Hiking Ireland

“A good walk spoiled” is how Mark Twain described the game of golf. But clearly Huck Finn’s author never had the pleasure of strolling the links of Ireland. Having said that, after eight days chunking shots and misreading putts at Ballybunion, Lahinch, and a number of other venerable golf courses with seven buddies, I was more than ready to hang up the clubs and go walkabout.

Five of the lads made their way to Dublin Airport for the long flight back to Canada, but I and two lucky buddies remained behind at the Brooks Hotel, awaiting the arrival of our better halves – and the second portion of our Emerald Isle adventure. We were bound for a week of relaxed hiking in the west of Ireland. I was looking forward to a calmer, tamer chapter than the golf marathon. A road trip with the boys can leave one’s body – and brain – badly bruised.

We were slumped in easy chairs in the lobby of the Brooks perusing the Irish Times when a cab pulled up and the gals came swinging through the doors. We kissed hello while Connor, the affable doorman, unloaded bags. After a quick freshen up we hit Dublin’s late afternoon streets, introducing the ladies to the Stag’s Head, our favourite Temple Bar pub, where we slurped a Guinness, stared up at the stuffed stags staring down upon us – and chowed down on some fine Irish stew.

In the morning, before boarding the train for Killarney – the starting point of our hike – we enjoyed a city walking tour, visiting the statues of sweet Molly Malone and Oscar Wilde who, amongst other great witticisms, coined the phrase about imitation being the sincerest form of flattery. As an unrepentant pilferer of other people’s ideas, I tip my hat to old Oscar.

Making small talk in the taxi en route to the train station, I looked up at the sky and asked the driver, “Are you expecting rain?”

He looked at me as if I were daft and said, “This is Ireland lad, we are always expecting rain.” The train-view from Dublin to Killarney was eventful – tunnels, high hedges, fields of dyed sheep. On arrival, a dark-haired woman with a friendly face and a broad smile greeted us on the platform. Elaine Farrell introduced herself as we threw our packs in the back of an eight-seater van. Elaine, from https://www.irelandwalkhikebike.com would be our driver, private guide and constant companion for the week.

The forecast for hiking was not as favourable as it had been for our golf week but, as the locals joyfully proclaim: “You don’t come to Ireland for the weather.” The first day began with a soggy boat trip to the headwaters of the Three Lakes, in Killarney National Park.

Elaine Farrell and friend on Killarney LakesAs we motored the narrow waters, the third-generation boatman entertained us with local history – some of which may have been true – and an infectious laugh. We docked at Lord Brandon’s Cottage from whence we tromped the ancient Butter Road from Mol’s Gap back to Killarney town.

On a high hill overlooking the Lakes the rain paused briefly and the clouds parted. Light swept across the green of Macgillycutty’s Reeks as if the sun was chasing herself across the valley.

After two nights in Killarney, we packed for Cahersiveen and a beach hike on the north shore of the Ring of Kerry. From there we moved on to Dingle and a glorious trek skirting Annascaul Lake.

We climbed up and through a mountain pass connecting the south of Dingle peninsula to the north. As we reached the summit, we encountered a solitary shepherd clad in leather breeches, a soiled woolen sweater and gumboots. He also sported a grizzled visage. I asked for his picture but he shook his head resolutely, “I’m not that attractive. Better to get a shot of the dog.” But the border collie was having none of it and hurried off in search of a wayward lamb.

Elaine turned and, as always, sloshed ahead, warning us around wet spots and cautioning against the few poisonous plants. “Beware the kidney vetch,” she said, “it can lead to Dingle chin.” She laughed, then strode into a field of bog cotton.

Every hike was different and unique. One afternoon we marched along a lonely beach, skirting sea-scoured boulders, tidal pools and the rising sea. Another day it was a narrow path, with ancient stone walls flanking our journey. There were high traverses and stunning outlooks to the ocean. These old paths have been walked for centuries, always conforming to a specific width: the combination of a cow’s length and girth. Don’t ask me why.

And every night was unique. A fine pub with great dinner; fish and chips, spring lamb, stew. And good company. Elaine always ate with us. In my experience it is unusual for a guide to eat supper with the guests; usually they’re exhausted after a long day attending to the whims of indulged tourists, so the tour boss lets them have a peaceful, solitary evening. But Elaine’s energy was unabated. She was there ‘til the bitter end each night, answering our inane questions, breaking bread and sharing mushy peas, telling us what was in store for the day to follow. In the morning there she was, knapsack packed and water bottle full, ready to pilot us on a new adventure.

The weather was variable: in the morning rain, then sun, then brutal wind, then a downpour, then sun. But sometimes it was very different: the morning began with sun, then turned to rain, then came the wind…

By the way, green isn’t Ireland’s only colour scheme. The rain also brings pink foxglove, bright rhododendron and cherry-red fuchsia to compete with the moss, the ivy and the leafy trees.

These names won’t mean much to you, but if you’re thinking of traversing Ireland’s paths you should consider the Kerry Way, Derrynane, the Dingle Peninsula, Slea Head and the pilgrimage up Mount Brandon.

Elaine photo-bombing the clientele at Mt. Brandon kissing gateOn our Mt. Brandon day, the final chapter in our weeklong experience, the summit was socked in – so Elaine spontaneously changed the itinerary. Scanning the horizon, she spotted the remains of a 15th century lookout on Brandon Head overlooking the sea and said, “Shall we give that a go?” We jumped in the van, veering past ripening hay fields and a soggy peat bog toward what appeared to be a trailhead. Elaine asked the local landowner for permission to enter and directions to the summit – which were happily proffered – and off we trod up the steep pitch. The hike was a highlight – and the reward spectacular.

As we climbed toward the ruins the path narrowed to a ridge; to the south all of verdant Dingle laid out below us, to the north certain death loomed over a sheer cliff.

We ate lunch in the lee of the old fort, protected from the buffeting wind by a crumbling wall.

“Brilliant,” Elaine said. We all looked around and silently agreed.

Gerry