only three so we each had one and then we retrieved some glasses from the pantry and split the last one while we sat outside on the stone wall and watched the Aille River float lazily by. It was a beautiful evening filled with the joy of being in Ireland so along with our beer Pierrick and I shared an abundance of pleasant conversation. We talked about our lives, our families, and about living life to its fullest. It wasn't long before Pierrick and I decided to take a stroll up the hill, a rugged 90-second walk, to Fitz Place to get a cold, fresh beer. Eventually, we found ourselves immersed in the music, the atmosphere, and the growing bond of friendship. I found Pierrick to be such a gentle soul. He had the heart of a poet and the mind of one not yet jaded by the cruelty that life can often hold. I found it incredibly refreshing that he was so taken by the simplest of things. He would look at me randomly throughout the evening and say “This is it Kristine!! There is nothing else but this moment!!” And he would smile and say this is so “grand” or “lovely" or “cool” and we drank our beer and toasted the night, the music, and the warmth that surrounded us. We avowed to be content; being completely and utterly engrossed in those moments. 

It was a grand and lovely time and one which I have to say was one of the best nights of my trip. Without question, I will remember it with great affinity and fondness. Unfortunately, as has happened so often during my sojourn, morning came and it was time for me to once again say goodbye to a friend that I had made such a special connection with. So Pierrick and I ate breakfast and then together we walked down to the bus station where we eventually hopped on the bus to Ennis where we would part ways; he would make his way to Waterford and I would make my way back to Lahinch. Upon our arrival, we gathered our gear and gave each other a hug filled with warmth and friendship and I watched with a growing sadness as he climbed aboard his bus and waited for it to depart. As I stood upon the cold, damp, sidewalk I had to fight back the tears that I knew would eventually come. Pierrick’s bus finally backed slowly away from the curb. I could see Pierrick as he looked at me through the glass. His face disappeared only to reappear as his bus rolled across the asphalt coming back into view as it passed between two buses. I caught a glimpse of him so I waved and smiled, as did he, until once again the buses blocked our view. I waited to see if I could see him once again as his bus cleared the final obstacle and pulled out of the station…I could. He turned and looked over his shoulder as he waved a final farewell, as did I.  The lump in my throat gave way as his bus disappeared into the street and this time there was no stopping the tears. It was as if the universe was waiting because at that very moment, the rain began to fall gently on my shoulders and the tears that had been on the brink finally fell from my eyes and quietly rolled down my cheeks. I stood silently, helplessly by as I watched yet another friend make their journey homeward.

Rainbows: Now it has been said that being in the right place at the right time is essential to great photography and I believe that to be true. Now the other way to go about that is to almost be at the right place at the right time and force the universe to comply. Such was the case with me, my beer, and my rainbow. Having given in to the inclement weather and having lazed around all day at the hostel I finally decided to take a stroll in the misty conditions along the beach taking some pictures as I went and cursing the camera when the batteries gave out. I strolled amiably along the beach back to town where I bought some batteries and some bread because the two often go hand in hand, made my way back to my room, and then reached the incredibly difficult decision that it was time for a beer. For whatever reason I changed the batteries in my camera, (I normally would not have even carried it with me as the store was right there on the corner) tossed it without thought into my front pocket, and walked across the street. I took my time as I was in no particular hurry and carefully chose the cheapest beer in the store (Carling Black Label). I exchanged pleasantries with the store clerk and leisurely made my way out of the store. As I began to step into the rain-soaked street, I looked over my left shoulder for traffic and there it was; the biggest, most brilliant rainbow I had ever seen.  I stopped dead in my tracks. And then my mind was like "Hey you dumb ass get a picture… quick!!"  The thing was it was a dozen blocks up the street to get a decent view and/or picture before it disappeared and who knew how long that would be. I would have to get a move on. I tucked my beer, which was in a brown paper sack, haphazardly under my arm, and literally sprinted up the street. I am sure the locals were like “Look at that crazy tourist.” No matter. As I splashed through the puddles with reckless abandon, I reached the top of the lane. I fumbled for my camera with one hand as my beer began to rip through the now-wet paper sack. I made it to the top of that hill in what felt like seconds flat, threw my beer unceremoniously to the ground, and got the shot. I must have looked half-crazed standing there with what I am sure amounted to a stupid grin of triumph on my face. Up to that point that had been the most laid-back day. I mean I had just been on the top of a mountain. Patience was my middle name, right? So much for being “laid back.” That was two minutes of sheer chaos and insanity followed by me laughing at myself for the next several hours. That rainbow must have stood in silent awe of my determination, quick feet, and triumphant grin. I am certain it watched in quiet amusement as I gathered up my beer, that had tumbled out of the sack, as I placed all but one of them as neatly as I could back into what remained of said sack, and casually sat down an old stone wall and popped the top on the remaining pint. The rainbow was still shining in the fading twilight as the rain started to fall again so I hopped down off the wall and began to walk casually back down the hill that I had just moments earlier traversed at the speed of light. I took one last glance back over my shoulder just in time to see that giant, amazing, rainbow, that had only moments before stretched down from the heavens, be swallowed up by the approaching storm. I turned and made my way slowly back down the street with the mist gently falling over me…and my sack of beer. Kristine one; Universe…zero.

Side note: I just want to give a heads-up to my friends from Lahinch. Lahinch was the perfect place to just hang out and relax and I want to thank Peter and Pat who ran the hostel for making me feel so at home. And I want to give a “surfs up dude” to my friend Colm who I came in on the bus with the first time I was there and who joined Nora and Martin and me to make my last night in Lahinch a grand, grand time. You guys really made a lasting impression on me and I hope that you find that killer surf you were looking for. 

Thus Far Chapter 3 Beyond Killarney

To be quite honest with you I barely know where to begin. Last week seems like forever ago. And I have been to so many places, experienced so many things, and met so many people since my last blog that it has all become one fantastic always interesting, and often heartfelt blur.  But let's see if I can pick up where I left off.

Leaving Killarney was certainly difficult. As I recall; there was a gentle mist falling across the village my last evening there so I pulled up the hood of my jacket, hunched my shoulders against the cold, and strolled around town one last time. Eventually, I made my way down into the forest that sits quietly next to the town. I walked along the river listening to the sound of the water as it gently flowed across the rocks as I am sure it has done since who knows when. I wandered down the path and soon found myself slowly making my way out into an immense, green, open pasture where the full glory of Magillycuddy’s Reeks looked down over the valley, across the glen, and seemingly, down to where I stood. 

I have to admit I definitely got emotional as I stood there looking across the prairie and up into the face of that distant purple mountain. I could feel the tears well up in my eyes and a lump grow uncontrollably in my throat. Those mountains had looked down over me during some of the most grueling moments in my life. It now sat stonily, watching over me, as if to say; finally, you are a part of this place, a part of this planet, and now a part of you will forever remain in Ireland. Moving forward was hard, looking back a must, as so many memories were made underneath that still mountain.

Anascaul: I decide to actually move from one place to the other the way normal people do…I caught the bus. I left Killarney for a town called Anascaul just northeast of my next favorite town and future destination, Dingle. I stopped in Anascal for one reason and one reason only; the strand at Inch. I had wanted to see the beach at Inch for years and I was certainly not disappointed. I stashed my gear at the “Randy Leprechaun,” who by the way was one shady character, (more on that later), and headed the 5 miles over the mountain pass (yes another freakin’ mountain), and down into Inch. I will have to say the view from the top of the pass was spectacular, the beach was amazing, and the water was cold as shit. 
   

Item number 3 was crossed off the old bucket list. Now, on my way back over the pass and back to the “Shady Leprechaun” as it came to be called, a little old lady named Mary stopped and offered me a lift back to town. Once again I found myself in a car literally rocketing down a small, narrow, gravel lane. I tried to make pleasant conversation with Mary, which was difficult to do whilst shitting one’s self. Mary, I found out, and from what I could understand through my terror-stricken brain, was on her way to church and was I’m guessing from my years of experience and quick wit, running late. As I left the confines of the car, she told me she would pray for me and I do believe she actually smiled as she spun the tires, spitting rocks and gravel back at me as she left me standing on the side of the road with crap in my pants. Swear to goodness, true story; including the crap.

Now the hostel I was staying at in Anascal had a very odd feel to it. When I awoke the next morning I met the only three other house guests in the hostel that night which happened to be three girls from Missouri; must be my week for Missourians, as two of my friends from Killarney were from there. Anyway, as we spoke, we all began to share our thoughts about this fine establishment. We were all equally creeped out by the front desk dude and when they offered to let us stay again that night but for free, get one night for ten bucks get the next night free, we all looked at each other wondering what the deal was and all of us trying not to bolt for the door right then and there. It wasn't long before my new friends had packed and were off with me hot on their trail. I opted to stand at the bus station in the pouring rain for an hour rather than stay one more second at the “Shady Leprechaun.” It’s pretty bad when you can’t even give away a free night's stay. Now that I think back on it; I remember wondering to myself while I was showering; why there were like twenty bottles of shampoo left behind on the shelf in the bathroom? Hmmmm…

Dingle: Dingle is just one of those places that has that something…special.  “Onomatopoeia.” A friend recently told me is a term that talent scouts use to denote “that something special.” Well to me…that is Dingle. Dingle represents friends to be made, music to be enjoyed, and a beauty to be seen that is unrivaled. It is a place where you can hear the sound of a child calling out across the quay, her falling footstep echoing across the pier as she runs down the dock aside her father’s ship, he, who had just returned from a day upon the sea. It is a place where music, hard work, laughter, and Guinness all hold equal importance. There is a place in Dingle, right off the quay, along the narrow main road lined with colorful houses and shops, which pipes traditional Irish music out into the street. If you stand there, as I did, listening to the sweet lilting sound of ancient music, your nostrils filled with the smell of fish and the ever-present aroma of the sea, stand there…you will not just see, but you will feel the majestic beauty of those things which have stood for centuries there; Hussie’s Follie, the Esk Tower and O'Connor’s Pass, and who keep watch over the harbor, its people, its heart. So, if you stand there…as I have, then you too will feel the aura known as Dingle. Simple things are often at the heart of life and it is those simple things, those times which often occur spontaneously which make life wonderful and interesting and beautiful. Dingle is simple in its own existence and breathes life into those who are fortunate enough to take the time to find it.

Now, I was fortunate enough to find a hostel that spoke quietly to me, as Dingle often does. In actuality, I was planning on camping at another hostel on the edge of town but had decided just to check the rates in town and thus I came across what I would have to say was a hostel and proprietor that was quintessentially…Dingle. As I walked through the door I was greeted by my soon-to-be friend Chuck who was straight out of the 60’s. He wore round John Lennon glasses and a Jazz-type cap which he wore backward and his grey, semi-long hair, was tucked haphazardly behind his ears. 

  

After a quick smile and hello Chuck gave me the rates (outside of my budget) and then helped me ring the other hostel, yes they could accommodate my tent, and sent me off with directions down an old Irish boreen which would provide me with a nice scenic walk and get me there lickety-split. We parted ways, him smiling and laughing as he folded clean sheets for the beds and towels for the guests. I didn't even make it 4 blocks before I turned around. I rang the bell, asked if he missed me yet and we shared a good laugh as he ushered me back into the warmth of what would become my home for the next four days. I don’t want to say that Chuck gave me preferential treatment but, he did.  He gave me a private room for two nights for the price of a dorm room, let me put my hand-washed clothes in the dryer, gave me my last night’s stay for a “tener,” let me drink the house milk out of the fridge, and kept me company on the porch, where he drank red wine and I cheap beer from the grocery store. Chuck was a wealth of information, a constant source of entertainment, and became my good friend. I guess for whatever reason I have a tendency to have that type of effect on people; I bring out the best in them and they, me. I’m not sure why. Onomatopoeia perhaps…

        Cloghane, Castlegregory and Camp…and Lions and Tigers and Bears, Oh My…

 Eventually, I had to leave the home, friends, and comfort that I had found in Dingle, and in particular at the Hide-out Hostel, and make my way towards Cloghane. I had two choices. Catch the bus EAST to Tra-Li and then transfer to a bus going WEST to my next destination. Or hitchhike over O'Connor’s Pass and be there in 30 minutes. Guess which one I chose and do not doubt for one second that 30 minutes turned into…well you’ll see. Off I went again to the edge of town where I was promptly picked up by Michael a really wonderful guy who admitted he hadn't picked up a hitchhiker in over fifteen years. There goes that damn Onomatopoeia again. Michael was on his way back to work from a holiday with his family and was just the coolest dude. Not only did he stop at the top of the pass to let me take pictures, offering to take mine with Dingle Bay shining in the background, but he also went out of his way, like in the opposite direction, to take me down into Cloghane right to the front door of the hostel. Thanks, Michael, you are the salt of the earth, my friend. I had, at the last moment, decided to go to a town called Cloghane instead of my original destination of Castlegregory. In hindsight, it was a stupid decision the first of many on this particular journey nestled in with several good ones but those don’t really count at the time you’re making the stupid ones, now do they? First of all my trip thus far had been about hiking Kerry Way and part of Dingle Way which I did and was, in part, still doing. But once back in Killarney, my trip became more about pub crawling than mountain climbing, or mountain scurrying as I liked to call it. To gain some type of focus I decided in Killarney to make the next part of this journey all about finding surfing in Ireland. So off I went, half-cocked and raring for the adventure that would come with my search for surf and/or surfers. 

Although I went to Inch, a beach renowned for its small but consistent surf, there was none that day. However, I did happen to catch a few pictures of a couple of surfers tucked neatly away in a hidden cove along Slea Head but my search began in earnest in Cloghane. I picked Cloghane as it was smack–dab in the middle of Brandon Bay and there was supposed to be surf in Brandon Bay. Well, no such luck; wrong part of the bay. I decided to leave Cloghane, sigh…but as good luck would have it the dude at the hostel was really cool, made a few phone calls, pointed me in the correct direction, gave me a lift back to the main road, and wished me happy trails. Okay, now all I had to do was hitchhike over to Castlegregory right? Good luck with that the universe said. I shall cram this into the proverbial nutshell just to save time (and because I promised myself I would not go over 4 pages per Blog). I ended up walking the ten miles into Castlegregory where I found the hostel which, and you have to love this about these little towns, was also the pub and general store. The room and the people were awesome but that was it. There was no TV, internet, stove or microwave. No sweat. All I needed was a bed anyway. So, at one point I talked to a couple of surfers who were staying there…ah ha!!! A clue!! Where there are surfers and boards there are usually waves; me and my sharp wit at work once again. After getting some info from the surfers I met some really, really wonderful folks at the pub who wanted to take me home with them right then and there to the Caravan park that a guy named Brian owned and where my temporary new best buddy, Judy lived. Since I had booked into the hostel already, I told them I would come down tomorrow and they could put me up and we would continue drinking of their national brew, Guinness. Never make plans while you are drinking Guinness in Ireland as the details can often get lost amongst the laughter and Slainte! I never did get to hook back up with them, too bad, cause Brian was as manly an Irishman as I had met to that point.  Anyway, I digress. The surfers had told me to go out to Maharees and if I was lucky there would be surf. Off the next morning, I went hiking the 8 miles out to Mahrees and back, and….no surf; flat as a pancake. Okay, no problem. I went back to the hostel, collected my things, and again (this is getting to be a habit) marched out to the edge of town to hitch into Camp and possibly find some surf along the beach there. I actually found Brian’s Caravan Park, which he had told me to look for during the prior evening's shenanigans and had asked me to come for a visit. Well, timing they say is everything as Brian had just left for the Pub 10 minutes before I arrived. Probably thought that I was going to be a no-show; boy did he underestimate me! So I thought I might catch Judy but didn't know what time she got off of work. I hung around a bit, talked to some of the local trailer park dwellers, always interesting, and finally made the decision to pitch my tent along the beach and wait for morning to try to get into Tra-Li where I had decided I would purchase a bus pass to get to my next few destinations. Well, I had a wonderful spot picked out nestled deep in the dunes of the beach under a solitary tree where I settled into my 3 x 6, quaint, and completely free accommodations and promptly fell asleep. 

Now here is where I want to remind you of several things. A) Remember the part in my last blog about the flying teeth? Yeah well, midges like to vacation at the beach as well. Who knew?? And B) Remember back at the beginning of this a dude named Michael picked me up on his way to Tra-Li? Coulda been there two days ago…but noooo….I had to go to these other places to explore and experience “Ireland.” Silly me.  Remember a while back in another Blog I ended up hitchhiking all over hell's half acre to wind up going to Killarney in the end? Yeah well, that’s what this whole experience was; a comedy of errors that took me…the long way round. But I have to admit it wouldn't be called an adventure if everything happened all neat and tidy now would it?? At any rate, I walked the three miles into Camp from my digs at the beach where I hoped to find the bus to Tra-Li. Just missed it. Damn the luck. Next bus, three hours away, shit. I did what I do best. I made a sign, threw out my thumb, and hoped for the best…come on Onomatopoeia (be a great name for a racehorse). So what happened you ask?? Well…I shit-you-not. A little old lady named…wait for it…Mary, swear to goodness, pulled up, on her way to….wait for it…church, and ushered me into the car. I have to tell you in all honesty; this was not the second time, but the third time since I began hitchhiking across Ireland that an older woman named Mary while on her way to church picked me up and gave me a ride, each in turn telling me that they would pray for me as they drove away. The first I didn't end up writing about. The second time, back a few paragraphs, certainly made me think, but the third time??!! I was blown away. As fate would have it when I was a young child around eight or nine my grandmother gave me a ceramic bust of the Virgin Mary that I still have to this day. So for me “Mary” has always been a symbol of comfort and solace. For over forty years I have kept that statue with me and for the last 20 years, it has been placed beside a picture of my children as a guardian so to speak. I always felt as long as she was there they would have someone to watch over them. So make what you will of this story my friends, as for me, I believe God was watching over my dumb-ass, and from here on out I think I’ll listen to what he is telling me…and just take the bus.

Thus Far...Chapter 2

Thus far I have discovered that hiking over mountains is hard, meeting new friends is easy, and Ireland is magical and thus my journey continues. By now I have finished my adventure along Kerry Way having covered over 80 miles of the 120 originally planned. I have written about the difficulties of hiking across the “bog,” about the people I have met along the way, and about the amazing beauty of this place. Over the past week I have experienced an array of new and wonderful things as I met characters from across the globe, hitchhiked, camped, and laughed my way across County Kerry all the way back to where this particular journey began; in my new favorite town in Ireland, Killarney.

Hitchhiking:

I found that I was not the only hiker who eventually became overwhelmed by the tough and grueling trail known as Kerry Way. Almost every person I met who was attempting to hike the “Way” hitchhiked for a least a part of their journey. It made me feel pretty good that I was not the only person to fall victim to the trail; with sore shoulders, spent legs, knees that no longer wanted to work, and a lack of willingness to put myself through another day scrambling over some mountaintop somewhere. I don’t remember what day I left, as the hours and days seem to be running together for me now, but at some point, I departed Carsiveen on foot heading for the edge of town hopeful that I would be fortunate in my pursuit of a ride to Caherdaniel. It was there I was going to camp for a few days and hike out along the “Way” to the Strand (aka Beach) at Darrynane. Man, it was a tough crowd that morning and I began to wonder if hitchhiking was a complete and utter waste of time. However, I finally got a ride from an Irishman named Danny (go figure) who was on his way to work in Port Magee. Danny was eating a sandwich as he pulled over and he ushered me into the passenger seat with a randy smile, and I spent the next ten minutes feeling the need to wipe off the dollop of mayonnaise that rested on the left side of his face the entire time we spoke. Although he wasn't going far at least it was a start and as he dropped me off at the turn to the port where he worked, he smiled, waved goodbye, and wished me a safe journey. I can only assume that the mayonnaise has since been removed. At least one can hope. That was the beginning of my hitchhiking experience that continued with some fairly good results, well…for the most part. As I stood in the road waiting for my next lucky break I was blessed with a spectacular view and again a rare glimpse of Irish sunshine. Kay was the next person to pick me up and after what I can only describe as a hair-raising lift around the cliffs of County Kerry, delivered me unscathed, but weak in the knees, right down into the center of town in Caherdaniel. I made my way along the roadside to the campground where I stayed for two days until the midges drove me back to the confines of a hostel (more on them later). So to get to my next destination I stood in front of the campground with a sign that simply read “Sneem” and it wasn't long before I was motioned over into a van by two Germans who happened to be heading in my direction. Now I have spoken about going with one's gut on more than one occasion…I really need to start listening to my own advice. My traveling companions were heading into Killarney which would be my ultimate destination. However, I really wanted to go to Sneem and Kenmare to hike part of the “Way” and discover the beauty of those towns. So I forged ahead, got out at Sneem, and waved goodbye to my travel companions, only to discover; that there was no hostel. Okay…forward march. My thumb was already warmed up, so flexing it like a fighter about to do battle, I forged ahead yet again, and off I eventually went with Ian, a lumberjack who waxed poetic about sustainability, my kinda guy. He dropped me off in Kenmare where I was assured there would be ample accommodations. Ummm…yeah, no go. Kenmare was beautiful but the one and only hostel was dinky and overpriced. So being the hard-headed person that I am I briefly looked around town and then decided to hitchhike, right then there, back to Killarney. In this I learned a life lesson; when hitchhiking to a specific town it always helps to be on the correct road. I stood there for about three hours trying to get out of that god-forsaken town (my pet name for Kenmare). Finally, a nice woman who lived there told me I would have more luck if I stood on the main road into Killarney, not the scenic route that only the tourist took. Duh. She was kind enough to give me a lift to the right road where within a matter of minutes I was tucked into a small beat-up ole car with Michael and his daughter who were seemingly headed in the correct direction. Well, once again trust your instincts, people. Michael, I found out after the fact, wasn't actually going to Killarney he was going to Cork. So I was somewhat shocked, to say the least when he dropped me off at a T-junction in the middle of freakin’ nowhere Ireland, I was like holy shit Batman you…are screwed. The sign indicated that I was 20 miles outside of Killarney and the day was drawing to a close. I just stood there with my sign that read "Killarney" looking like what I can only assume was either pathetic or terrified. Luckily, it took even less time than the last to get a ride, within the first three cars turning for Killarney a nice family, who obviously saw the look on my face, picked me up and took me all the way to the hostel. Whew, hitchhiking was almost as crazy as hiking over a mountain alone and every bit as challenging. I want to thank all the folks who made that part of my adventure although often hair-raising, a safe and memorable experience. And to the Germans who made it to Killarney hours before I did, next time…I’m stickin’ with you.

Camping:

Ah, the great outdoors! Ya gotta love it, especially in Ireland. Now if you thought hiking over a mountain all alone was dangerous you obviously have never been camping with me. After finding a magnificent camping spot with an incredible view I managed to, in just a matter of an hour or so, bash my thumb with a rock (aka hammer), cut myself with my pocket knife, and step barefoot on what amounts to Ireland’s version of a stinging nettle. Geez, where is a nice safe precipice for me to almost fall off? Now, I will have to say that the view was spectacular at both campsites but for a couple of things. After my accident-filled evening, I snuggled down into my “tent with a view” that I had pitched along a sandy cove and watched the sun fade ever so slowly into the mountains. I awoke the next morning to the wind shaking my tent quite vigorously and when I unzipped the door I immediately got to eat a hardy, yet tasty, sand sandwich. I then proceeded to get a taste of that sandwich for the next hour or so while I packed my things and headed to my next campsite just a few miles down the road. Later that day I was still eating, brushing, picking, and rubbing sand out of every crack and crevasse of myself and my stuff. But did I tell you about how amazing the views were?? Now, the next view was even better. A beautiful spot along the open cliffs, but after the sun beat down on me for the entire day and the wind howled through me and my tent incessantly (I actually got a sunburn and/or windburn from those two days) I decided it might be prudent to move my tent to somewhere more, let’s say…sheltered. So I got situated in a nice little cove at the top of the campground with no view mind you but at least I didn't need to hold on to a tree to stand up and I didn't have to weigh my tent down with boulders to keep it on the side of the cliffs. Score one for the Gipper! Again, I climbed in and settled in for a nice warm sleep. In the morning I awoke to a quiet and still morning. The wind had died completely and as I crawled out of my tent to stretch I realized something was amiss. Now I have been in Ireland for almost ten days but on that beautiful and glorious morning, I met my first Midge. Oh, and his 50,000 cousins. Now if you have never met a midge you really must indulge yourself in their loving and welcoming embrace. Midges my friends are basically flying teeth, but not just any teeth, flying piranha teeth. Not just any flying piranha teeth, but ravenous, flying piranha teeth, and not just…well you get my drift. I have never dropped a tent and packed my shit so fast in all my life. I limped my sorry self up out of that place, thumb throbbing, hand bleeding, sore feet aching, being followed hungrily by a family of midges and looking as if I hadn't slept in days. I was surprised anyone stopped to give me a lift at all. But did I tell you how spectacular the views were??? To be honest it was one of the best times I have ever had in my life even despite the comedy of errors. Life is like that sometimes; you have to learn to take the good with the bad and when things don’t go as planned just put your head down, smile, laugh it off, and make the best of it. Deep thoughts with Kristine, complete.

The Players: I just want to give a shout-out to some of the people who have helped to make this journey so incredible.

Karen and Steve; I met Karen and Steve my first morning on the “Way” and we spent the next two nights in the hostels together. We lost each other along the way but reconnected yesterday in Killarney. We had breakfast together one last time while we spoke fondly of our journey. It was nice to see them once again as we had started out together what seemed like so very long ago.

Brian; I met Brian at the “Sleepy Camel” on my third day out. He came into the hostel the day Steve and Karen left and I had decided to stay an extra day. Now Brian was a card. He was 75 years old and sewn together with leather and nails. We sat together that evening in the sitting room of the Sleepy Camel, where he drank Jameson and regaled me with stories of his past. As the Jameson in his bottle got smaller his tales got bigger, his somewhat prominent nose got redder and my laughter grew louder. I met and/or traveled with Brian for the next two days until we lost track of each other in Waterville. He caught up with me again in Killarney two days ago where we reminisced and said a final goodbye as he left on the bus yesterday morning for New Castle.

Glen and Molly: Now this had to be one of my favorite evenings thus far. I met Glen and Molly in a little town called Carsiveen. They were working at a Hostel called the “Sive” in exchange for room and board. They were disenchanted with the expectations and confines of life in the real world and decided to make and create their own path in life and good for them. We spent the evening sitting by a fire that Glen had built in the hearth of the sitting room, talking about the earth, about kids these days, about expectations of society, and about dreams that were meant to be chased. Loved those kids and I hope they follow their dreams to their fruition. I didn't have the heart to tell them “Good luck with that…”

The folks at Neptune’s in Killarney: All total I spent four nights at Neptune’s in Killarney. So I have to give props to; Kinga, Juliet, Michael, and Peter, who was not only the nicest guy I have ever met but the finest guy I have seen in Ireland thus far, (and BTW: thanks for the chocolate Peter!) and the rest of the people that worked at Neptune’s. That hostel became like a second home to me. Love you guys.

Ian; I met Ian as I was walking through Caherdaniel and as he was sitting on a stone wall having just come off the trail and was, as was I, tired of hiking. I was doing a day hike at the time so I crossed the street to speak with him and find out what he was up to, if he was hiking the Way, and if so to see what I had missed on that particular section. He was trying to hitch a ride into Sneem as I would do several days later. We spoke for a few moments and eventually parted ways; I headed south into the park and he, hopeful to catch a ride north, to Sneem. When I arrived back at Neptune’s a few days later the first one to greet me was Ian who just happened to be sitting on the couch in the lobby when I arrived. It was great to see him and unknown to us at the time that would be the beginning of what my friend Ben would later refer to as “the perfect storm.”

The Killarney Crew; Sunday was one of those days I will look back on for the rest of my life. I would later refer to it thusly.  

That day it was as if some giant hand was putting together a puzzle, and as each member of the Crew came into play another piece of the puzzle was put into place. It was Ian and Sam whom I met as I stepped back into Neptune’s that evening, where Ian suggested that later we should go for a pint, Sam agreed and the puzzle pieces began being placed. Over the next hour or so I met Lauren and Kellie two girls from Missouri and who in my mind were the salt of the earth; two more pieces of the puzzle in place. Then I met Ben. Ben was from Australia; we made an instant connection and Ben became what I would have to say was my best “mate” while I was in Killarney. Sarah from Texas with her innocent smile was next to be placed and, last but not least, Hannah was added to the mix, and with that, the universe made an audible “click.” The “Perfect Storm,” as Ben would call it, had been created. Ben nicknamed me “mum,” as I was the oldest of the Crew, the rest of the kids soon followed suit and together we headed for the pub not knowing that night at the “Grand” in Killarney would be one of a kind. A night that could never be duplicated, nor would any of us want to. 

Breakfast Club that morning was quite loud and a great deal of fun but unfortunately, most had to leave that day. They filtered out one by one with hugs and handshakes and wishes for safe travels. And although over the next day or so Ben and I met new friends it wasn't quite the same. He and I slowly said goodbye to them all until he and I were the last two remaining. Ben eventually had to leave on the bus Tuesday morning. We gave each other a hug and a smile and said goodbye knowing that the universe had pulled us all together. 

The puzzle had been but for one day, but the perfect storm would stay with each of us forever. 

Me and Ben

                  

Across the "Bog"

                                                               

                                              


                                                       Killarney to Black Valley

I often find myself torn between the part of me that enjoys being alone; torn between that need for complete and utter solitude where I can be nothing more than exactly who I am and not what people expect me to be and the other part of me, the gregarious part, the part that loves to be the center of attention and the part of me who loves people. Torn between that kind of solitude and that deep-seated need in me that wants to know what makes them, or you, tick. I think I would honestly have to say that this trip has afforded me the opportunity to explore both of those very distinct, but different needs. While hiking the trail thus far I have had equal time to be alone and ample opportunity to connect with other people from all across the world. As I started out from Killarney I had no idea what to expect and I certainly got more than I bargained for. Although there were at first many people along the trail to Torc Waterfall like Derek and Ellen who were from South Africa and were so taken by what I was doing that Ellen wanted her picture taken with me and Derek wanted to return next year so they could hike the trail themselves. Side note: Somewhere in South Africa right now Derek and Ellen are showing that picture to their friends and I am forever immortalized in their photo album. Need to connect with others and be the center of attention satisfied. Now, I eventually left Derek and Ellen behind me as I gained some height over the mountain pass and distanced myself from the crowds. The climb was rough; grueling would be a good word for it. I at times found myself climbing on hands and knees thirty pounds strapped to my back over shale and gravel slopes. I hopped precariously from one rock to another up the rough-hewn mountainside only to find myself sliding down the other side on slippery, loam-covered slopes, usually on my backside, trying not to fall and break something. At times I prayed to God to give me the strength to endure the next obstacle or cursed the mist-filled sky wondering WTF I was doing out there all alone. And then I would find myself over that hurdle, standing on a mountainside, in complete awe of the sheer beauty that surrounded me.  And in an instant, it all became worth the effort, the sweat, the tears. That day, my first on the “Way” was also the day that I met my friend Eric.
                                 
I was at one point taking a much-needed rest sitting on a large flat rock watching some deer on the distant hillside when around the corner came Eric. He was as startled to see me as I him but we made an instantaneous connection. I smiled and put my finger to my lips and quietly motioned for him to look across to the far hills. As his eyes caught the movement of the deer he eased himself down on the rock beside me and in silence we watched the beauty of Mother Nature in motion. Eric took his eyes from the horizon, smiled up at me, and in broken English asked me my name, and I his. We showed each other the maps we had and exchanged stories about the trail. Eric was on his 8^th and final day, I was on my first and most challenging. We decided to have lunch together and spread the contents of our packs on the rock between us. He pulled out some apples and chocolate and I some thick chunks of wheat bread, Irish cheese, and dried meat. We sat awhile sharing with one another the food we had laid out, each other’s company, and the spectacular view. Sitting there silently with him I thought to myself; now this is part of what being alive is all about. About the connection we can make over something as simple as apples and cheese. About how similar we all are in our differences, and about the pureness one can find in the beauty of simple moments. When Eric and I parted ways it was with warm smiles, handshakes, and memories of a bond and a friendship which happened by chance in a land filled with immense beauty and challenges. I moved back along the “Way” and glanced back over my shoulder to see Eric doing the same. We waved a last goodbye and turned to finish that day’s journey each in our own quiet solitude. At the end of that first day, I hiked, climbed, walked, scurried, slid, and cussed my way for 15 incredible miles over mountains, through valleys, across rivers and prairies. I met amazing people and saw things I had only dreamed of seeing. By the time I found the hostel in Black Valley, I was completely spent. My entire body was literally quivering with exhaustion. It took me 2 hours longer than expected and the feeling of triumph was a good night’s rest away.

                                                    Black Valley to Glencar

I awoke the next morning and could actually walk, much to my surprise. When collapsing into my bed that evening I thought there was no way I would even be able to move tomorrow let alone hike for 12 miles. I guess I was wrong. That morning I met Karen and Steve who were from England and were also hiking Kerry Way. Although we did not hike the trail together, as I wanted my solitude and they wanted theirs, we did spend the next two nights together at the same hostels where we drank a few cold ones and told stories from the day’s travels. Mine just happened to be the story of the day. (Center of attention anyone?) I had a good start to the morning making my way past the Gearhanour Stream and past the Lough making the decision to veer off the trail and hike along a road that ran parallel to the Way and which rejoined it later. I made good time, it was a beautiful sunny day, and Broaghnabinna Mountain and Cummeenduff Lough were shining brightly in the rare sunlight. My spirits were high and my aim was true. I easily regained the “Way” and traversed down into Commeenduff Glen. I then followed the posted signs making my way up out of the Glen. I stopped to refill my water bottles at a mountain stream and after surveying my surroundings I instinctively told myself that south through the low pass is the way out of the valley. But the trail book indicated to first head up a steeply graded road. I hesitated; it just felt like something was amiss. When in doubt people, go with your gut. I ended up taking the wrong path all the while Karen and Steve, who did not miss that particular marker, were across the mountain waving at me frantically and watching helplessly as I veered up the mountain and out of sight. Now when the trail ended smack dab into a lake I knew I was not where I needed to be. Decision time; forge ahead or retrace my steps. Since I am the type of person who always errs on the side of caution, I forged ahead. As I continued on I told myself all the while that I could regain the trail if I could cross the Infant Caragh River and make my way to the top of the near peak, or thereabouts, and look down into the pass to see if I could spot the trail. And that is what I did. I climbed to as near as I could to the top of the bluff, saw the Caragh Valley, which is what I had been searching for and was supposed to be heading into, checked my bearing with my compass, decided it was correct, and made my way down onto the valley floor below finally finding the “Way” markers and breathing a sigh of relief. I remember falling in the mud a lot coming down off that mountain; luckily it wasn't over a precipice. So with my pride intact, my ass covered in mud, and my sound sense of direction back on course, I traversed across the Caragh Valley where I found a gravel road and where I was lucky enough to, after two hours of walking, hitch a ride with the one car that came by. It was occupied by two teenagers’ joy riding and who I considered to be my guardian angels. They took me the last 6 km and dropped me off at the front door of the hostel. Steve and Karen were shocked, to say the least when I was at the bar awaiting their arrival. I let them think on that a bit before I told them I cheated. We all had a good laugh, a cold beer, and a good night's rest before we headed out again the next morning in the hopes of making it to Glenbeigh that afternoon.

                                                                           

                                                          Glencar to Glenbeigh

The “Seefin” and “Windy Gap.” Nuff said. The hike up and over Windy Gap was, to say the least, the easiest day on the Way. Leaving the hostel bright and early I got a good lead on Karen and Steve. I figured that way if I ran into trouble I would have them pulling up the rear and they could come and save me. This part of Kerry Way was only eight miles and was mostly road walking so it was a fine uneventful day. Oh except for the magic of the Seefin and getting lost in the clouds in Windy Gap. Now if you have been waiting for me to wax poetic here I go. I am not sure what “Seefin” actually is; whether it is the name of the area I was in or the sink that I walked through, but it was all amazing. At one point  I was coming up a stairway cut into the mountainside and I unwittingly scared a whole herd of wild goats. I’m not sure who was more surprised them or me, but they scattered across the glen way faster than I did that’s for sure. I continued my journey forward and found myself going down another set of stairs that had been carved into the rock outcroppings and then down deeper into what we call in F.L.A. a natural sink. In Ireland, this is the stuff of fairy tales and leprechauns. It was so serene and so tranquil there. I found myself standing alone. I could feel my heart beat ever so gently in my chest, my own breathing the only thing I could hear, and feeling as if I was the only person on earth. You almost felt as if this, this place, was hallowed ground. Not from something religious or man-made, but because of something spiritual that was being given to you from the earth itself. And as I paused I could feel the presence of something, something special, of what I can only presume was…the aura of the earth. It was magical. It was difficult to leave that place behind me and I did so reluctantly. I will always cherish those few moments in time and I will always remember the intensity of that place. Without a doubt, I felt a peace there that I had never felt before. So with those memories made, I continued my way out of the Seefin and headed towards the top of Windy Gap and very soon I again found myself in a place where the earth itself spoke to me. As I was making my way across the dell I could see the clouds drifting across the top of the mountains. At times it was so thick the peaks disappeared only to reappear moments later still looking strong, ancient…invincible. I journeyed up into the high pass where I could scan the valley below and where I could still make out the little country roads, the quaint country church, and the yellow flowers that dotted the valley floor. And then I was suddenly and quietly engulfed by a soft gentle mist. It surrounded me; I could hear the birds trilling below, I could taste the moisture on my lips, and feel the cloud on my skin as it drifted over me. But all I could see was…the grey. You want me to wax poetic about inter-connectedness, about being one with your surroundings and at one with this earth, about being a part of this planet, not just being on it. Well, there you have it. It was a defining moment in my life. This was the most amazing day thus far and I will delight in it, revel in it, and remember it forever. Poetic waxing complete.

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