Camp to Anascaul

Last night's host, John Doyle, was a very kind man, but his sister is one of a kind to be sure. (Just to clarify, she is not a man.)  I just can't say enough about them.  As you already know, she dug through her medicine cabinet at a very late hour to try to help me soothe Lauren's burned skin.  If that wasn't enough, John drove me to a gas station to buy water and more meds.

Once Lauren's skin was plastered with "after sun", we slept heavily.  When the alarm went off at 7:20am, I shut it off and instantly fell back to sleep.  At 8:05, I bolted awake.  We were due to be at the table by 8:30. Getting Lauren out of bed was no easy feat because we'd been up quite late.  The sun doesn't set until after 11pm, so despite our burned skin and fatigue, we didn't go to sleep until well after midnight.  Just as frustrating - less than five hours after the sun went down, the damn thing was back up again.  Craziness.

After breakfast, John's sister drove Lauren and I back to the gas station to buy sunblock.  She wanted to save us another mile or so of walking before we hit the trail.  I have to admit, I was grateful because the walk from the B&B to the gas station felt like it was straight uphill.  We tried to say no, but she insisted on taking us.  We thanked her as best we could and told her how wonderful she was.  We meant every word.

"If they don't have sun cream, you come right across the street to my door.  I'll give you what I have.  No trouble atall," she said.

Would anyone in the States to this for a complete stranger?  One they'd never see again?

I found sunblock, which was great, but I'd also hoped to find a hat to shield my girl's face from the sun.  No hats were to be found, but I was grateful for the sunblock.  I grabbed a few baguettes, two apples and a banana and took our goods outside to pack.  Guess who was waiting on the shoulder of the road in her car? John's sister wanted to be sure we'd found sun block.  When she discovered we hadn't gotten a hat, she produced a brand new baseball cap and handed it out the window.  She insisted that we take it and wished us Godspeed.

I felt like a hobbit setting off on a grand adventure, bestowed with gifts I hadn't earned and didn't deserve. Please remind me when I get home, to send a rum cake to John and his sister.  They are dear, dear people.

Today's eleven miles were much easier on the feet than yesterday's.  The views were (for me) just as spectacular.  I enjoyed every last minute, in spite of the seemingly endless climbing.  I'd do it again right now, given the opportunity.  God knows there's enough sunlight left.

Much like England's Coast to Coast, leaving any town means a climb.  Today was no different.  We set off down a very pretty country lane, jumping into the hedge row several times to make way for huge John Deere tractors pulling trailers of stuff.  I don't think I'd ever tire of Ireland's country lanes.  The hedgerows are replete with foxgloves, fuchsia, buttercups and miniature daisies.  These are flowers we don't have in the Keys, but that are part of my NY and VA pasts.  I enjoyed each passing inch of hedgerow.  More than once, Lauren turned to say something to me, only to find me grinning like a moron because of the flowers. She gets me, so its okay.

The ascent out of Camp wasn't an easy one, but I've learned the ascent never is.  Steep and unrelenting was the lane.  Fortunately, I found lots of beautiful cows and adorable sheep to talk to along the way, allowing me to catch my breath and rest my burning legs.  The cows seemed quite interested in two American girls with packs and walking sticks.  Some of them approached and sniffed, keeping a safe distance.  We cooed and mooed and told them how lovely they were.  It came as no surprise; they already knew it.

The views were grand.  Mountains on either side, a glorious valley below and everywhere we looked, there was green upon green upon green.  The mountains were patch work of greens spotted white with sheep and various colors of bovine.  If I was a gifted painter, this surely would be something I'd want to recreate.  The serenity is indescribable.  I hope I never forget the feelings my surroundings produced.

After forty minutes or so of climbing, we were in the clouds.  Literally.  The mountains, their patchwork, the cows and the sheep disappeared.  We were enveloped in a shroud of white mist.  The temps dropped the higher we climbed.  I stopped to add a layer and was tempted to get out my knit hat and gloves, but Lauren eyeballed me, so I stopped short of that.  The sounds of mooing and bleating were muffled as the visibility dropped to a hundred yards.  I truly enjoy walking in the cloud world.  It's magical.  I was convinced that a dragon would, at any moment, plummet from the sky and land beside us.  My imagination goes into overtime when I'm wrapped in clouds.

Faced with an easy terrain, my eyes were free to soak in the views rather than focusing on where to place my trotters.  The flowers, streams and cattle were precious.  The sheep were dastardly mischievous.

It's commonplace to find the poop of cows and sheep on the trial.  We think nothing of it because we're crossing their grazing fields.  Today, however, we walked among some cunning little bastards.  At one point, we crossed a cattle grid, which is a series of metal rods crossing a ditch, that allows tractors and cars to pass over, but not cattle.  (Sometimes people have difficulty with them, too, but I try to forget that memory.)

It was clear that the sheep on this particular hunk of land resented those who could cross the cattle grid. They organized a group effort, convincing each member of the herd to tighten their sphincter until they reached the area right after the humans cross the grid and then they all let go in the same place, creating a barrier of shit.  A sheep shit barrier.  It was a brilliant strategy and might have convinced lesser humans to turn back, but not us.  We plodded forward, in spite of the poop wall and continued our journey to Anascaul.

After an hour or so of cloud walking, the skies cleared and we were again visited by the warm Irish sun. (Lauren was sun blocked this time.)  We walked past groupings of attractive cottages with small barns and pastures of cows.  My favorite homestead had a pasture so close to the house that the cows could peer right into the kitchen window.  I was certain I heard one say, "Eat more chicken!"

We slowly wound our way down to the water level again and found our way to Foley's Pub for a pint.  Lauren had a bowl of soup and brown bread while I devoured a plate of goat cheese with pesto on a bed of greens.  It was crazy yummy while being light and refreshing.  I balanced that healthy, light feeling with two pints of Smithwick's.  Then the ascent started again....and it simply wouldn't end.  I darted off trail more than once to rid myself of the beer.  I'm hoping what I thought was poison ivy was not.  Time will tell.  ("Hey, look what I brought home from Ireland!")

We climbed and climbed and climbed until I thought my ear drum would burst.  The views were breathtaking.  Come to think of it, so was the walking; I was winded for most of it.

This is probably a good time to remind you that the Keys are flatter than I was during my junior high school years.  Training for this walk was nearly impossible.  Our biggest incline is the Snake Creek Bridge, which is not as steep as my parent's driveway.  Our legs are rebuilding themselves by the minute.

After about an hour of relentless climbing, we joined a tarmac road.  Within another hour or so, we descended into the village of Anascaul and not a moment too soon.  Lauren's hips were screaming at her and she needed relief.  Luckily for us, the very first pub we happened upon was our own for the night: Teac Seain, which means Sean's House in Irish.  (Before you jump all over me, the Irish are moving away from using the term "Gaelic" and prefer to call their language "Irish".  There's an enormous movement to preserve the language (which I wholeheartedly support) and signs are written first in Irish and then in English.  I love that!)

After walking into the proprietors actual home - yeah, we walked right in like we owned the joint - the lady of the house walked us out and down two doors to the proper entrance.  Our room is large and airy.  We both showered and put on clean clothes and were off again.  We had a pint downstairs in the Teac Seain Pub, which is very small and clearly a place for the locals, then we headed to the South Pole Inn.  It's famous for producing Anascaul's one famous person, Tom Crean.  I leave it to you to research the man and his legend.

The food was okay, but the people were exceptionally friendly.  If Lauren's hips and sun burn hadn't been bothering her so much, we'd have stayed longer.  Instead, we're back in our room.  She's connected to wifi and talking with friends while I putter, reorganizing our gear.  I'm sipping a glass of Merlot and getting my thoughts into electrons in between washing out stinky socks and emptying water containers so that they can air out for the night before being refilled and carried on my back tomorrow.

Coming from below, I hear the sounds of the pub.  The accents of the locals here are very, very thick and difficult to understand.  We will fall asleep to the sounds of Irish countrymen bantering back and forth over pints of Guinness.  I wish I could bottle it and take it home.  I know many would complain about the noise, but if you listen closely, it's not noise.  It's the sound of my distant past and I embrace it.