The next section of our day was road walking, which is preferable to a very stony climb up the side of a mountain, but it can be hard on your feet in a different way. We frequently had to press ourselves against the hedgerow to make room for passing cars and tractors. The bumble bees were busy at work on the flowers in the hedge and seemed annoyed by our passing. They frequently dive-bombed us to express their unhappiness, which sent me running into oncoming cars more than once. I'm convinced the bees planned it that way, but I can't prove it.
At one bend in the road, we met up with a woman whom I'd seen earlier that morning in Anascaul. She was walking alone and when we approached, she asked if she could walk with us and pointed further up the road. Dogs.
Two working dogs were lying in the shade near the end of a drive, one wore a muzzle. I suppose he was a bit too aggressive with the newly born lambs and his owners wanted to keep his activities to herding, not hurting. The lady was obviously afraid, but she needn't have worried. The dogs were no bother; they were on a coffee break and couldn't have been less interested in us. I'm sure if I'd hopped the hedgerow into the sheep pasture, things would have changed. She was visibly nervous until we'd left the dogs well behind. We talked a bit and learned she was from Munich. Like all Europeans, her gait was longer and faster than ours. She was holding back to keep in step with us. I wasn't really looking for a new friend, but didn't want to be unfriendly so when she asked if she could walk with us, I said yes.
Fortunately for us, after a mile or so, we met up with another German couple we'd met on the way into Anascaul. They started talking and Bam! The three of them were off and we were on our own again. We've not seen any of them since.
As usual, the dwarf led our procession, Lauren followed him and I followed her. It's a comfortable arrangement, and I'm left to talk to cows and horses while they make decisions regarding the map. Navigation is for the youngsters. I'm here for the views and the pints, and not necessarily in that order.
When the tarmac road we were following began to go downhill, I got suspicious and looked around. Sure enough, off to our right was a Dingle Way marker the two in front of me had overlooked.
"Hey, Guys!" I shouted. "The trail goes this way."
The dwarf and his elf (that's what he calls Lauren) turned back with looks on their faces that made clear they didn't believe me. How could I have found the way? I mean, really. I must have made a mistake.
The dwarf blamed it on being distracted. I said nothing, but knew I'd saved us from another game of "Where the hell are we and how do get to where we want to go?" I don't really like that game.
We wound our way through farmland, poop covered pastures and around fields of cattle. The views were glorious, but there was no shade and the sun was relentless. (Yes, relentless. In Ireland. Crazy talk, I know.) Lauren's sunburn was hurting, in spite of being covered by a long sleeve shirt and sunblock. I gave her my hat and we topped that off with a hooded sweatshirt draped over the hat to keep her neck covered, too. (It wasn't very comfortable for her because it held in the heat.)
We dropped back down to a road for a bit and then climbed back up into fields. A short way into a farm, we found the Way tied off. The farmer had roped off the path to keep people out. All of the guidebooks and websites make clear that walkers are to honor the wishes of the farmers. After all, we're trespassing on their land. We found that every direction we tried was cordoned off. There was nothing to do but go back to the road and hope that it would take us to Dingle.
Road walking - especially after ten miles or so - gets tedious and very hot. After a couple of miles, we stopped a passing car and found that the road we were on would (eventually) take us into town. The water was running low and Lauren was turning a more vibrant shade of red. Her hips and legs hurt and mine weren't happy either.
As we approached every hill, the dwarf would tell us that Dingle Town just "had" to be over that hill. It never was. Discouragement and aching muscles took over when the water ran out, but we finally made it. Dingle came into view after we climbed one last steep, ugly hill. Down, down, down we went to the main drag lined with pub after glorious pub. Lauren and I smelled like sheep dung and wanted nothing more than a shower and clean clothes. (That's not entirely true. I also wanted a pint, but knew it would have to wait.) We left the dwarf at his hostel and headed off main street and to the wharf. Our B&B was almost near the end of a quaint waterfront area, littered with shops and pubs.
We found our B&B and once in our room, discovered that Lauren's sunburn was far worse. Despite being covered, the sun burned her right through the shirt. Her chest and neck were angry red with what appeared to be small blisters. Ugh. She was hurting but, in typical Lauren fashion, wasn't complaining. That's when her left forearm started to swell. We both watched it grow in size before our eyes. She has a Popeye forearm, but just on her left side. No pain, no redness, no bite marks. Just a hugely swollen forearm. I thin its damn impressive; she doesn't agree.
After a shower and fresh clothes, and a slathering of burn meds on Lauren's upper body, we went downstairs to Murphy's Pub for Smithwick's and grub. Lauren had mushroom soup and veggie pasta in a creamy garlic sauce. I had fish and chips. The food was so-so, but the pints and the company were stellar. We crawled back upstairs to our room, ate some Advil, applied more burn cream, and then crawled into bed with the windows open. The best cure for insomnia is a long day of walking Ireland's countryside. I tried to stay awake long enough to replay the day in my mind, but didn't make it far before the cobwebs took over. The comfortable sounds of a very old fishing village winding down made their way into our room and lulled us into a peaceful sleep. I am a lucky girl.
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