Today was an unusual trail day all the way around. I did practically nothing according to the routine that naturally established itself over a week ago when I left Killarney. To begin, I didn't leave my B&B until 11am! Normally by that time, I've several miles under my belt. However, my gracious innkeeper wasn't ready to transport bags (including this old bag) until then, so I lingered over breakfast and blogged about it. That in itself was out of the ordinary - I don't normally have time for that sort of thing.
By the time we said our goodbyes and I dashed into the shop in Caherdaniel for a few things, it was nearly noon. I had my first Diet Coke since leaving Islamorada. It was good and yucky at the same time. I loved how loudly it made me belch, but that might have had something to do with how quickly I guzzled it. I belched so loudly that a man raking some sort of shit off the side of the road jumped. We had a wonderful conversation afterwards. Turns out, he can belch on command. He proved it and we had a few hard belly laughs until his mobile rang and we had to cut our frivolity short. What a character he was. As I walked away, a white Heineken beer truck passed me. I took it as a sign that the day would be grand.
At the shop, I also bought a baguette and a package of salami. I was determined to eat these ones and not give them to Owen. (They are still in my wet backpack...which reminds me that I should pull them out to dry.) The day's views out of Caherdaniel were spectacular! (Have I already told you that 'caher' means fort? Now I have.) They were so spectacular in fact, that after forty-five minutes, I realized that I'd only walked about two miles but had taken a butt-load of pix. I knew I had to put some road behind me if I was ever to make the fifteen miles to Sneem. However, the landscape had other plans.
Wildflowers, heifers, bulls, seascapes, abandoned old stone houses, calves, and god knows that else distracted me. But really, isn't that the whole purpose of walking? To soak in the wonderful vistas along the way? If I was in a hurry to get there, I'd have hopped a bloody bus.
Another unusual circumstance, was that I walked right past two places in which I could have stopped for a pint. Normally, those opportunities are few and far between on the trail and I never let one go without stopping in for a couple. Today, however, I forced myself to keep going. I had a late start and had much ground to cover. I didn't like having to pass them by. Neither, apparently, did the universe because by the time the third opportunity presented itself, I had to cave.
In the oh-so-quiet village of Castlecove (don't you love the name?), I stumbled upon a pub called "The Black Shop". Not sheep, but shop. Don't ask me, because I don't get it. It was nearly underground and very dark inside. It took my eyes a few moments to adjust. I was alone. I cleared my throat (how American of me) to get the attention of whomever might be around. From the back room came an adorable old man who'd clearly had a battle with throat cancer. He had the cover thingy on his throat (don't judge...i'm tired and you know exactly what i'm talking about) so don't get all uppity because i can't remember its proper name.). Seventy minutes and four pints later (YES! four pints! It's all his fault.), I insisted that I had to go. He told me that if I waited a few minutes, I could have a ride to Sneem. I thanked him, but told him that I didn't want to cheat.
While we shared pints, he told me about his four-hundred year old pub. He'd lived in Ireland most of his life and then for some hair-brained reason moved to Boston. When he learned that the old pub was for sale, he moved back and bought it. The memorabilia he has on the walls is priceless; his stories are even better. We hit it off right off the bat. He asked me my toughts (thoughts) on the English. I've been in this rodeo before. I pretended to spit on the floor. He laughed so hard, he had to take the cover off of his troat (throat) tingy (thingy) and hack up a wad of crap. Then he recovered it and said, "Those roots run deep, cailin." (That word means girl in his language and it's been many a year since someone called me a girl.) We talked about a lot of things, but when I told him of my dream to move to Kerry and buy a farm he said, "The heart knows when it's home, cailin.", and he's right. It does.
I hated to say goodbye, but there was ground to cover. He insisted that I take a picture of the two of us. As he put his arm around me and grabbed my fat roll he told me what a sturdy, solid woman I am. I believe that's an Irish compliment.....He also insisted that I put his mobile in my contact list and let him know the minute I arrived in Sneem. I did as directed. He walked me to the door and told me that a cousin of his is selling five acres with an old, stone house just down the road. He said it would please him to call me neighbor. I hugged him tightly and promised that we'd meet again. He asked one last time if I wanted to wait for a lift, but I told him that I really wanted to walk. When I got to a bend in the road I looked back. Mr. Brendon was still standing there. We waved and I turned away...but I'll be back.
Pints of beer have magical properties. Duh. I tend to walk faster after having a few...at least for a couple of miles, but then my bladder tends to occupy most of my brain power and I slow down. There was NO WHERE for me to attend to the call of nature. There was a barbed-wire fence on both sides of the road and the ticket (thicket) wasn't deep enough to hide me, plus it's tick season. The ideaof getting a critter in my under carriage kept me from stopping. Every time I had to jump into the ticket to avoid being hit by a car, my bladder thought it was time to let go. I was nearly ready to drop trou and pee in the road when the Heineken truck went by a second time. I licked my lips as it passed.
As he drove out of sight over a hill, I daydreamed about walking over that hill to find him waiting for me on the side of the road. Ha. That stuff only happens in cheesy romance novels.
And my life! As I crested the hill, I saw the truck on the side of the road. It had pulled off in the first safe place available. The engine was running. I sped up, wondering if I was hallucinating. As I approached, the driver put down his window and shouted a greeting. I asked if he was heading to Sneem and he pointed to his passenger seat. In my excitement, I almost got squashed by an oncoming Volkswagen. I had to jump back into the ticket while my beer man grinned at me.
If you know me at all, you realize there is NOTHING more appropriate to arrive as my hero than a beer man driving a beer truck. Nothing. A knight in shining armor on a white horse, I mean white beer truck. Derry drove me to the front door of my B&B while we chatted about all things Irish. I asked if Mr. Brendon had sent him and he thought for a moment. Then he laughed. He said that he had recently been there and that the old man had mentioned an American and directed him to give her a lift if he saw her, but he didn't make the connection when he passed me. He'd pulled over to call the office. He said he thought I looked "sturdy and solid". when he passed me and didn't think I needed a lift..again, these damn Irishman don't really know how to compliment a cailin.
He said that he wished he could join me and me walking mates at a pub, but that he had a father-daughter dance to go to - which I thought was just wonderful - but said that maybe he could catch up with all of us in Kenmare. Who better to include in a pub night than a beer man?!
After he drove off, I walked to the front door of my B&B. After taking off my wet boots and sliding off my pack, I rang the bell. No one was home. I put my boots back on, pulled the pack back on, and headed into town. I had to pee! About a mile later, I found meself a pub. By then it was raining like hell. Two hours later, I was mostly dry and happy. I figured the innkeepers had to be home.
What a beautiful home! The lady of the house and I were instant friends. She and I could get into trouble. Fast. But that's for another adventure. For now, I'm happy to be in for the night. My room is gorgeous; a queen-sized sleigh bed with matching wingback chairs, and a very nice desk. It's sturdy and solid like this cailin.
As I headed for a hot shower, I brought all of my nasty walking clothes with me. I smell so badly, I offend myself., but then I've walked about a hundred miles in them...without washing them. I scrubbed them as well as I could, then scrubbed meself. The clothes are hanging outside my windows. I only hope each piece dries by morning. I also hope my innkeeper doesn't mind that my skivvies are hanging out of a window.....
Mr. Brendon and I have exchanged a handful of texts. I never expected a man in his late seventies/early eighties would text, but he does. It warms the heart to see how quickly a fondness for another person can develop. Like Mike in Waterville, Mr. Brendon of Castlecove has stolen my heart. What a lucky, solid cailin I am.
Tuesday, June 30, 2015
Morning Musings
I'm sitting in the dining room of my B&B, where my gracious hostess is serving FEBs (full English breakfasts) to four Germans, one Englishman, a French woman (I'll tell you about her shortly), and another couple from some country I'm unable to pinpoint because they don't speak. Hard to guess based on their dress. I think they're hikers, but they look far too grumpy to be doing it properly. (Proper hiking requires pub stops whenever possible. They look like they've not darkened the door to a pub in many moons. No wonder they're grumpy.)
The Englishman is a fisherman. He felt it necessary to wear his fishing vest and waders to the breakfast table. All of his bits and bobs are clanking as he cuts into his blood pudding, rashers, and sausages. He looks rather silly, but it must be the look he's going for. He claims to have caught a mammoth salmon yesterday, which is keeping cool in the innkeeper's icebox. He slams his china teacup around like it's a Turvis tumbler and clears his throat often. I suppose he wants to be noticed, so I refused to acknowledge him. I'm childish that way, but you already know this.
The Germans keep saying "koochan" over and over. I know that's not the proper spelling, but I can't be bothered to google it. The wifi here is slower than me climbing The Gap of Bunghole. Koochan is a word I grew up with, although there's no guarantee we used it properly. We used it to refer to coffee cake. It would seem that our German diners are in search of something sweet, rather than a FEB. What I found so rude is that the youngest of the four Germans, who is thirty-five if she's a day, shook her head and pushed the plate away when our hostess placed a FEB in front of her. She wrinkled her nose and said, "Nine" (probably also misspelled, but I'm sure you follow). Our lovely innkeeper looked confused because she asks each of us in the evening what we'd like for breakfast the next day. After having agreed to a FEB (which is a boat load of food; rashers, sausage, broiled tomatoes, toast, fried egg, brown bread, and blood pudding), she refused it and asked for pancakes. I'd have barked "nine" right back at her and spoon fed her every morsel of that breakfast! Alas, our innkeeper is a much nicer person than I, but you already knew that, too.
The English fisherman just left. The innkeeper whispered to me conspiratorially that his "mammoth salmon" was barely more than a minnow. We had a good laugh before realizing he'd walked back in. I'm glad I'm not the only one who does that sort of thing. I felt badly for the innkeeper, but I thoroughly enjoyed the look on Mr. Fisherman's face. If I'd been on top of my game, I'd have snapped a photo. Priceless.
So, Miss Fussy Pants now has her pancakes and is pushing them around her plate with her nose crinkled. She is actually picking off the plate of the woman to her left, whom I assume is her mother. She didn't want her own FEB when it was served to her, but now she's devouring her mother's food and ignoring her special-made pancakes. I'm shaking my head as I bang away at my breakfast table set for two, occupied by one. (Again, this scene makes me lonely for my girl.)
The UQC (unidentified quiet couple) just left the table and walked directly into the innkeeper's kitchen as if they own the joint. For the record, that's a no-no in any B&B. There are private, personal spaces not to be entered by guests, and that's definitely one of them. You'd think the closed door would have given them a clue....so, they came out, collected their wet boots from the porch and carried them back into the kitchen. It seems they've asked our innkeeper to somehow, magically dry their wet boots. On the porches of most B&Bs that welcome walkers, is a stack of newspapers. The best cure for west boots is to stuff them with newspapers and then remove them after one hour and replace it with another hunk of newspaper. By morning, the boots will be dry. These silly walkers neglected to do that and now want our innkeeper to microwave them.
This is quality entertainment that you'd normally have to pay for and here I sit, enjoying it all for free.
Ms Fussy Pants also just walked into the kitchen. My mouth is hanging open at the behavior of these guests. Apparently, the Princess is in need of Greek yogurt. The fine Irish yogurt with fruit that our hostess have already provided isn't sufficient. Seemingly nonplussed, our innkeeper came out carrying a large tub of Greek yogurt, complete with a serving spoon. The hospitality of the Irish is wasted on these ill-mannered boobs.
I'd planned to eat only toast and coffee, but was served rashers, a fried egg, broiled tomatoes, sausages, and toast. I will eat as much as I possibly can and then hide the rest in a napkin. I'd hate for my hostess to think I don't appreciate her hard work. So, maybe I need to give Ms. Fussy Pants a break, maybe she didn't order a FEB last night, but I can't forgive her reaction to it.
I'm alone in the dining room now.
Well, I was momentarily. The innkeeper came out and we gossiped about how rude people can be. She's now sitting down for a well-earned cuppa while I finishing my morning musings and then pack. I want to be ready to go when she is. I appreciate very much that she's driving me to Caherdaniel (where I'd have stayed last night if I didn't take a day off). From there, I'll walk about fifteen miles to Sneem, where I intend to find Vivian and Owen to share a few pints. The thought of spending the evening laughing with them, catching up on their adventures since we parted ways three days ago, will keep me plugging along today.
Currently, it's slightly overcast, although the sun is trying to peak through. Things can change in the blink of an eye, so I'll be prepared for sun, rain, snow, and wind. Once a girl scout....
I hope you enjoyed reading this nonsense as much as I enjoyed witnessing it. More later, once I'm safe and warm in my B&B with a belly full of pints.
Slan.
The Englishman is a fisherman. He felt it necessary to wear his fishing vest and waders to the breakfast table. All of his bits and bobs are clanking as he cuts into his blood pudding, rashers, and sausages. He looks rather silly, but it must be the look he's going for. He claims to have caught a mammoth salmon yesterday, which is keeping cool in the innkeeper's icebox. He slams his china teacup around like it's a Turvis tumbler and clears his throat often. I suppose he wants to be noticed, so I refused to acknowledge him. I'm childish that way, but you already know this.
The Germans keep saying "koochan" over and over. I know that's not the proper spelling, but I can't be bothered to google it. The wifi here is slower than me climbing The Gap of Bunghole. Koochan is a word I grew up with, although there's no guarantee we used it properly. We used it to refer to coffee cake. It would seem that our German diners are in search of something sweet, rather than a FEB. What I found so rude is that the youngest of the four Germans, who is thirty-five if she's a day, shook her head and pushed the plate away when our hostess placed a FEB in front of her. She wrinkled her nose and said, "Nine" (probably also misspelled, but I'm sure you follow). Our lovely innkeeper looked confused because she asks each of us in the evening what we'd like for breakfast the next day. After having agreed to a FEB (which is a boat load of food; rashers, sausage, broiled tomatoes, toast, fried egg, brown bread, and blood pudding), she refused it and asked for pancakes. I'd have barked "nine" right back at her and spoon fed her every morsel of that breakfast! Alas, our innkeeper is a much nicer person than I, but you already knew that, too.
The English fisherman just left. The innkeeper whispered to me conspiratorially that his "mammoth salmon" was barely more than a minnow. We had a good laugh before realizing he'd walked back in. I'm glad I'm not the only one who does that sort of thing. I felt badly for the innkeeper, but I thoroughly enjoyed the look on Mr. Fisherman's face. If I'd been on top of my game, I'd have snapped a photo. Priceless.
So, Miss Fussy Pants now has her pancakes and is pushing them around her plate with her nose crinkled. She is actually picking off the plate of the woman to her left, whom I assume is her mother. She didn't want her own FEB when it was served to her, but now she's devouring her mother's food and ignoring her special-made pancakes. I'm shaking my head as I bang away at my breakfast table set for two, occupied by one. (Again, this scene makes me lonely for my girl.)
The UQC (unidentified quiet couple) just left the table and walked directly into the innkeeper's kitchen as if they own the joint. For the record, that's a no-no in any B&B. There are private, personal spaces not to be entered by guests, and that's definitely one of them. You'd think the closed door would have given them a clue....so, they came out, collected their wet boots from the porch and carried them back into the kitchen. It seems they've asked our innkeeper to somehow, magically dry their wet boots. On the porches of most B&Bs that welcome walkers, is a stack of newspapers. The best cure for west boots is to stuff them with newspapers and then remove them after one hour and replace it with another hunk of newspaper. By morning, the boots will be dry. These silly walkers neglected to do that and now want our innkeeper to microwave them.
This is quality entertainment that you'd normally have to pay for and here I sit, enjoying it all for free.
Ms Fussy Pants also just walked into the kitchen. My mouth is hanging open at the behavior of these guests. Apparently, the Princess is in need of Greek yogurt. The fine Irish yogurt with fruit that our hostess have already provided isn't sufficient. Seemingly nonplussed, our innkeeper came out carrying a large tub of Greek yogurt, complete with a serving spoon. The hospitality of the Irish is wasted on these ill-mannered boobs.
I'd planned to eat only toast and coffee, but was served rashers, a fried egg, broiled tomatoes, sausages, and toast. I will eat as much as I possibly can and then hide the rest in a napkin. I'd hate for my hostess to think I don't appreciate her hard work. So, maybe I need to give Ms. Fussy Pants a break, maybe she didn't order a FEB last night, but I can't forgive her reaction to it.
I'm alone in the dining room now.
Well, I was momentarily. The innkeeper came out and we gossiped about how rude people can be. She's now sitting down for a well-earned cuppa while I finishing my morning musings and then pack. I want to be ready to go when she is. I appreciate very much that she's driving me to Caherdaniel (where I'd have stayed last night if I didn't take a day off). From there, I'll walk about fifteen miles to Sneem, where I intend to find Vivian and Owen to share a few pints. The thought of spending the evening laughing with them, catching up on their adventures since we parted ways three days ago, will keep me plugging along today.
Currently, it's slightly overcast, although the sun is trying to peak through. Things can change in the blink of an eye, so I'll be prepared for sun, rain, snow, and wind. Once a girl scout....
I hope you enjoyed reading this nonsense as much as I enjoyed witnessing it. More later, once I'm safe and warm in my B&B with a belly full of pints.
Slan.
Monday, June 29, 2015
A Day of "Rest"
In the same way that I fell asleep last night, I woke to the sound of waves crashing outside my window. My room was cold and I dreaded the thought of leaving my warm, heavy covers, but I'd neglected to eat dinner and so I was ready for some vittles - something other than Advil and coffee. I showered (I think I had frost on my bits the moment I stepped from the bathroom) and headed downstairs. The previous night, my innkeeper asked me I could wait until nine to eat and, of course, I told her I could.
She greeted me warmly as I tucked into a table set for one (that sight always makes me miss my walking partner, my baby girl, so very much). I asked her whether or not she could accommodate me another night if I rearranged my schedule. She was more than happy to do so and told me to stay in the big room. (That room is meant for two or three, but she insisted that I stay there.) It was official. I was having a rest day. No walking. Just relaxation and reading and such.
I ate two pieces of toast, three Advil, and a cup of coffee and then headed back to my room where I was instantly ansty. My routine dictated that I should pack and set off. I didn't know what to do with myself, so I set out to explore Waterville. Five minutes outside my B&B, I ran into Vivian. (Remember the adorable, young Swiss girl?) She'd been very ill with a high fever and swollen glands the day before, and had taken a day off to sleep. She was attempting to walk to Caherdaniel. We agreed that she would take the main road and then get a lift if she felt worse. We also agreed to meet tomorrow night in Sneem for a pint or three. One of the greatest things about these distance walks is the people you meet and then continue to bump into village after village. (That is of course how we established our friendship with our dear friend, Owen.) An hour later, I'd covered the beach, the churchyard, and the main drag. I went back to my inn to enquire about a fort I'd heart about.
"Oh," said my lovely innkeeper, "it's just two miles south of the village."
Perfect! I thought. Four miles without my pack is nothing and I'll walk slowly. Two-and-half miles later, I'd still not found it, my toe was especially ornery (I guess it thought a day off meant just that) Silly toe.), and a nasty dog blocked the road. All of those things convinced me to turn around and go home. Oh, and when I left the B&B, it was warm and sunny. Fifteen minutes later, I was in a nasty downpour with one hellavu wind. Ireland summers. I am convinced there was sleet, but no one seemed to notice but me.
However, I considered it a highly successful venture, because I met cow after cow after bull after calf after steer after cow after horse after calf. You get the idea. What a marvelous morning! I cooed and called to so many four-legged beauties and most of them were receptive. (I smell better than I did yesterday.) In spite of not finding the fort, it was a wonderful, rainy walk and I have about forty pictures to prove it.
I headed back into town and stopped at the Chemist's shop for more Compeed (Bandaids on crack. They are amazing.) and a tube of IcyHot. My trick calf that I tore years back feels left out because of all of the attention the little toe is getting, so he decided to pull some crap and demand his turn. I shall slather him with IcyHot and hope for the best. Once done at the Chemist's, I did what any self-respecting Irish lass would do with a free minute on her hands. I tucked into a warm, dry pub.
I sat reading magazine I'd bought about Irish gardens - in a corner by the fire - when who should stumble in but Mike! Remember the 87-year old with the amazing tenor voice? (If not, visit my FB page and listen to him sing Danny Boy. Be prepared to cry.) He sat down with me and shared a pint before wandering off. I had bowl of soup and brown bread while talking to Pat, another fellow I met yesterday at The Lobster. He was supposed to be fishing, but decided a day of pints sounded more rewarding. Any surprise these are my people?
Eventually, I wandered to the shop at the top of town to buy some cheese, bread, and wine before heading back to my inn. That will be the most perfect dinner as I sit in my room, smelling a peat fire, and watching the ocean crash against the rocky shore. When my innkeeper asked how I enjoyed the fort, I tried to gently explain that her way of measuring distance was slightly off kilter.
"Get in the car," she said.
I did. She drove while I belted out "Jaysus!" every few meters when she barely avoided oncoming traffic or the stone wall on either side of the road. I nearly fouled my britches as she careened around blind bends. Lawdy be, who teaches these people to drive?!
Four-and-a-half miles later, we arrived. The fog had rolled in, blanketing what would have been an impressive view. That was just fine with me. I love, love, love fog. It makes things like forts and castles that much more magical. We got out and wandered around. When we got to the board that explained the site, she honored my request to read it in Irish. The sounds of her native language rolling off of her tongue were very moving. I asked if I could record her, but she said she'd be too self-conscious, so I tucked my phone away and tried to make her voice a permanent memory. What a lovely lady she is, indeed.
Then we drove back. Jaysus.
It's early yet, but I'm in for the night. I have another long walk tomorrow (I think 15 miles). My innkeeper is going to drive me to Caherdaniel (where I'd planned to spend tonight in a hostel...can't say I'm sad to miss that. I'm too old for that shit.). From there, I'll walk to Smeed.
For now, it's a relaxing night of reflection, appreciation, and happiness. I have walked seventy-eight miles in a week (including two side trips). I'm proud of that accomplishment. I only have a few more walking days before I rent a car and do things a little differently. I'm very pleased at what I've been able to do. My toe is slowing me down, but that little bastard can't stop me.
I wish I could share this view, these sounds, and these feelings adequately. I know how very lucky and truly blessed I am.
Slan.
She greeted me warmly as I tucked into a table set for one (that sight always makes me miss my walking partner, my baby girl, so very much). I asked her whether or not she could accommodate me another night if I rearranged my schedule. She was more than happy to do so and told me to stay in the big room. (That room is meant for two or three, but she insisted that I stay there.) It was official. I was having a rest day. No walking. Just relaxation and reading and such.
I ate two pieces of toast, three Advil, and a cup of coffee and then headed back to my room where I was instantly ansty. My routine dictated that I should pack and set off. I didn't know what to do with myself, so I set out to explore Waterville. Five minutes outside my B&B, I ran into Vivian. (Remember the adorable, young Swiss girl?) She'd been very ill with a high fever and swollen glands the day before, and had taken a day off to sleep. She was attempting to walk to Caherdaniel. We agreed that she would take the main road and then get a lift if she felt worse. We also agreed to meet tomorrow night in Sneem for a pint or three. One of the greatest things about these distance walks is the people you meet and then continue to bump into village after village. (That is of course how we established our friendship with our dear friend, Owen.) An hour later, I'd covered the beach, the churchyard, and the main drag. I went back to my inn to enquire about a fort I'd heart about.
"Oh," said my lovely innkeeper, "it's just two miles south of the village."
Perfect! I thought. Four miles without my pack is nothing and I'll walk slowly. Two-and-half miles later, I'd still not found it, my toe was especially ornery (I guess it thought a day off meant just that) Silly toe.), and a nasty dog blocked the road. All of those things convinced me to turn around and go home. Oh, and when I left the B&B, it was warm and sunny. Fifteen minutes later, I was in a nasty downpour with one hellavu wind. Ireland summers. I am convinced there was sleet, but no one seemed to notice but me.
However, I considered it a highly successful venture, because I met cow after cow after bull after calf after steer after cow after horse after calf. You get the idea. What a marvelous morning! I cooed and called to so many four-legged beauties and most of them were receptive. (I smell better than I did yesterday.) In spite of not finding the fort, it was a wonderful, rainy walk and I have about forty pictures to prove it.
I headed back into town and stopped at the Chemist's shop for more Compeed (Bandaids on crack. They are amazing.) and a tube of IcyHot. My trick calf that I tore years back feels left out because of all of the attention the little toe is getting, so he decided to pull some crap and demand his turn. I shall slather him with IcyHot and hope for the best. Once done at the Chemist's, I did what any self-respecting Irish lass would do with a free minute on her hands. I tucked into a warm, dry pub.
I sat reading magazine I'd bought about Irish gardens - in a corner by the fire - when who should stumble in but Mike! Remember the 87-year old with the amazing tenor voice? (If not, visit my FB page and listen to him sing Danny Boy. Be prepared to cry.) He sat down with me and shared a pint before wandering off. I had bowl of soup and brown bread while talking to Pat, another fellow I met yesterday at The Lobster. He was supposed to be fishing, but decided a day of pints sounded more rewarding. Any surprise these are my people?
Eventually, I wandered to the shop at the top of town to buy some cheese, bread, and wine before heading back to my inn. That will be the most perfect dinner as I sit in my room, smelling a peat fire, and watching the ocean crash against the rocky shore. When my innkeeper asked how I enjoyed the fort, I tried to gently explain that her way of measuring distance was slightly off kilter.
"Get in the car," she said.
I did. She drove while I belted out "Jaysus!" every few meters when she barely avoided oncoming traffic or the stone wall on either side of the road. I nearly fouled my britches as she careened around blind bends. Lawdy be, who teaches these people to drive?!
Four-and-a-half miles later, we arrived. The fog had rolled in, blanketing what would have been an impressive view. That was just fine with me. I love, love, love fog. It makes things like forts and castles that much more magical. We got out and wandered around. When we got to the board that explained the site, she honored my request to read it in Irish. The sounds of her native language rolling off of her tongue were very moving. I asked if I could record her, but she said she'd be too self-conscious, so I tucked my phone away and tried to make her voice a permanent memory. What a lovely lady she is, indeed.
Then we drove back. Jaysus.
It's early yet, but I'm in for the night. I have another long walk tomorrow (I think 15 miles). My innkeeper is going to drive me to Caherdaniel (where I'd planned to spend tonight in a hostel...can't say I'm sad to miss that. I'm too old for that shit.). From there, I'll walk to Smeed.
For now, it's a relaxing night of reflection, appreciation, and happiness. I have walked seventy-eight miles in a week (including two side trips). I'm proud of that accomplishment. I only have a few more walking days before I rent a car and do things a little differently. I'm very pleased at what I've been able to do. My toe is slowing me down, but that little bastard can't stop me.
I wish I could share this view, these sounds, and these feelings adequately. I know how very lucky and truly blessed I am.
Slan.
On The Road Again
In spite of having a nice room in a very clean, updated house, I didn't get much sleep. Besides the heartbeat in my toe that kept me awake, I was trying to decide what to do about today. I said I wouldn't worry about it; and I didn't want to, but my brain wouldn't let me off the hook that easily.
At 6:30am, I gave up on sleep and took another shower. Then I studied the maps, hoping to find an alternative to walking the Kerry Way (a very serious steep day, both up and down for 20.5 miles) without schlepping along the main road (the Ring of Kerry for 12 or 13 miles). The Way would be impossible with my toe in its current condition and walking the Ring of Kerry is for those with a death wish. Drivers take ridiculous chances to pass - on blind curves - and drive way too fast.
I continued to mull it over at the breakfast table, where I downed four Advil and a cup of coffee. I ate some toast, but didn't even touch my bacon. (I'll be honest, I was a little concerned about my lack of interest in bacon.) I waffled between calling a cab to take me around to the local sites before delivering me to Waterville and biting the bullet. In the end, I packed up and headed off. I'm not ready to call it quits just yet, but I dreaded another walk - even if it was only twelve or thirteen miles.
The views even from the start were spectacular. I'm so happy to be near the water again. When I move to Ireland, it will certainly be in Kerry, but now I realize that it also has to be near the water. I require it.
I was walking into a strong wind and couldn't help but notice how badly I stink. In spite of at least one shower a day, often two, I smell like shit. Showers aren't terribly effective when you put the same damn smelly clothes back on. Don't judge. My pack weighs at least twenty-five pounds; I can't carry spare clothes.
As I sporadically pressed into the hedge to avoid being flattened by speeding cars, I had the privilege of being close to several groups of cows and sheep, and even a few horses. One particular group of milkers was right next to the thicket where I hid from oncoming traffic. They were close enough to touch and one brave girl let me do just that. As I was rubbing her forehead, she snorted. Then she screwed up her snotty nose and blinked a few times before walking upwind. Her compadres followed. So...yeah, I smell bad enough to offend bovines. What an accomplishment. I hope that's engraved on the medal waiting for me at the end of this adventure.
I walked away, doing my level best to keep my head high. It wasn't easy.
What also wasn't easy was ignoring my foot pain. Enough of that.
I saw lots of beautiful cows. At one point, there was a large field to my right, full of sheep mowing down the field. As I stood near the fence, again to avoid being hit, one of the lambs bleated at me. I replied in my best sheep voice. What happened next was hilarious and unbelievable unless you were there. I must have said something politically charged about same sex marriage or the rebel flag because they all chimed in. I don't mean there was random bleating every so often. Oh hell no. Every bloody sheep in the field had something to say. I kept repeating myself, too. The noise was deafening. Then I started to laugh. I mean belly laugh. Sheep are easily led...which makes an old phrase about them make more sense. I kept bleating and laughing and bleating and laughing until I had to...well....attend to some personal business. As I squatted among the wild fuchsia, I noticed poison ivy below. I'll keep you posted on how that goes. (Just what I need.)
Today's walk, while only about twelve miles, was difficult. My toe just isn't healing like I'd hoped. (No, I haven't ripped off the nail yet. Yes, it's still purple.)
I stopped at a gas station about two miles outside of town and bought an ice cream. I took off my pack (hallelujah) and ate it while sitting on a stone wall in the sun. Across the road was a church and cemetery. I daydreamed until my treat was gone and then shouldered the load for the last bit.
WATERVILLE!! I may have found my new home. It's on the water. Duh. The ocean is so different from home. It's more rugged, severe, and dangerous. I wandered through town, soaking in the coastal vibe until I found my B&B. As always, I removed my boots and left them outside, entering the porch in stocking feet. (Wow. There's a phrase I've not used in a lifetime. Does anyone else still say that?) An older woman met me and I gave her my name. She told me that Patti had already checked in. Um, no. Unless you have two Patti Lavells (god, I hope not).
Turns out my innkeeper thought that the woman who showed up earlier in the day was me because she was traveling alone. That lady didn't have a reservation and the innkeeper - thinking she was me - put her in my room. I dug out the email confirmation that I received back in December when I made the reservation. (See, there was a reason for carrying that shit over fifty-seven mountains.) She had only one room left...the family room.
Yep, I'm in the biggest, most beautiful room in the house. It overlooks the sea and has two big ole beds. My windows are open and the salty smell of the sea is flowing in. Unlike our waters at home, I hear the waves crashing below. (Imagine how it will be to fall asleep to that sound tonight!)
I changed into my cleanest of dirty clothes and headed out in search of a pint and some lunch. What I found was legendary. I wandered into The Lobster. The front was clean and bright and looked like family dining. I kept walking to the back where it was dark and dingy. Oh yeah. It was a room of mostly old men watching a Gaelic football match. The youngest of the group offered me his bar stool, which I accepted with a gracious thank you. That's when the games began. They had a yank in their midst. Lawdy be.
I watched two matches with those adorable guys and never paid for a pint. They wouldn't let me. When I tried to buy a round, they threatened to throw me into the sea. Seamus, Danny, Frank, Paddy, and others whose names I don't recall gave me a really fun welcome to town. The eldest , Mike, used to play Gaelic football professionally in his youth. He sat closest to me and schooled me on the game. And what a game it is!!! American football is for pansies compared to this sport. It is full-on craziness and I found my new favorite sport.
When the last match was over, my dear teacher left for the afternoon. He promised to be back when the traditional Irish music begins at 8pm...because he sings with them!! I came home, too, to jot down some thoughts and to avoid being half in the bag when he returns. He said they play for three hours and I intend to hear it all. He has to be in his early eighties if he's a day. He looks like the grampa I never had but always wanted. I'll be sure to get a video of him singing and promise to share it with you.
As I left the dark, back room, there was all matter of hollering and shouting. I promised to return and that I will. I look forward to spending time with that rowdy group of old Irish men.
...and that's exactly what I did. Those crazy Irishmen didn't disappoint. I stayed near the front, where the musicians set up, but those boys stayed in the back and made quite the ruckus. It made me laugh just watching them afar. I didn't need to be a part of that circus to enjoy it.
Please check out my facebook page to see a video of Mike singing Danny Boy. He brought me to tears and I hugged him tightly when it was over. What a voice. What a kind, sweet, old man.
I'm back in my room, watching big waves roll in and listening to them crash. Is there a better sound on this earth? My windows are open wide and the sea's briny scent is way better than my trail-stink. This is the lullaby we all dream of. Sweet dreams.
Slan.
At 6:30am, I gave up on sleep and took another shower. Then I studied the maps, hoping to find an alternative to walking the Kerry Way (a very serious steep day, both up and down for 20.5 miles) without schlepping along the main road (the Ring of Kerry for 12 or 13 miles). The Way would be impossible with my toe in its current condition and walking the Ring of Kerry is for those with a death wish. Drivers take ridiculous chances to pass - on blind curves - and drive way too fast.
I continued to mull it over at the breakfast table, where I downed four Advil and a cup of coffee. I ate some toast, but didn't even touch my bacon. (I'll be honest, I was a little concerned about my lack of interest in bacon.) I waffled between calling a cab to take me around to the local sites before delivering me to Waterville and biting the bullet. In the end, I packed up and headed off. I'm not ready to call it quits just yet, but I dreaded another walk - even if it was only twelve or thirteen miles.
The views even from the start were spectacular. I'm so happy to be near the water again. When I move to Ireland, it will certainly be in Kerry, but now I realize that it also has to be near the water. I require it.
I was walking into a strong wind and couldn't help but notice how badly I stink. In spite of at least one shower a day, often two, I smell like shit. Showers aren't terribly effective when you put the same damn smelly clothes back on. Don't judge. My pack weighs at least twenty-five pounds; I can't carry spare clothes.
As I sporadically pressed into the hedge to avoid being flattened by speeding cars, I had the privilege of being close to several groups of cows and sheep, and even a few horses. One particular group of milkers was right next to the thicket where I hid from oncoming traffic. They were close enough to touch and one brave girl let me do just that. As I was rubbing her forehead, she snorted. Then she screwed up her snotty nose and blinked a few times before walking upwind. Her compadres followed. So...yeah, I smell bad enough to offend bovines. What an accomplishment. I hope that's engraved on the medal waiting for me at the end of this adventure.
I walked away, doing my level best to keep my head high. It wasn't easy.
What also wasn't easy was ignoring my foot pain. Enough of that.
I saw lots of beautiful cows. At one point, there was a large field to my right, full of sheep mowing down the field. As I stood near the fence, again to avoid being hit, one of the lambs bleated at me. I replied in my best sheep voice. What happened next was hilarious and unbelievable unless you were there. I must have said something politically charged about same sex marriage or the rebel flag because they all chimed in. I don't mean there was random bleating every so often. Oh hell no. Every bloody sheep in the field had something to say. I kept repeating myself, too. The noise was deafening. Then I started to laugh. I mean belly laugh. Sheep are easily led...which makes an old phrase about them make more sense. I kept bleating and laughing and bleating and laughing until I had to...well....attend to some personal business. As I squatted among the wild fuchsia, I noticed poison ivy below. I'll keep you posted on how that goes. (Just what I need.)
Today's walk, while only about twelve miles, was difficult. My toe just isn't healing like I'd hoped. (No, I haven't ripped off the nail yet. Yes, it's still purple.)
I stopped at a gas station about two miles outside of town and bought an ice cream. I took off my pack (hallelujah) and ate it while sitting on a stone wall in the sun. Across the road was a church and cemetery. I daydreamed until my treat was gone and then shouldered the load for the last bit.
WATERVILLE!! I may have found my new home. It's on the water. Duh. The ocean is so different from home. It's more rugged, severe, and dangerous. I wandered through town, soaking in the coastal vibe until I found my B&B. As always, I removed my boots and left them outside, entering the porch in stocking feet. (Wow. There's a phrase I've not used in a lifetime. Does anyone else still say that?) An older woman met me and I gave her my name. She told me that Patti had already checked in. Um, no. Unless you have two Patti Lavells (god, I hope not).
Turns out my innkeeper thought that the woman who showed up earlier in the day was me because she was traveling alone. That lady didn't have a reservation and the innkeeper - thinking she was me - put her in my room. I dug out the email confirmation that I received back in December when I made the reservation. (See, there was a reason for carrying that shit over fifty-seven mountains.) She had only one room left...the family room.
Yep, I'm in the biggest, most beautiful room in the house. It overlooks the sea and has two big ole beds. My windows are open and the salty smell of the sea is flowing in. Unlike our waters at home, I hear the waves crashing below. (Imagine how it will be to fall asleep to that sound tonight!)
I changed into my cleanest of dirty clothes and headed out in search of a pint and some lunch. What I found was legendary. I wandered into The Lobster. The front was clean and bright and looked like family dining. I kept walking to the back where it was dark and dingy. Oh yeah. It was a room of mostly old men watching a Gaelic football match. The youngest of the group offered me his bar stool, which I accepted with a gracious thank you. That's when the games began. They had a yank in their midst. Lawdy be.
I watched two matches with those adorable guys and never paid for a pint. They wouldn't let me. When I tried to buy a round, they threatened to throw me into the sea. Seamus, Danny, Frank, Paddy, and others whose names I don't recall gave me a really fun welcome to town. The eldest , Mike, used to play Gaelic football professionally in his youth. He sat closest to me and schooled me on the game. And what a game it is!!! American football is for pansies compared to this sport. It is full-on craziness and I found my new favorite sport.
When the last match was over, my dear teacher left for the afternoon. He promised to be back when the traditional Irish music begins at 8pm...because he sings with them!! I came home, too, to jot down some thoughts and to avoid being half in the bag when he returns. He said they play for three hours and I intend to hear it all. He has to be in his early eighties if he's a day. He looks like the grampa I never had but always wanted. I'll be sure to get a video of him singing and promise to share it with you.
As I left the dark, back room, there was all matter of hollering and shouting. I promised to return and that I will. I look forward to spending time with that rowdy group of old Irish men.
...and that's exactly what I did. Those crazy Irishmen didn't disappoint. I stayed near the front, where the musicians set up, but those boys stayed in the back and made quite the ruckus. It made me laugh just watching them afar. I didn't need to be a part of that circus to enjoy it.
Please check out my facebook page to see a video of Mike singing Danny Boy. He brought me to tears and I hugged him tightly when it was over. What a voice. What a kind, sweet, old man.
I'm back in my room, watching big waves roll in and listening to them crash. Is there a better sound on this earth? My windows are open wide and the sea's briny scent is way better than my trail-stink. This is the lullaby we all dream of. Sweet dreams.
Slan.
Saturday, June 27, 2015
Settling In
I spent a bit of time down in the pub at Caitin's last night, listening to the music. It was very nice traditional stuff...and then the musicians played Frank Sanatra's New York, NY and Michael Jackson's Billy Jean. I went to bed. Let me clarify; there's nothing wrong with those songs, but I didn't fly across the pond and walk sixty miles to hear them. Funny thing, though, from my bed, the music was just as loud as it had been downstairs. I let them sing me to sleep. That was 11pm.
I woke with a start at 3pm, as people began to wander upstairs to their rooms. They weren't quiet about it, but I didn't mind. I had a private room. I had to wander down the hall to the "toilet", but it wasn't a huge deal. At four am, the Irish boys were still crooning. I still didn't mind. About 4:30am, someone tried cramming their key into the lock of my door. I told them they had the wrong room. They told me to feck off. I rolled over and went to sleep. At 8:30am, I woke, somehow very well rested.
I'd slept eleven hours since arriving at the hostel, in three separate chunks, and I felt ready to face the day. My toe felt the best it had in days - I'd been off of it for practically 19 hours.
I went downstairs to the kitchen, made a cup of instant coffee, and downed four Advil. That was breakfast. I packed up and headed off in a light rain. (Let me say that for $35 euro, I got a private room with a single bed, a shared toilet, three pints of Smithwick's, a beef stew dinner and dessert, a cup of coffee, linens, and a towel. If you are ever in Kells, you must go to Caitin's. What a freakin' bargain.)
The size and color of my little toe convinced me that climbing back to the trail head was not a good idea. It had to be two miles uphill, just to connect with the Kerry Way, which would be uphill and down hill all day. (That's the worse thing for this trick toe.) I decided to cheat and take the road (the Ring of Kerry) all the way from Kells to Cahersiveen. It was kind of cheating because I wouldn't be climbing mountains, but not really because I'd still be walking.
About two miles into it, my belly said it needed food. Its timing was perfect, because I stumbled upon a restaurant/shop/ hostel. A sign on the door indicated that take away was upstairs. I took my stinky self up there, wearing the same clothes I've been wearing for five days. When you carry everything on your back, there is no changing clothes after a shower....you get clean and then put your stinky clothes back on. Disgusting, but that's how it's done.
I walked into a huge dining room, which was completely empty, except for a young girl behind the counter. When she asked if I wanted breakfast, I asked if I could get a sandwich for take away. She went back into the kitchen to set about making that happen when I heard a voice behind me. Sitting at a table was an older gentleman that I didn't notice on my way in. He was wearing a tweed jacket with elbow patches, slacks, and dress shoes. He had no food or drink on the table in front of him.
Him: "How's the foot?"
Me: "Excuse me?"
Him: "Are ye gettin' by?" (He points at my bad toe.)
Me: "How'd you know?"
Him: "I was at Caitin's last night. Saw you sufferin'."
Me: "I didn't see you."
Him: "Hmmmm. Pull out yer map."
I just stared at the man until he asked me again to take out me map.
Hin: "Since you don't want to climb, you should take the road to here. Then take the cycling path - across the road will be a white-washed cottage. The woman inside will give you directions. From there, just take it to the end, where it will meet with the main road again. You'll be fine."
Me: "Cheers. Thank you so much."
Him:"My name is Paddy."
Me: "I'm Patti!"
Him: "Aye."
At that point the young girl called me back to the register to pay. I thanked the man again and walked to the register. As I dug out the correct change, I mentioned how much I appreciated the kind gentleman's help. She looked confused and asked,"What man?"
The dining room was empty. I paid for my sandwich and got the hell out. What just happened? There was a man there who helped me find an alternative route and then he was gone. Was I the only one who saw him?
Eight miles later, after walking past many farms full of heifers, bulls, sheep, and dung, I arrived in Cahersiveen. What a perfect day of farm walking. My Dad would have loved this day's walk. No surprise that my B&B wasn't ready. I dropped my pack and poles and headed into town. I discovered that a castle was on the outskirts. My toe felt the best it had in days, so I went for it. Three miles later, I walked up to Ballycarbery Castle. Unlike other castle experiences I've had, I couldn't wait to get away from this one. It wasn't a pleasant place to be. Surprising, because I always find it hard to leave them. Not this one. I couldn't get away soon enough.
So after walking ten miles, I walked an additional six to see a castle. It was certainly beautiful, but not a place that my soul wanted to stay. I stopped at a pub on my way back to the B&B for two pints. The rain was relentless, the wind was howling, and I was smelly and soaked. I soon left and stopped at a shop where I bought a loaf of bread for dinner and headed for my B&B. After a hot shower, I'm hunkered down. It's raining like hell and the wind is howling, (this is summer?)but the radiator in my room is working, so I'm getting warm and dry. I don't know what tomorrow will bring. It's almost 21 miles to Waterville and I don't think I can walk that far...however, I did 16+ today, so it's possible.
Many thanks to the man who showed me the alternative route - whomever you are! Cheers and Godspeed.
I miss my family. I love Ireland. Somehow I have to reconcile the two. My heart is here...and so are my heifers, donkeys, sheep, goats, and chickens.
Slan.
I woke with a start at 3pm, as people began to wander upstairs to their rooms. They weren't quiet about it, but I didn't mind. I had a private room. I had to wander down the hall to the "toilet", but it wasn't a huge deal. At four am, the Irish boys were still crooning. I still didn't mind. About 4:30am, someone tried cramming their key into the lock of my door. I told them they had the wrong room. They told me to feck off. I rolled over and went to sleep. At 8:30am, I woke, somehow very well rested.
I'd slept eleven hours since arriving at the hostel, in three separate chunks, and I felt ready to face the day. My toe felt the best it had in days - I'd been off of it for practically 19 hours.
I went downstairs to the kitchen, made a cup of instant coffee, and downed four Advil. That was breakfast. I packed up and headed off in a light rain. (Let me say that for $35 euro, I got a private room with a single bed, a shared toilet, three pints of Smithwick's, a beef stew dinner and dessert, a cup of coffee, linens, and a towel. If you are ever in Kells, you must go to Caitin's. What a freakin' bargain.)
The size and color of my little toe convinced me that climbing back to the trail head was not a good idea. It had to be two miles uphill, just to connect with the Kerry Way, which would be uphill and down hill all day. (That's the worse thing for this trick toe.) I decided to cheat and take the road (the Ring of Kerry) all the way from Kells to Cahersiveen. It was kind of cheating because I wouldn't be climbing mountains, but not really because I'd still be walking.
About two miles into it, my belly said it needed food. Its timing was perfect, because I stumbled upon a restaurant/shop/ hostel. A sign on the door indicated that take away was upstairs. I took my stinky self up there, wearing the same clothes I've been wearing for five days. When you carry everything on your back, there is no changing clothes after a shower....you get clean and then put your stinky clothes back on. Disgusting, but that's how it's done.
I walked into a huge dining room, which was completely empty, except for a young girl behind the counter. When she asked if I wanted breakfast, I asked if I could get a sandwich for take away. She went back into the kitchen to set about making that happen when I heard a voice behind me. Sitting at a table was an older gentleman that I didn't notice on my way in. He was wearing a tweed jacket with elbow patches, slacks, and dress shoes. He had no food or drink on the table in front of him.
Him: "How's the foot?"
Me: "Excuse me?"
Him: "Are ye gettin' by?" (He points at my bad toe.)
Me: "How'd you know?"
Him: "I was at Caitin's last night. Saw you sufferin'."
Me: "I didn't see you."
Him: "Hmmmm. Pull out yer map."
I just stared at the man until he asked me again to take out me map.
Hin: "Since you don't want to climb, you should take the road to here. Then take the cycling path - across the road will be a white-washed cottage. The woman inside will give you directions. From there, just take it to the end, where it will meet with the main road again. You'll be fine."
Me: "Cheers. Thank you so much."
Him:"My name is Paddy."
Me: "I'm Patti!"
Him: "Aye."
At that point the young girl called me back to the register to pay. I thanked the man again and walked to the register. As I dug out the correct change, I mentioned how much I appreciated the kind gentleman's help. She looked confused and asked,"What man?"
The dining room was empty. I paid for my sandwich and got the hell out. What just happened? There was a man there who helped me find an alternative route and then he was gone. Was I the only one who saw him?
Eight miles later, after walking past many farms full of heifers, bulls, sheep, and dung, I arrived in Cahersiveen. What a perfect day of farm walking. My Dad would have loved this day's walk. No surprise that my B&B wasn't ready. I dropped my pack and poles and headed into town. I discovered that a castle was on the outskirts. My toe felt the best it had in days, so I went for it. Three miles later, I walked up to Ballycarbery Castle. Unlike other castle experiences I've had, I couldn't wait to get away from this one. It wasn't a pleasant place to be. Surprising, because I always find it hard to leave them. Not this one. I couldn't get away soon enough.
So after walking ten miles, I walked an additional six to see a castle. It was certainly beautiful, but not a place that my soul wanted to stay. I stopped at a pub on my way back to the B&B for two pints. The rain was relentless, the wind was howling, and I was smelly and soaked. I soon left and stopped at a shop where I bought a loaf of bread for dinner and headed for my B&B. After a hot shower, I'm hunkered down. It's raining like hell and the wind is howling, (this is summer?)but the radiator in my room is working, so I'm getting warm and dry. I don't know what tomorrow will bring. It's almost 21 miles to Waterville and I don't think I can walk that far...however, I did 16+ today, so it's possible.
Many thanks to the man who showed me the alternative route - whomever you are! Cheers and Godspeed.
I miss my family. I love Ireland. Somehow I have to reconcile the two. My heart is here...and so are my heifers, donkeys, sheep, goats, and chickens.
Slan.
Friday, June 26, 2015
Another Mountain?!?!
I didn't sleep much last night because everything hurt, but it was a very comfortable bed with the most wonderful linens and comforter. I laid awake, listening to the rain, contemplating a ten mile hike today. I fell asleep just as the sky began to lighten, which at this time of year is about four o'clock. I slept hard until my alarm went off at 7:45am.
I went down to breakfast, but wasn't hungry. I had three advil and a cup of coffee. I tried explaining to my B&B's proprietor that I just couldn't eat. I told him about my toe - because that's excellent conversation to have whilst others are eating - and he offered an alternate route that would allow me to skirt the mountain, rather than climb it as the Way requires. I was all for a "cheat" that wasn't really one. Taking a horse or a cab is cheating. Finding a flatter walking route is not.
After packing, I hobbled to Owen's hostel two doors down. I chatted with the proprietor, a very personable man named Con (short for Connor, perhaps?) until my walking mate had finished his toilette and coif. I told him about the alternative route and he agreed that it would work. Owen and I hit the road about ten, I guess.
The start of the day was lovely. Cool and bright skies. We walked an old railroad bed shaded by a nice canopy of trees before dropping back to a tarmac road, which we followed for a few miles. The requisite up then began and didn't end for miles and miles and miles. I was beginning to feel downhearted because my pace was so very slow for the beginning of a day - it just didn't bode well. Then I got my first glimpse of the ocean and I was re-energized. Nothing like beautiful blue water to a spring in one's step. That view kept me feeling buoyant until that damn mountain in front of us refused to move. There was no going around that one - it was up and over or nothing.
I'll not complain. No one made me walk; it was my choice. I love Ireland and her views, her people, her music, and her mountains...but do I HAVE to climb one every goddamned day? Apparently, the answer is yes. I moved forward best I could.
After what felt like hours of climbing steadily up, opening farmer's gates and then carefully closing them behind us, we were high on a mountain, far above the Ring of Kerry. (To clarify, the Ring of Kerry is roadway that tourists in cars traverse from town to town. The Kerry Way is a walking path that also goes to the same towns, but does so via forest, farmland, and mountains. In spite of my aches and pains, the Kerry Way is the way for me. Cars not so much.) The tour buses looked smaller than matchbox cars. The edge was close enough to make me quite dizzy at times. (I was glad Lauren was not here for this point, because I'd have had a cow watching her walk it.) After a good bit, we turned away from the edge and climbed again to a summit. What can I say other than it sucked and I was in agony. The wind whipped and whipped at the top. The way down was easier than any of the climbs thus far. We followed a track through some forest areas and then it was time to part ways.
Owen was headed for Cahersiveen and I was going to Kells. I gave him a parting gift of bread and salami, sure that I'd find plenty of food at the pub to which I was headed. We took the obligatory selfie and said farewell. Thank you, Owen, for walking with me, waiting for me, and being the best cheerleader a girl could hope for. I'd never made it to Glenbeigh without you. Godspeed, my friend.
I followed a gravel track down and toward the coast. After a mile or two, I hit the main road - the Ring of Kerry - where people drive like assholes. It was only a half mile or so to my hostel/pub - Caitin's - but I had to step aside and press myself against a rock face to avoid being run over by passing cars. It takes longer to walk that way. No matter, I knew that pints and lunch were waiting for me.
I arrived safely at Caitin's about 2pm. I pulled the red door and found it locked. That's when I noticed that the sign in the window said that it didn't open until 7:30pm. Five and a half hours in a place that has nothing else...oh man. I called the number on the sign and miraculously, the call went through. To my eternal gratitude, the proprietor was there in less than five minutes. He let me in and took me to a private room. My bathroom is down the hall and shared with a bunch of other rooms. It was then that I discovered that the pub doesn't serve pints to anyone - booked there or not - until 7:30pm. I also learned that they don't serve food.
It was then that I regretting giving Owen bread and meat. I'd not eaten all day and was in need of something. The proprietor said that there was a place I could buy food about two miles away. Four miles round trip (according to an Irishman's distance guessing, which means it was probably more like six miles both ways). My toe told me to go without. I showered, posted yesterday's blog, crawled into bed and slept for three hours. It was clearly what I needed. I felt better than I had in two days...but I was hungry as a bear.
My fat little face was pressed to the pub's front window at 7:24pm. I was let in at exactly 7:30 and had my first pint of Smithwick's in front of me shortly thereafter. I chatted up the owner a bit, he was a good fellow with a kind heart. Long about 9pm, I gave serious consideration to asking a local to drive me to a grocery store. Moments later, the owner placed a bowl of beef stew before me. When I started at him blankly, he said, "I wouldn't want my mother to go hungry."
Oh. Wow. I thought we were the same age....I didn't care how old he thought I was; he fed me. I don't like beef stew, but I loved that one. I all but licked the bowl clean. As he cleared it away, I tried to find a way to express how thankful I was. That's when he placed a lemon tart in front of me. I don't eat sweets; I devoured in about three bites.
The kindness of people I meet on these long distance walks is mind-blowing. I am forever grateful for his generosity.
A group of musicians set up and began to play traditional Irish music; it's what I've been waiting for all week. I listened for about an hour and then came back to my room. Funny, it's just as loud up here as it was down there! At this very moment, they're playing Johnny Cash's Folsom Prison Blues and the crowd is going wild. WTF? I love Ireland!!
I'm not sure how many miles I have tomorrow; I try not to read too far ahead because it can be overwhelming. I prefer to find out about the need to climb another mountain as it looms in front of me. I don't see the point in worrying about it before hand. It will be what it will be. Reading the map and fretting won't change it.
I will not quit. I will not give in to this toe. I will persevere.
Slan.
I went down to breakfast, but wasn't hungry. I had three advil and a cup of coffee. I tried explaining to my B&B's proprietor that I just couldn't eat. I told him about my toe - because that's excellent conversation to have whilst others are eating - and he offered an alternate route that would allow me to skirt the mountain, rather than climb it as the Way requires. I was all for a "cheat" that wasn't really one. Taking a horse or a cab is cheating. Finding a flatter walking route is not.
After packing, I hobbled to Owen's hostel two doors down. I chatted with the proprietor, a very personable man named Con (short for Connor, perhaps?) until my walking mate had finished his toilette and coif. I told him about the alternative route and he agreed that it would work. Owen and I hit the road about ten, I guess.
The start of the day was lovely. Cool and bright skies. We walked an old railroad bed shaded by a nice canopy of trees before dropping back to a tarmac road, which we followed for a few miles. The requisite up then began and didn't end for miles and miles and miles. I was beginning to feel downhearted because my pace was so very slow for the beginning of a day - it just didn't bode well. Then I got my first glimpse of the ocean and I was re-energized. Nothing like beautiful blue water to a spring in one's step. That view kept me feeling buoyant until that damn mountain in front of us refused to move. There was no going around that one - it was up and over or nothing.
I'll not complain. No one made me walk; it was my choice. I love Ireland and her views, her people, her music, and her mountains...but do I HAVE to climb one every goddamned day? Apparently, the answer is yes. I moved forward best I could.
After what felt like hours of climbing steadily up, opening farmer's gates and then carefully closing them behind us, we were high on a mountain, far above the Ring of Kerry. (To clarify, the Ring of Kerry is roadway that tourists in cars traverse from town to town. The Kerry Way is a walking path that also goes to the same towns, but does so via forest, farmland, and mountains. In spite of my aches and pains, the Kerry Way is the way for me. Cars not so much.) The tour buses looked smaller than matchbox cars. The edge was close enough to make me quite dizzy at times. (I was glad Lauren was not here for this point, because I'd have had a cow watching her walk it.) After a good bit, we turned away from the edge and climbed again to a summit. What can I say other than it sucked and I was in agony. The wind whipped and whipped at the top. The way down was easier than any of the climbs thus far. We followed a track through some forest areas and then it was time to part ways.
Owen was headed for Cahersiveen and I was going to Kells. I gave him a parting gift of bread and salami, sure that I'd find plenty of food at the pub to which I was headed. We took the obligatory selfie and said farewell. Thank you, Owen, for walking with me, waiting for me, and being the best cheerleader a girl could hope for. I'd never made it to Glenbeigh without you. Godspeed, my friend.
I followed a gravel track down and toward the coast. After a mile or two, I hit the main road - the Ring of Kerry - where people drive like assholes. It was only a half mile or so to my hostel/pub - Caitin's - but I had to step aside and press myself against a rock face to avoid being run over by passing cars. It takes longer to walk that way. No matter, I knew that pints and lunch were waiting for me.
I arrived safely at Caitin's about 2pm. I pulled the red door and found it locked. That's when I noticed that the sign in the window said that it didn't open until 7:30pm. Five and a half hours in a place that has nothing else...oh man. I called the number on the sign and miraculously, the call went through. To my eternal gratitude, the proprietor was there in less than five minutes. He let me in and took me to a private room. My bathroom is down the hall and shared with a bunch of other rooms. It was then that I discovered that the pub doesn't serve pints to anyone - booked there or not - until 7:30pm. I also learned that they don't serve food.
It was then that I regretting giving Owen bread and meat. I'd not eaten all day and was in need of something. The proprietor said that there was a place I could buy food about two miles away. Four miles round trip (according to an Irishman's distance guessing, which means it was probably more like six miles both ways). My toe told me to go without. I showered, posted yesterday's blog, crawled into bed and slept for three hours. It was clearly what I needed. I felt better than I had in two days...but I was hungry as a bear.
My fat little face was pressed to the pub's front window at 7:24pm. I was let in at exactly 7:30 and had my first pint of Smithwick's in front of me shortly thereafter. I chatted up the owner a bit, he was a good fellow with a kind heart. Long about 9pm, I gave serious consideration to asking a local to drive me to a grocery store. Moments later, the owner placed a bowl of beef stew before me. When I started at him blankly, he said, "I wouldn't want my mother to go hungry."
Oh. Wow. I thought we were the same age....I didn't care how old he thought I was; he fed me. I don't like beef stew, but I loved that one. I all but licked the bowl clean. As he cleared it away, I tried to find a way to express how thankful I was. That's when he placed a lemon tart in front of me. I don't eat sweets; I devoured in about three bites.
The kindness of people I meet on these long distance walks is mind-blowing. I am forever grateful for his generosity.
A group of musicians set up and began to play traditional Irish music; it's what I've been waiting for all week. I listened for about an hour and then came back to my room. Funny, it's just as loud up here as it was down there! At this very moment, they're playing Johnny Cash's Folsom Prison Blues and the crowd is going wild. WTF? I love Ireland!!
I'm not sure how many miles I have tomorrow; I try not to read too far ahead because it can be overwhelming. I prefer to find out about the need to climb another mountain as it looms in front of me. I don't see the point in worrying about it before hand. It will be what it will be. Reading the map and fretting won't change it.
I will not quit. I will not give in to this toe. I will persevere.
Slan.
Death Warmed Over
Today was quite possibly the hardest day –
physically – that I’ve ever had, except for the day that Lauren’s Dwarf (Owen)
saved my life. It was brutal, nonstop torture. I never want to do it again. Perhaps
I should start at the beginning.
I couldn’t fall asleep last night.
Two-hundred-and-ninety-five year old house makes noises I’m not used to. I
listened to what it had to say, not understanding much of anything but
appreciating her noises nonetheless. I finally nodded off about 2am and woke
with a start at 8:33. I’m normally awake, showered, and at the breakfast table
on these walks by that time. I leapt from the covers, got dressed, and went
downstairs. Phew. I’d beaten Owen, who slept out in the yard in a tent. After a
quick breakfast, we settled our respective tabs, said our heartfelt thanks to
the proprietors and began what turned out to be something I never, ever want to
repeat. Just writing about it is painful.
Immediately outside the backyard of The Stepping
Stones (where I stayed), is a steep mountain face. The only way to get to
Glenbeigh was up and over that damn thing.. It wasn’t some slightly steep, dirt
path. It was very steep, rocky, and covered in sheep shit – plus it was
raining. The result was very slick and unreliable footing. Within minutes, my
cell ate the weenie and stopped working (it has at least four cracks on its
face and sucks in whatever moisture it can find). I shoved it in a pocket of my
semi-water-resistant rain jacket and hoped for the best.
I realize that this will sound like the fish that
got away story, but unless you saw that mountain face and then tried to climb
it, you’d never believe it. It looked insurmountable, but I decided that I was
gonna make that mountain my bitch. Turns out, we called a truce; I eventually
made it over but not before having my ass handing to me on a plate of sheep
dung.
The way up was brutal. My little toe felt like it
had popped…sorta like a grape between your thumb and forefinger after just a
few hundred meters. My lungs and hamstrings were on fire. My pack is rubbing in
places that now have less skin than my makers designed. The damn thing weighs
twenty-five or thirty pounds because I’m dragging a goddamned computer up and
over mountains. ARRRRGGGHHHH. (Not to mention all of the cords, charges, and
perhaps a bottle of wine.) I thought I’d never reach the summit. Before long,
Owen and I were in the clouds. I watched sections of cloud blow right past me.
Literally in front of me; that’s how high we were. The weather sure was
different up there than it had been in the back yard of the Stepping Stones. It
was blustery, cold, and rainy. I liked it and often smiled in spite of the suck
ass pain it caused.
As always, when you think you’ve finally make it to
the top, you haven’t; it’s just a false summit screwing with you. That happened
to me and Lauren a million times during the Coast to Coast and it never ceases
to piss me off. When one finally does reach the top, there’s only one thing
left to do; climb down. Sounds easy, right? It’s not. It’s usually harder than
going up. Getting down the backside of that mountain required all of my
attention. Finding a sure foothold wasn’t easy. To ease my fear, fatigue, and
homesickness for Lauren, I began to sing The Sound of Music. It wasn’t loud,
but it cheered me and pushed me forward. I know she’d have joined right in.
More than once on the way down, I thought I was going to fall, but I somehow
made it unscathed to the valley below.
At that point, I could appreciate my surroundings.
They were spectacular. The trail became a dirt road sort of, covered in pebbles
and rocks. It undulated, but it wasn’t particularly challenging. I was free to
let my imagination roam while soaking in the mountains, creeks, and animals
around me.
As we began to climb slightly, our path was sort of
blocked by a young bull and cow. He seemed intent on causing trouble. I love
cows and normally find them harmless, but this little dude was giving off vibes
that he had something to prove. I tend to listen to my gut when it comes to
getting gutted by a young bull with a bad attitude. We found a long way around
him and lived to see another day with our intestines still intact.
I don’t remember all of what happened next, but
suffice to say if I ever meet the son-of-a-bitch who designed that bloody walk,
I’ll wring his bloody neck. Up, up, up and then down, down, down only to climb
back up and then come back down. It’s sick and sadistic.
One high point of the walk, and one that I so
desperately wanted my girl to see, was when we crossed a stile into an
evergreen forest. Within just a few hundred yards, the ground was covered
(completely covered) in lush, green moss. Every tree truck was also covered,
all the way from the ground to the top. The stones (about the size of sofa
cushions) were covered in moss one shade lighter. Song birds did their thing
and other than their tweeting, the only sound was the wind in the boughs. It
was magical; straight from Tolkien’s Middle Earth. It was absolutely
breathtakingly magical and had Lauren been with me, we’d be there still. I
hated to leave, but as I kept walking through it, the flies discovered me and
my enormous stink and tortured me into moving. Someday, Goo, I will find a way
to get you there.
From there, we traveled a few more miles of up, up,
up and down through a miniature version of Jurassic Park. Ferns grew everywhere
and the sun had some back out. I was sweating like a nun in church and swearing
like one, too. My toe had its own heartbeat and everything ached. Everything.
I must have blacked out for awhile, but we finally
crossed through a farm and onto the road. After a mile or so of road walking,
we stumbled upon the Climber’s Inn. I had two pints and three Tylenol for
lunch. Then it was time to go because after five hours of walking, we weren’t
even halfway there. Trying to stand after an hour of sitting was probably
comical to the old men sipping pints, but it sure sucked for me. I hobbled out
with as much dignity as I could manage.
From there we climbed lots of stiles as we followed
a river and then left it to go through a logging area. The flies had a heyday
with my sweaty brow, face, and neck. Flies suck.
After that, I don’t remember much except more gratuitous
up and down. There was no reason for it other than sick, sadistic bullshit. I
was walking so slowly that Owen was far gone. I couldn’t go any faster. My
little toe was agonizing and my boot felt wet inside; it wasn’t from water. I
figured it was bleeding. My body was done. I had nothing left in the tank.
That’s when I discovered we had another mountain to
climb. I cried. Literally. I cried. I was beyond exhausted and every muscle in
my body was on fire and I was hungry. There was nothing to do but keep going;
there was no one from whom to get help. We were alone on a desolate trail
headed for Mount Hades.
I’ll spare you the details, but I cried twice more.
I refused to stop to rest, because I knew if I did, that I wouldn’t move again.
I was walking so slowly by then, hobbling and waddling in an effort to alleviate
the pain in my toe. The wind was whipping so hard through Windy Gap (brilliant name), I thought it was going to toss me over the side. I struggled to keep my feet under me as I walked, bent over and staring at the ground under my feet.
We left the Stepping Stones at 9:30. I arrived at my
B&B in Glenbeigh at 7pm. The doors were locked. I rang and rang and rang
and rang the bell.- No reply. I knocked on windows. Nothing. It was pouring. I
was wet, stinky, sore and had a throat on me. (Irish way of saying I needed a
pint.)
I walked to Owen’s hostel and found Vivian, the
adorable Swedish girl and Evan, another young kid from Ireland. I’d met them
both in Black Valley where they’d stayed at a hostel with Owen. We all headed
to a pub where we had a few pints, bitched about the hardships we suffered, and
agreed to walk again tomorrow.
I hobbled to my B&B, where my proprietor finally
let me in; quite put out that he had to wait for me to return from the pub My
room is quaint, I’ve showered, and I sit here trying to capture what today was
– without sounding negative and bitchy. I somehow made it the sixteen miles or
so, up and over TWO significantly large mountains; one at the very start of the
day and one eight hours later. It took me ten hours to go sixteen miles and I
only sat four times, plus I spent exactly an hour in a pub. It was excruciating
and I’ll never repeat this day again. I may do parts of it – like taking my
girl to that magical forest – but never again will I walk from the Stepping
Stones to Glenbeigh.
Tomorrow I head to Kells, where I’ll have my first
hostel experience. Fortunately, it’s above a pub and there will be live music
tomorrow. I plan to have a sufficient number of pints so that by the time I
drag myself upstairs to the dorm, I will be oblivious to the carryings-on of
the other people staying there. It’s ten miles from here.
It is currently 11:30pm and my body is aching all over. Not just aches. I
have spots where the skin has been worn off. I have a toe nail that is purple
and needs to be pulled off, but I lack the balls to do it, and my hips have
stopped bending. However, my windows are open and I hear the Irish rain between
against the panes. I’m buried beneath a heavy quilt as the wind whips around
the room. In spite of the pain, I am grateful for the chance to see all of the
things I saw today. I’ve seen parts of Ireland that its countrymen have never
seen.
The rain lulls me to sleep.
This is for you, Lauren, regarding the mossy,
magical forest:
‘Tis here I’ve been before
Among these mossy stones
And ‘tis here I shall come again
When Ireland is my home
‘Tis here I’ve been before
Among these mossy stones
And ‘tis here I shall come again
When Ireland is my home
Wednesday, June 24, 2015
This Little Piggy
I crawled into bed under a heavy quilt, fully dressed in pants, two shirts, and socks. I was still cold so I got up and nicked the quilt from the other bed in the room. Ten hours later, I woke. What an excellent, much needed sleep - and it was one that came without the benefit of pints. The farmhouse had no beer, wine, or spirits. Had the website indicated that....
Anyway, I dressed and left my room. The adorable proprietor was coming out of the kitchen. She said the dining room was full of "damn Germans" and that she'd let me know when she could feed me. I assured her it was no bother and went outside to say good morning to the mountains, the horses, the sheep, and the donkeys. About an hour and a half later, it was my turn.
Although the amusing old lady tried to feed me fried eggs, over and over, I stuck to my guns. Just toast and bacon, please. You may recall from both the Coast to Coast and Dingleberry Forest blogs, that I am partial to a particular breakfast treat that I only allow myself to eat while doing serious distance/hill walking. Obviously, I never eat these at home. Close your eyes and picture this. (Wait, how can you close your eyes and read this? Damn, you're a talented lot!) First you slather brown bread toast with Kerry butter. I mean you layer it on in a thick coat. Then you top it with a rasher or two, which tastes much better than American bacon, and top that with another slice of buttered toast. Then you devour it. I thought I'd coined the phrase "bacon buddy" back in 2012. Turns out some Brit had already thought of that. Oh well, it's the best damned thing to eat straight out of the gate.
My older farmhouse friend was moving a little more slowly today, so when she sat down to have a cuppa after feeding me, I cleared the mess the Germans had left behind and carried it all into the kitchen.
Her: Jesus Christ. What a mess. Just put it on the table. I guess I'll have to wash them.
Me: I'll help you. I don't have far to walk today so I have time to spare.
Her: Jesus, you've...... (something I didn't understand) Go away.
I should have mentioned sooner that she has pictures of Jesus and the Virgin Mary on nearly every wall. She has pictures of the Pope (not just the current one, but many of his predecessors) all over one kitchen wall. It's really hard to reconcile that with her generous use of "Jesus".
I finished clearing both dining room tables and stacked it all in the kitchen. She chit chatted about ...hell, I don't know what she said. At one point, I heard her call me dear. I thought it was sweet until she said it again and I realized it wasn't dear, it was here. As in get out of. I went to my room to pack.
My little toe on the my left foot has decided it wants to leave its mates. It's not ready to come off yet, but it has decided to jump ship soon. It hurts like a mother. I tried all kinds of ways to relieve the pain of walking in my boot to no avail. Finally, I said screw it and said my goodbyes.
I walked in the wrong direction from the trail to go pick up Owen (Lauren's Dwarf) at the hostel down the road. I took my time, taking pictures of horses, mossy rocks, and streams. I watched the proprietor's son collect two of his horses and load them in a trailer. He was headed for the Gap to drag tourists up and down the pass. When I arrived at the hostel, my trusty friend was suiting up. In a matter of minutes, we were headed back the way I came. Good thing we had to pass by the farm again because I'd left my walking sticks inside the front door. When I returned to the trail, Owen was talking to a young Swiss girl whom he'd met at the hostel the night before. We were walking only to The Stepping Stones in Bridia Valley (maybe 8 miles), but she was hoping to go all the way to Glenbeigh (21 miles). We walked together for a short bit, but she was soon far ahead.
Owen and I chatted about toe nails and how to yank them off, the weather, and such. The weather was perfect; the clouds were low and grey. A slight tinkling of mist began to fall. We were in the middle of a beautiful, green valley with sheer, rocky mountain sides on both sides. I was thoroughly enjoying the view and daydreaming about living there. Suddenly, we saw Vivian standing completely motionless a short ways ahead. Turns out, the poor girl is petrified of sheep! (I guess she didn't do much research on Ireland beforehand. Sheep are literally EVERYWHERE.) I tried not to laugh, because I have some stupid fears (butterflies comes to mind), but to be afraid of a sheep is like being afraid of a noisy rock. Anyway, Owen shooed away the big, bad sheep that wanted to eat her and we walked together again for a short bit. Before long, three Irishmen closed in from the rear and we all stopped to get to know each other. They had walked all the way from Dublin! (I WILL do that someday) They were each into their sixties, but like true Europeans, their gait was much wider than mine and their stamina far greater. We walked together, chatting, for awhile, but I stopped often to take pictures and to mindfully acknowledge and appreciate the beauty around me. Those billy goats just plowed ahead, totally missing the point of the walk. As I was about to lay into them for a missed photo op of a breathtaking view to our left, the three of them stopped to take a picture....of a male sheep trying to get lucky with a female. Boys!
It wasn't long before I was left in the dust. The rest of the pack were each much faster than I. Owen - god love him - would turn to check every so often to make sure I wasn't dead. The walk through the valley was easy and pretty and what most people probably think of when they imagine hiking. The we began to climb up. And up. And up.
Turns out, the only way out of that valley is to climb up and over. It was a very difficult climb for me. Even svelte Vivian was sucking wind - at least according to Owen. She was well rested by the time I made it to the ridge. The going was reminiscent of the Coast to Coast - rocks and boulders and uneven, steep footing. There is no appreciating the terrain in that environment; the only thing to do is look down to keep from falling. There was one perfect moment when the trail was blocked by two gloriously gorgeous donkeys. They were extraordinarily fuzzy. I attempted to pet one. No go. As I made my way around them, they started to rough house as if to show off. The problem was, there wasn't much room for two rambunctious donkeys, Owen, and me. We made it past them unscathed and I managed to get a few good pix of them to boot. Once the donkey show was over (I left out some details about what exactly was going on in case there are any children reading this...), I was forced to listen to my little toe shout bad words. It did so nonstop. I tried not to listen, but it was impossible.
The climb was exhausting, but I finally made it to the ridge and looked back on what we'd accomplished. It was damn impressive. I'd enjoyed it for all of about forty-five seconds before looking down the other side. "Oh shit" was my foremost thought when I saw what I was in for. Huge boulders with a narrow goat's path wandering down a very steep incline. In many places, there was no clear footing, so the only thing to do was use my walking sticks and poke around to find what seemed firm and safe before jumping down. It's a tedious process. It took 90-120 minutes to descend into Bridia Valley. From there, the trail was a dirt road and mostly flat. The views were still breathtaking. After a short bit, we arrived at my next night's accommodation, the proprietors of which run a delicious cafe and sweets shop.
It was by then 2:30 or 3pm, and I'd not eaten since breakfast. I was in need of food and today's special was the perfect choice: A toasted cheese with ham, tomato, and onion. on brown bread. It was the perfect lunch and I washed it down with two pints. As we chatted with the Mister of the House, some other walkers drifted in. One of whom Owen had met at a hostel a few nights earlier, plus an American couple who stopped just for ice cream and two young American kids who were hiking. We all sat outside in the sometimes sunshine/sometimes mist and chatted. The Mister and Missus of the House are both engaging, friendly people. They made me feel at home straight away.
Turns out, they have a horse named Chili Pepper. The Mister whistled and called for her and within moments she came to the fence to say hi. She likes dandelions,so I picked her several handfuls, which she happily devoured. The Mister brought out a fat carrot, which he let me feed to her, too. She smelled heavenly and was quite friendly.., until I stopped feeding her and then she wandered away. She lives outside all year long and has never worn a blanket except for when being ridden. Winter temps in the valley go into the forties, but that's about it. They let her coat grow long for the cold months and she has plenty of good land with lots to eat. She seemed quite happy, but then again..she lives in Kerry!
After a hot shower, I tried to attend to my little toe. I really need a set of nail clippers, but I just don't think that's the sort of thing one asks to borrow from one's inn keepers. I've not read that anywhere, but it just seems to be common sense. (Feel free to share your thoughts.) Whether it's proper or not, I'm in desperate need. The toe nail isn't long, but it's long enough to be part of the problem. Especially when walking downhill, my toe gets jammed into the toe box and after several miles, it's very painful. The toe is swollen, has a blister on the bottom, one on the top, and hurts like the devil. After a filling dinner of vegetarian tagliatelle with all sorts of roasted veggies, pesto, and fresh parmesan, I asked to borrow some scissors. (That didn't seem like such a personal thing to borrow.) The Mister asked if I was going to cut off the offending toe. I told him I was considering it.
The scissors didn't cut it. Hahahahahah, that's funny. It's also true. The nail refused to be cut, so I'm left to bundle it up as best I can. Tomorrow is another long day. I think it's about twelve miles and it begins with a steep, difficult climb right behind the house in which I'm sleeping - which was built in the 1720s!! (The house, that is. The hill was built long before.) It's an amazing old house with very narrow staircases, stone fireplaces, and all sorts of built-in small cupboards and doors located in odd places. I really like this old place. It has so much charm and character.
My bedroom window is open and I'm settled for the night. I really want the fresh air, but I think I've neglected to mention that not a single Irish home/B&B I've slept in has screening on the windows. Whatever wants to come in is free to do so. I've now killed three spiders and just noticed a small moth flitting around near the water closet. I may have to close the darn thing before I have a menagerie of creepy crawlers in here for the night.... but the bleating of sheep and the cool air have convinced me to turn off the lights, leave the window open, and just let it be.
I am grateful for so many things tonight. This cozy bed is just one of them.
Anyway, I dressed and left my room. The adorable proprietor was coming out of the kitchen. She said the dining room was full of "damn Germans" and that she'd let me know when she could feed me. I assured her it was no bother and went outside to say good morning to the mountains, the horses, the sheep, and the donkeys. About an hour and a half later, it was my turn.
Although the amusing old lady tried to feed me fried eggs, over and over, I stuck to my guns. Just toast and bacon, please. You may recall from both the Coast to Coast and Dingleberry Forest blogs, that I am partial to a particular breakfast treat that I only allow myself to eat while doing serious distance/hill walking. Obviously, I never eat these at home. Close your eyes and picture this. (Wait, how can you close your eyes and read this? Damn, you're a talented lot!) First you slather brown bread toast with Kerry butter. I mean you layer it on in a thick coat. Then you top it with a rasher or two, which tastes much better than American bacon, and top that with another slice of buttered toast. Then you devour it. I thought I'd coined the phrase "bacon buddy" back in 2012. Turns out some Brit had already thought of that. Oh well, it's the best damned thing to eat straight out of the gate.
My older farmhouse friend was moving a little more slowly today, so when she sat down to have a cuppa after feeding me, I cleared the mess the Germans had left behind and carried it all into the kitchen.
Her: Jesus Christ. What a mess. Just put it on the table. I guess I'll have to wash them.
Me: I'll help you. I don't have far to walk today so I have time to spare.
Her: Jesus, you've...... (something I didn't understand) Go away.
I should have mentioned sooner that she has pictures of Jesus and the Virgin Mary on nearly every wall. She has pictures of the Pope (not just the current one, but many of his predecessors) all over one kitchen wall. It's really hard to reconcile that with her generous use of "Jesus".
I finished clearing both dining room tables and stacked it all in the kitchen. She chit chatted about ...hell, I don't know what she said. At one point, I heard her call me dear. I thought it was sweet until she said it again and I realized it wasn't dear, it was here. As in get out of. I went to my room to pack.
My little toe on the my left foot has decided it wants to leave its mates. It's not ready to come off yet, but it has decided to jump ship soon. It hurts like a mother. I tried all kinds of ways to relieve the pain of walking in my boot to no avail. Finally, I said screw it and said my goodbyes.
I walked in the wrong direction from the trail to go pick up Owen (Lauren's Dwarf) at the hostel down the road. I took my time, taking pictures of horses, mossy rocks, and streams. I watched the proprietor's son collect two of his horses and load them in a trailer. He was headed for the Gap to drag tourists up and down the pass. When I arrived at the hostel, my trusty friend was suiting up. In a matter of minutes, we were headed back the way I came. Good thing we had to pass by the farm again because I'd left my walking sticks inside the front door. When I returned to the trail, Owen was talking to a young Swiss girl whom he'd met at the hostel the night before. We were walking only to The Stepping Stones in Bridia Valley (maybe 8 miles), but she was hoping to go all the way to Glenbeigh (21 miles). We walked together for a short bit, but she was soon far ahead.
Owen and I chatted about toe nails and how to yank them off, the weather, and such. The weather was perfect; the clouds were low and grey. A slight tinkling of mist began to fall. We were in the middle of a beautiful, green valley with sheer, rocky mountain sides on both sides. I was thoroughly enjoying the view and daydreaming about living there. Suddenly, we saw Vivian standing completely motionless a short ways ahead. Turns out, the poor girl is petrified of sheep! (I guess she didn't do much research on Ireland beforehand. Sheep are literally EVERYWHERE.) I tried not to laugh, because I have some stupid fears (butterflies comes to mind), but to be afraid of a sheep is like being afraid of a noisy rock. Anyway, Owen shooed away the big, bad sheep that wanted to eat her and we walked together again for a short bit. Before long, three Irishmen closed in from the rear and we all stopped to get to know each other. They had walked all the way from Dublin! (I WILL do that someday) They were each into their sixties, but like true Europeans, their gait was much wider than mine and their stamina far greater. We walked together, chatting, for awhile, but I stopped often to take pictures and to mindfully acknowledge and appreciate the beauty around me. Those billy goats just plowed ahead, totally missing the point of the walk. As I was about to lay into them for a missed photo op of a breathtaking view to our left, the three of them stopped to take a picture....of a male sheep trying to get lucky with a female. Boys!
It wasn't long before I was left in the dust. The rest of the pack were each much faster than I. Owen - god love him - would turn to check every so often to make sure I wasn't dead. The walk through the valley was easy and pretty and what most people probably think of when they imagine hiking. The we began to climb up. And up. And up.
Turns out, the only way out of that valley is to climb up and over. It was a very difficult climb for me. Even svelte Vivian was sucking wind - at least according to Owen. She was well rested by the time I made it to the ridge. The going was reminiscent of the Coast to Coast - rocks and boulders and uneven, steep footing. There is no appreciating the terrain in that environment; the only thing to do is look down to keep from falling. There was one perfect moment when the trail was blocked by two gloriously gorgeous donkeys. They were extraordinarily fuzzy. I attempted to pet one. No go. As I made my way around them, they started to rough house as if to show off. The problem was, there wasn't much room for two rambunctious donkeys, Owen, and me. We made it past them unscathed and I managed to get a few good pix of them to boot. Once the donkey show was over (I left out some details about what exactly was going on in case there are any children reading this...), I was forced to listen to my little toe shout bad words. It did so nonstop. I tried not to listen, but it was impossible.
The climb was exhausting, but I finally made it to the ridge and looked back on what we'd accomplished. It was damn impressive. I'd enjoyed it for all of about forty-five seconds before looking down the other side. "Oh shit" was my foremost thought when I saw what I was in for. Huge boulders with a narrow goat's path wandering down a very steep incline. In many places, there was no clear footing, so the only thing to do was use my walking sticks and poke around to find what seemed firm and safe before jumping down. It's a tedious process. It took 90-120 minutes to descend into Bridia Valley. From there, the trail was a dirt road and mostly flat. The views were still breathtaking. After a short bit, we arrived at my next night's accommodation, the proprietors of which run a delicious cafe and sweets shop.
It was by then 2:30 or 3pm, and I'd not eaten since breakfast. I was in need of food and today's special was the perfect choice: A toasted cheese with ham, tomato, and onion. on brown bread. It was the perfect lunch and I washed it down with two pints. As we chatted with the Mister of the House, some other walkers drifted in. One of whom Owen had met at a hostel a few nights earlier, plus an American couple who stopped just for ice cream and two young American kids who were hiking. We all sat outside in the sometimes sunshine/sometimes mist and chatted. The Mister and Missus of the House are both engaging, friendly people. They made me feel at home straight away.
Turns out, they have a horse named Chili Pepper. The Mister whistled and called for her and within moments she came to the fence to say hi. She likes dandelions,so I picked her several handfuls, which she happily devoured. The Mister brought out a fat carrot, which he let me feed to her, too. She smelled heavenly and was quite friendly.., until I stopped feeding her and then she wandered away. She lives outside all year long and has never worn a blanket except for when being ridden. Winter temps in the valley go into the forties, but that's about it. They let her coat grow long for the cold months and she has plenty of good land with lots to eat. She seemed quite happy, but then again..she lives in Kerry!
After a hot shower, I tried to attend to my little toe. I really need a set of nail clippers, but I just don't think that's the sort of thing one asks to borrow from one's inn keepers. I've not read that anywhere, but it just seems to be common sense. (Feel free to share your thoughts.) Whether it's proper or not, I'm in desperate need. The toe nail isn't long, but it's long enough to be part of the problem. Especially when walking downhill, my toe gets jammed into the toe box and after several miles, it's very painful. The toe is swollen, has a blister on the bottom, one on the top, and hurts like the devil. After a filling dinner of vegetarian tagliatelle with all sorts of roasted veggies, pesto, and fresh parmesan, I asked to borrow some scissors. (That didn't seem like such a personal thing to borrow.) The Mister asked if I was going to cut off the offending toe. I told him I was considering it.
The scissors didn't cut it. Hahahahahah, that's funny. It's also true. The nail refused to be cut, so I'm left to bundle it up as best I can. Tomorrow is another long day. I think it's about twelve miles and it begins with a steep, difficult climb right behind the house in which I'm sleeping - which was built in the 1720s!! (The house, that is. The hill was built long before.) It's an amazing old house with very narrow staircases, stone fireplaces, and all sorts of built-in small cupboards and doors located in odd places. I really like this old place. It has so much charm and character.
My bedroom window is open and I'm settled for the night. I really want the fresh air, but I think I've neglected to mention that not a single Irish home/B&B I've slept in has screening on the windows. Whatever wants to come in is free to do so. I've now killed three spiders and just noticed a small moth flitting around near the water closet. I may have to close the darn thing before I have a menagerie of creepy crawlers in here for the night.... but the bleating of sheep and the cool air have convinced me to turn off the lights, leave the window open, and just let it be.
I am grateful for so many things tonight. This cozy bed is just one of them.
Tuesday, June 23, 2015
The Walking Dead, Part Two
I unpacked everything from my carry-on and backpack and laid it out on the bed. Then I set to packing ONLY what I needed to carry for the next nine days. The rest I was leaving behind - the wonderful proprietor of the Killararn House said she'd be happy to store it with her until I return next week. She was very kind. The short story is that I couldn't fit everything I considered necessary, so I dumped it and started again. I left out a bath towel (not sure what I'll use to dry off after showering at the two hostels I've booked), a heavy duty, waffle knit shirt (hope it doesn't get cold), and two, quick-drying t-shirts. I repacked. It still didn't fit. I dumped it out and tried again. Third time's a charm. There was still a little space for water, which is good because not being a camel, I can't walk fifteen miles without the stuff.
Once packed, I sat down to breakfast. I have a feeling you're going to be hearing this a lot, but I looked at the empty place across the table from me and got teary again. I miss my walking partner and NEVER, not ever, will I do this again without her. I didn't have much of an appetite, but the food was delicious and the setting was lovely.
I set off about nine, stopped at a grocery store for water, a hunk of bread, some salami, and a wedge of cheese. That would make the perfect lunch later in the day. I stuffed them at the top of my pack and struggled to get it on my back. I've never walked with this much weight - stop laughing; my backside doesn't count. I've never carried a pack this heavy. A little self-doubt crept in as I headed out of Killarney. Fifteen miles with thirty pounds (I think that's about right.) strapped to your back is serious shit.
The first six miles were pretty easy. Road walking, some footpath too, but all tarmac. The temperature was comfortable - high 60s - and the sun was shining. I wore only a short-sleeved T and a long-sleeved one over it (light, quick-drying materials) and before long, I was sweating.I know you were curious. I was heading for Black Valley and that meant getting through the Gap of Dunloe, which I will forever more call the Gap of Bunghole. Not because it resembled one in any way, but because sometimes I have the maturity of a fifth grade boy. The Gap is a glacier valley sliced through the MacGillaiuddy Reeks mountains. It turned out to be a uniquely magical place; the fodder of fairy tales and legends about hobbits, dwarfs, and elves.
At the base of the gap, stands an old pub named Kate Kearney's Cottage. Talk about a godsend! Inside burned a lovely, cozy fire that drew me near. I was sweating, but unable to resist the lure of the scent of burning wood. It didn't take long before a chill set in and the fire was sooooooo wonderful. I had a toasted cheese, which always tastes better in Ireland because of Kerry butter. You could slather that stuff on open wounds and I'd bet they'd instantly heal, which gives me an idea. Maybe I should slather some on my toe nails....cuz I'm gonna lose another one!! Two pints later (it would have been too easy to spend the entire afternoon sipping brews by that fire, but there were still many miles to cover), I strapped my green back pack on and set off once more. The going is always a bit slower after some pints. Duh.
Once in the Gap of Bunghole, there were lots of horses pulling carts of tourists up the six mile pass. (Yes, up. And up and more up.) The horses were lovely, the tourists...ick. I felt really awful for the poor horses on their way back down the pass. The road is quite steep in parts and they;re pulling a cart with four or five adults inside. I watched one poor girl's hooves skid and she struggled for firm footing while all that weight pushed down on her from behind. I wanted to unlatch the cart and set her free. I struggled to keep my hands on my walking sticks while I gave her driver the stink eye.
The walking wasn't easy and all of those miles of tarmac are hard on the trotters. (Oh, by the way, I know you love it when I share this stuff with you, but I'm gonna lose another toe mail. Yep. Baby toe, left foot. Stay tuned for pix!) There were some ruins along the way that would be wonderful fixer-uppers. I wandered inside and looked up at the sky; the roof had gone the way of the Dodo Bird many moons ago. Places like that make my imagination run wild. At one time, the house had two fire places downstairs - I'm sure one was in the kitchen - and another on the second floor. I can imagine how it looked in its heyday and it makes me sad to see such beautiful stones houses left to crumble.
By the time I reached the top of the pass, I was sucking wind and trying to ignore a very full bladder. The view from the summit was impressive. It always amazes me to turn around and look back at what I just climbed. Today was no exception. After a few moments of appreciation - not too many because just standing around whilst having to pee is painful - I began the long descent down the other side. I was officially out of steam and my speed went from maybe 2.5 miles/hour to about one. There wasn't much left in the tank. Too little sleep, too little hiking to prepare, and too much caboose all had the upper hand. I struggled with screaming toes and a bladder that threatened to let loose while trying to remember to enjoy the scenery. As I was about to lie down and die, I heard the unmistakable bray of a donkey and my pace quickened. Rare road signage actually pointed the way to my accommodations for the night - a working farm - and I hobbled with eager anticipation.
This place is rustic, but homey. It doesn't come close to passing the white glove test and I've already killed a rather large spider in my room, but I don't care. My windows are open and every ten minutes or so, a donkey brays and I grin like the water boy. I love donkeys!
The owner is a lovely, older lady with the short-term memory of Dory, from Finding Nemo. Here 's an example:
Her: What would ye like for supper?
Me: Please don't fuss. I'm too tired to be hungry. (Not something I say often. Clearly)
Her: How about stew?
I am not a fan of stew, but would never dream of telling the owner of a farm who is busting her butt that I don't like what she's prepared for dinner.
Me: If that's easy for you...but brown bread and butter would be enough.
Her: Oh, What's your name again?
Me: Patti.
Her. Right. What would you like for dinner? Chicken?
This went on for quite awhile until we agreed that I would have a cheese and tomato sandwich. She was expecting eight Germans, who would fill up her dining room, so we decided that I'd eat in my room. She said she'd knock on my door when it was ready. I showered, dressed, and rinsed out today's stinky clothes. As I sat on my very cozy bed, writing my blog, she knocked and said something in Irish. I moaned as I creaked and winced in the attempt to stand. I limped to the kitchen, where my darling proprietor was filling a serving tray. She spoke again in Irish. I picked up the word gairdin, meaning garden and followed her. My view couldn't have been any more magnificent! Before me, this cute farmer's wife placed a plate of brown bread and butter and a bowl of soup. (Wait, didn't you say you were feeding me a sandwich?) I told her it was perfect and she spoke words I didn't understand. Directly in front of me were two beautiful, well cared for horses and some sheep. I was surrounded by the MacGillicuddy Reeks. The sky was full of puffy clouds and the temperature was getting chilly, but with hot soup before me, I wasn't worried. As I soaked in the atmosphere amid the bleating of sheep, the proprietor returned with a plate of cheese and tomato sandwiches that would have fed three men. (She must have gauged the amount to make on the size of my caboose. There's no other explanation.)
Me: Oh wow! You didn't have to do that. This is way too much food for me. (Also not something I often say.)
Her: Pish. Eat it. You're brilliant. (You're brilliant is just an Irish way of saying, you're fine or it's okay. I love the way it rolls of their tongue.)
Me: Really, you are too generous. I can't eat all of this.
Her: Ye've nothing else to do.
She had a point. I did my best, but I just wasn't hungry. (Lawd, listen to the things coming outta my face today.) As I forced down the soup, she returned with a scone.
Me: Please, no more. I really can't.
Her: It's just a wee scone. (It was the size of a softball.)
Two minutes later, she returned with homemade jam and a cuppa.
I felt bad about not eating it all. I just don't feel like eating. I didn't touch the scone and only ate two triangle of sandwich. (Yes, she cut them like she was serving a child. It warmed my heart.) I stacked everything on the tray and went sheepishly to the kitchen where she sang an old Gaelic folk song I have on a CD at home.) I stood for a bit listening until she saw me. I apologized for not eating much and said she could just serve it to me again for breakfast like my mother would have done.
Her: Ach. It's a proper breakfast ye'll be eatin'. Now what's your name again?
Me: Patti. Thanks again for dinner. It was really good.
Her: Dinner? I almost forgot. What do ye want for supper?
Oh geez. Adorable cuteness of seven grandmas stuffed into this little woman. God, she's wonderful. I reminded her that she'd already fed me and that I was stuffed. She asked if I'd enjoyed the meat pie and I said it was lovely. I asked if I could take the cuppa to my room and she shooed me away. When I went back an hour later to return the empty cup, I told her how much I enjoyed the sound of the donkeys.
"Jesus. Put on your boots and I'll get ye met."
I did as she told me, but not before grabbing my phone, and followed her to the barn. It was then that I really recognized how old she really is. She walked slowly and a little unsteady over the stones. I offered her my arm, which she tool without a word. Donkeys are funny little creatures. The one in the barn was a male named Matilda (we had a famous old milking cow with that name when I was a kid) and she kept on talking about why "in the Jesus" that donkey was in the barn. I petted and cooed and took a few pictures. After several minutes, she said she'd take me to see the hens. (I didn't want to tell her that I'm afraid of birds!) While we were out, Bandit - their little Jack Russell - accompanied us. I guess he likes chicken because he was chasing them while my proprietor yelled, "Jesus" over and over.
They have a small shed that has been broken down into four box stalls. The coop is in the first of the group. It was time to put them to bed and this cute little old lady began scooping them up. Before I knew it, she had three BIG hens in her grasp. She tilted her head at the others and said, "Find yer hands." She wanted me to pick up a chicken. A live one. With my hands. No one's ever shown me how. I mustered the courage and bent at the waist with my hands out, hoping it would just jump into my arms like a toddler. It didn't. Instead it flew at my head while screeching. I screamed and while waving my arms, threw it against the wall. "Jesus, what now?"
No matter how many times I apologized, I sounded like an ass. Bandit wanted to show me how it wa done and lunged at one of the birds, which are much bigger than he.
Her: "Aren't you a cheeky article!"
I laughed out loud. Who would ever have thought to say that but her. I followed her around as she did other minor chores, filling a tub with water (don't know for who), locking the hens in for the night to protect them from foxes, feeding the herding dog who lives outside. All the while, she muttered and spoke and while I didn't understand a single word (not one), I had a wonderful time. I honestly don't know if she spoke in English or Irish; her thick Kerry accent is very difficult to decode, but whatever it was, it was music to my ears.
Back inside, I thanked her for taking me around to meet her animals. She asked me what I wanted for breakfast, which made me laugh, because she'll never remember it. She asked if I was going to bed. I told her that I was going back to my room to do some work - I didn't want to try to explain the concept of blogging - and she told me to "make noise" if I needed anything. Back in my room, there was a knock at the door two minutes after I'd closed it.
Her" What do ye want for supper?"
I begged off, telling her that I was too tired to eat. She bought it and bade me goodnight. As I sit on my cozy bed, I hear her cleaning up in the kitchen. She's singing a song with words I don't understand. Every so often, a donkey brays. Her song and a donkey; there is no better lullaby.
Once packed, I sat down to breakfast. I have a feeling you're going to be hearing this a lot, but I looked at the empty place across the table from me and got teary again. I miss my walking partner and NEVER, not ever, will I do this again without her. I didn't have much of an appetite, but the food was delicious and the setting was lovely.
I set off about nine, stopped at a grocery store for water, a hunk of bread, some salami, and a wedge of cheese. That would make the perfect lunch later in the day. I stuffed them at the top of my pack and struggled to get it on my back. I've never walked with this much weight - stop laughing; my backside doesn't count. I've never carried a pack this heavy. A little self-doubt crept in as I headed out of Killarney. Fifteen miles with thirty pounds (I think that's about right.) strapped to your back is serious shit.
The first six miles were pretty easy. Road walking, some footpath too, but all tarmac. The temperature was comfortable - high 60s - and the sun was shining. I wore only a short-sleeved T and a long-sleeved one over it (light, quick-drying materials) and before long, I was sweating.I know you were curious. I was heading for Black Valley and that meant getting through the Gap of Dunloe, which I will forever more call the Gap of Bunghole. Not because it resembled one in any way, but because sometimes I have the maturity of a fifth grade boy. The Gap is a glacier valley sliced through the MacGillaiuddy Reeks mountains. It turned out to be a uniquely magical place; the fodder of fairy tales and legends about hobbits, dwarfs, and elves.
At the base of the gap, stands an old pub named Kate Kearney's Cottage. Talk about a godsend! Inside burned a lovely, cozy fire that drew me near. I was sweating, but unable to resist the lure of the scent of burning wood. It didn't take long before a chill set in and the fire was sooooooo wonderful. I had a toasted cheese, which always tastes better in Ireland because of Kerry butter. You could slather that stuff on open wounds and I'd bet they'd instantly heal, which gives me an idea. Maybe I should slather some on my toe nails....cuz I'm gonna lose another one!! Two pints later (it would have been too easy to spend the entire afternoon sipping brews by that fire, but there were still many miles to cover), I strapped my green back pack on and set off once more. The going is always a bit slower after some pints. Duh.
Once in the Gap of Bunghole, there were lots of horses pulling carts of tourists up the six mile pass. (Yes, up. And up and more up.) The horses were lovely, the tourists...ick. I felt really awful for the poor horses on their way back down the pass. The road is quite steep in parts and they;re pulling a cart with four or five adults inside. I watched one poor girl's hooves skid and she struggled for firm footing while all that weight pushed down on her from behind. I wanted to unlatch the cart and set her free. I struggled to keep my hands on my walking sticks while I gave her driver the stink eye.
The walking wasn't easy and all of those miles of tarmac are hard on the trotters. (Oh, by the way, I know you love it when I share this stuff with you, but I'm gonna lose another toe mail. Yep. Baby toe, left foot. Stay tuned for pix!) There were some ruins along the way that would be wonderful fixer-uppers. I wandered inside and looked up at the sky; the roof had gone the way of the Dodo Bird many moons ago. Places like that make my imagination run wild. At one time, the house had two fire places downstairs - I'm sure one was in the kitchen - and another on the second floor. I can imagine how it looked in its heyday and it makes me sad to see such beautiful stones houses left to crumble.
By the time I reached the top of the pass, I was sucking wind and trying to ignore a very full bladder. The view from the summit was impressive. It always amazes me to turn around and look back at what I just climbed. Today was no exception. After a few moments of appreciation - not too many because just standing around whilst having to pee is painful - I began the long descent down the other side. I was officially out of steam and my speed went from maybe 2.5 miles/hour to about one. There wasn't much left in the tank. Too little sleep, too little hiking to prepare, and too much caboose all had the upper hand. I struggled with screaming toes and a bladder that threatened to let loose while trying to remember to enjoy the scenery. As I was about to lie down and die, I heard the unmistakable bray of a donkey and my pace quickened. Rare road signage actually pointed the way to my accommodations for the night - a working farm - and I hobbled with eager anticipation.
This place is rustic, but homey. It doesn't come close to passing the white glove test and I've already killed a rather large spider in my room, but I don't care. My windows are open and every ten minutes or so, a donkey brays and I grin like the water boy. I love donkeys!
The owner is a lovely, older lady with the short-term memory of Dory, from Finding Nemo. Here 's an example:
Her: What would ye like for supper?
Me: Please don't fuss. I'm too tired to be hungry. (Not something I say often. Clearly)
Her: How about stew?
I am not a fan of stew, but would never dream of telling the owner of a farm who is busting her butt that I don't like what she's prepared for dinner.
Me: If that's easy for you...but brown bread and butter would be enough.
Her: Oh, What's your name again?
Me: Patti.
Her. Right. What would you like for dinner? Chicken?
This went on for quite awhile until we agreed that I would have a cheese and tomato sandwich. She was expecting eight Germans, who would fill up her dining room, so we decided that I'd eat in my room. She said she'd knock on my door when it was ready. I showered, dressed, and rinsed out today's stinky clothes. As I sat on my very cozy bed, writing my blog, she knocked and said something in Irish. I moaned as I creaked and winced in the attempt to stand. I limped to the kitchen, where my darling proprietor was filling a serving tray. She spoke again in Irish. I picked up the word gairdin, meaning garden and followed her. My view couldn't have been any more magnificent! Before me, this cute farmer's wife placed a plate of brown bread and butter and a bowl of soup. (Wait, didn't you say you were feeding me a sandwich?) I told her it was perfect and she spoke words I didn't understand. Directly in front of me were two beautiful, well cared for horses and some sheep. I was surrounded by the MacGillicuddy Reeks. The sky was full of puffy clouds and the temperature was getting chilly, but with hot soup before me, I wasn't worried. As I soaked in the atmosphere amid the bleating of sheep, the proprietor returned with a plate of cheese and tomato sandwiches that would have fed three men. (She must have gauged the amount to make on the size of my caboose. There's no other explanation.)
Me: Oh wow! You didn't have to do that. This is way too much food for me. (Also not something I often say.)
Her: Pish. Eat it. You're brilliant. (You're brilliant is just an Irish way of saying, you're fine or it's okay. I love the way it rolls of their tongue.)
Me: Really, you are too generous. I can't eat all of this.
Her: Ye've nothing else to do.
She had a point. I did my best, but I just wasn't hungry. (Lawd, listen to the things coming outta my face today.) As I forced down the soup, she returned with a scone.
Me: Please, no more. I really can't.
Her: It's just a wee scone. (It was the size of a softball.)
Two minutes later, she returned with homemade jam and a cuppa.
I felt bad about not eating it all. I just don't feel like eating. I didn't touch the scone and only ate two triangle of sandwich. (Yes, she cut them like she was serving a child. It warmed my heart.) I stacked everything on the tray and went sheepishly to the kitchen where she sang an old Gaelic folk song I have on a CD at home.) I stood for a bit listening until she saw me. I apologized for not eating much and said she could just serve it to me again for breakfast like my mother would have done.
Her: Ach. It's a proper breakfast ye'll be eatin'. Now what's your name again?
Me: Patti. Thanks again for dinner. It was really good.
Her: Dinner? I almost forgot. What do ye want for supper?
Oh geez. Adorable cuteness of seven grandmas stuffed into this little woman. God, she's wonderful. I reminded her that she'd already fed me and that I was stuffed. She asked if I'd enjoyed the meat pie and I said it was lovely. I asked if I could take the cuppa to my room and she shooed me away. When I went back an hour later to return the empty cup, I told her how much I enjoyed the sound of the donkeys.
"Jesus. Put on your boots and I'll get ye met."
I did as she told me, but not before grabbing my phone, and followed her to the barn. It was then that I really recognized how old she really is. She walked slowly and a little unsteady over the stones. I offered her my arm, which she tool without a word. Donkeys are funny little creatures. The one in the barn was a male named Matilda (we had a famous old milking cow with that name when I was a kid) and she kept on talking about why "in the Jesus" that donkey was in the barn. I petted and cooed and took a few pictures. After several minutes, she said she'd take me to see the hens. (I didn't want to tell her that I'm afraid of birds!) While we were out, Bandit - their little Jack Russell - accompanied us. I guess he likes chicken because he was chasing them while my proprietor yelled, "Jesus" over and over.
They have a small shed that has been broken down into four box stalls. The coop is in the first of the group. It was time to put them to bed and this cute little old lady began scooping them up. Before I knew it, she had three BIG hens in her grasp. She tilted her head at the others and said, "Find yer hands." She wanted me to pick up a chicken. A live one. With my hands. No one's ever shown me how. I mustered the courage and bent at the waist with my hands out, hoping it would just jump into my arms like a toddler. It didn't. Instead it flew at my head while screeching. I screamed and while waving my arms, threw it against the wall. "Jesus, what now?"
No matter how many times I apologized, I sounded like an ass. Bandit wanted to show me how it wa done and lunged at one of the birds, which are much bigger than he.
Her: "Aren't you a cheeky article!"
I laughed out loud. Who would ever have thought to say that but her. I followed her around as she did other minor chores, filling a tub with water (don't know for who), locking the hens in for the night to protect them from foxes, feeding the herding dog who lives outside. All the while, she muttered and spoke and while I didn't understand a single word (not one), I had a wonderful time. I honestly don't know if she spoke in English or Irish; her thick Kerry accent is very difficult to decode, but whatever it was, it was music to my ears.
Back inside, I thanked her for taking me around to meet her animals. She asked me what I wanted for breakfast, which made me laugh, because she'll never remember it. She asked if I was going to bed. I told her that I was going back to my room to do some work - I didn't want to try to explain the concept of blogging - and she told me to "make noise" if I needed anything. Back in my room, there was a knock at the door two minutes after I'd closed it.
Her" What do ye want for supper?"
I begged off, telling her that I was too tired to eat. She bought it and bade me goodnight. As I sit on my cozy bed, I hear her cleaning up in the kitchen. She's singing a song with words I don't understand. Every so often, a donkey brays. Her song and a donkey; there is no better lullaby.
The Walking Dead
Thirty-three hours ago, I got up out of bed in our home in Islamorada. One shuttle bus, two planes, one taxi, two trains, and some walking found me at my first B&B for the night. In usual form, it took effort to find my accommodations; the Irish never did learn how to measure distance so when they say "go about 400 meters", you may have to walk a mile or two. Nevertheless, I eventually found it.
I tossed my things on the bed, changed out of my flip flops and into my hiking boots and set off to find beer and sustenance. The first pub into which I wandered made me even more homesick for my girl; it was called The Shire. It seems to be a work in progress and was actually pretty cute. She'd have loved it. They didn't have food, so after a pint of Frodo's Beer, I wandered off. All I can tell you is that I arrived in Killarney at 2/;30 and wandered back to my B&B at 11pm. There were pints, food, and traditional Irish music involved...and my wallet is considerably lighter. The sun hadn't fully set yet, so there was plenty of light with which to navigate home.
I showered off the stink of travel and tried to blog but technology wasn't having it. I opened the windows and crawled under thick blankets. It was chilly and nice. It reminded me of many nights on the Coast to Coast Walk and the trek around the Dingle Peninsula with my girl. I miss her company and may have cried. I was very tired and that makes me, well...emotional.
The sun was up around 4am and so was I. It wasn't nearly enough sleep after so many hours awake, but my body is confused...and I miss Lauren. I never expected it to be so bad. What the hell am I gonna do when she leaves for college in two years? Go with her, I suspect.
(I brought Lauren's old laptop with which to blog - yes, I'm carrying this thing sometimes twenty miles a day to blog! - but it's so old that it's unable to recognize my cell when I plug it in, which means I'm unable to pull of the photos to upload them here. Any suggestions? I don't have and connect install email on my cell and am locked out of my Pinterest account...)
I tossed my things on the bed, changed out of my flip flops and into my hiking boots and set off to find beer and sustenance. The first pub into which I wandered made me even more homesick for my girl; it was called The Shire. It seems to be a work in progress and was actually pretty cute. She'd have loved it. They didn't have food, so after a pint of Frodo's Beer, I wandered off. All I can tell you is that I arrived in Killarney at 2/;30 and wandered back to my B&B at 11pm. There were pints, food, and traditional Irish music involved...and my wallet is considerably lighter. The sun hadn't fully set yet, so there was plenty of light with which to navigate home.
I showered off the stink of travel and tried to blog but technology wasn't having it. I opened the windows and crawled under thick blankets. It was chilly and nice. It reminded me of many nights on the Coast to Coast Walk and the trek around the Dingle Peninsula with my girl. I miss her company and may have cried. I was very tired and that makes me, well...emotional.
The sun was up around 4am and so was I. It wasn't nearly enough sleep after so many hours awake, but my body is confused...and I miss Lauren. I never expected it to be so bad. What the hell am I gonna do when she leaves for college in two years? Go with her, I suspect.
(I brought Lauren's old laptop with which to blog - yes, I'm carrying this thing sometimes twenty miles a day to blog! - but it's so old that it's unable to recognize my cell when I plug it in, which means I'm unable to pull of the photos to upload them here. Any suggestions? I don't have and connect install email on my cell and am locked out of my Pinterest account...)
Wednesday, June 17, 2015
Drum roll, please....
It's getting so close to liftoff that it might be okay to start counting it in hours rather than days! Yep, it's really that close. I leave in four days. FOUR!! Holy hills of green, Batman.
To say that I'm preoccupied with thoughts of hiking Ireland again would be an understatement. A major one. I can't think about much else, but can you blame me? Two weeks of trekking around the Emerald Isle is just around the corner.
Have I mentioned that since returning to a full-time desk job, I've not walked a single mile? Yeah, that's not good. It's been well over a month since I've put any miles on my boots, which means that my endurance will be nonexistent. Wonder how those first fifteen miles on day one are gonna be? It's funny now, but I'll keep you posted on that. It won't be so humorous when my tank runs dry and there's still another seven miles to go. Oh well, thankfully, I've always had Scarlett O'Hara's ability to decide to think about that tomorrow. It's a gift.
Speaking of gifts, I bought those undies that you can wear for like a week or two...Lauren's dwarf told us about them three years ago when he set out for a month of hiking with only two pairs of undies. We thought that sounded pretty damn gross, but he swore by them. Turns out, they sell them at Islamorada Outfitters and I bought some. The owners swear that you can wear them all day and then wash them out at night and they dry in twenty minutes or so. They're not cotton either, so they stay dry when you're sweating your backside off. It feels odd to pack for a two week trip and take only two pairs of skivvies. Never fear, I'll keep you abreast of that situation, too. No secrets here. I know how much you like that.
Last night, I printed out the email confirmations for every night's accommodation, the train, and my flight itinerary. It's stacked on my desk under the maps. You know what that means, right?
Drum roll, please....
FOUR DAYS!!!
To say that I'm preoccupied with thoughts of hiking Ireland again would be an understatement. A major one. I can't think about much else, but can you blame me? Two weeks of trekking around the Emerald Isle is just around the corner.
Have I mentioned that since returning to a full-time desk job, I've not walked a single mile? Yeah, that's not good. It's been well over a month since I've put any miles on my boots, which means that my endurance will be nonexistent. Wonder how those first fifteen miles on day one are gonna be? It's funny now, but I'll keep you posted on that. It won't be so humorous when my tank runs dry and there's still another seven miles to go. Oh well, thankfully, I've always had Scarlett O'Hara's ability to decide to think about that tomorrow. It's a gift.
Speaking of gifts, I bought those undies that you can wear for like a week or two...Lauren's dwarf told us about them three years ago when he set out for a month of hiking with only two pairs of undies. We thought that sounded pretty damn gross, but he swore by them. Turns out, they sell them at Islamorada Outfitters and I bought some. The owners swear that you can wear them all day and then wash them out at night and they dry in twenty minutes or so. They're not cotton either, so they stay dry when you're sweating your backside off. It feels odd to pack for a two week trip and take only two pairs of skivvies. Never fear, I'll keep you abreast of that situation, too. No secrets here. I know how much you like that.
Last night, I printed out the email confirmations for every night's accommodation, the train, and my flight itinerary. It's stacked on my desk under the maps. You know what that means, right?
Drum roll, please....
FOUR DAYS!!!
Friday, June 12, 2015
A Wild Hair
We all know that I've had my itinerary for this adventure established since January, right? I knew exactly where I'd be each day/night while hiking The Kerry Way, as well as afterward when I hop in a rental car and drive 300+ miles to Mayo. Well, things have changed!
Whilst driving home Wednesday evening after work, the proverbial hair worked its magic. I was in a daze somewhere around mile marker 97 when BAM! Achill Island popped into my head uninvited and unexpected. I decided right then and there that I HAD to include it on this year's trip. Once home,I changed into my favorite camo shorts and a T-shirt and went outside with the dogs to have a beer and inspect my plants. Eventually, the mosquitoes forced us inside where I plopped down at my computer to see what sort of miracles I could work. (Trying to find accommodations this late in a place like that is foolhardy.)
Less than an hour later, I was set on Achill Island. It, much like Wesport and Newport where I'd planned to visit, is in Mayo...but it's an island. You know my affinity for the water. Turns out there's a half marathon and some sort of maritime celebration taking place the weekend that I plan to visit, so it'll be busy and full of interesting characters. As I searched for reasonably priced accommodations on the beach (the island is famous for them), I stumbled across a quaint little place called Lavelle's Seaside House. Need I say more?
For thirty euros, I have a room with a view and breakfast... in a seaside home bearing my family's name. In addition to walking the beach, there are "hills" nearby for climbing. They are actually mountains and it goes without saying that they shall be explored. I'll arrive late in the afternoon of July 2nd, spend the night, and have all the next day to explore and search for family. I'll spend a second night and then drive to New port to meet with Mr. Joe Reid and Padder (Yoda reincarnate)
I'm excited about this last minute change in plan. The island has at least one castle that I plan to visit and hopeful a cemetery or two. Did I mention that Lavell's houses a pub? Duh. They are Lavelle's.
Whilst driving home Wednesday evening after work, the proverbial hair worked its magic. I was in a daze somewhere around mile marker 97 when BAM! Achill Island popped into my head uninvited and unexpected. I decided right then and there that I HAD to include it on this year's trip. Once home,I changed into my favorite camo shorts and a T-shirt and went outside with the dogs to have a beer and inspect my plants. Eventually, the mosquitoes forced us inside where I plopped down at my computer to see what sort of miracles I could work. (Trying to find accommodations this late in a place like that is foolhardy.)
Less than an hour later, I was set on Achill Island. It, much like Wesport and Newport where I'd planned to visit, is in Mayo...but it's an island. You know my affinity for the water. Turns out there's a half marathon and some sort of maritime celebration taking place the weekend that I plan to visit, so it'll be busy and full of interesting characters. As I searched for reasonably priced accommodations on the beach (the island is famous for them), I stumbled across a quaint little place called Lavelle's Seaside House. Need I say more?
For thirty euros, I have a room with a view and breakfast... in a seaside home bearing my family's name. In addition to walking the beach, there are "hills" nearby for climbing. They are actually mountains and it goes without saying that they shall be explored. I'll arrive late in the afternoon of July 2nd, spend the night, and have all the next day to explore and search for family. I'll spend a second night and then drive to New port to meet with Mr. Joe Reid and Padder (Yoda reincarnate)
I'm excited about this last minute change in plan. The island has at least one castle that I plan to visit and hopeful a cemetery or two. Did I mention that Lavell's houses a pub? Duh. They are Lavelle's.
Wednesday, June 3, 2015
Eighteen Days!!!
I looked at the calendar this morning. It's the third of June. My baby cousin, Crystal's, 36th birthday. Man, she's old. Thirty-six? Lawd. I sent her a box of Depends and a case of cheaters. Then I realized something even more mind-blowing...
I leave for Ireland in eighteen days!!!! You realize that's less than two weeks, right? At least it was the last time I checked. OMG. (I actually dislike the whole text language trend, but thought I'd give it a whirl.) Eighteen days?
This is exciting and scary all at the same time. Exciting because, well duh. Do I need to spell it out for you? I'm heading off to The Motherland, alone, to walk 136 miles around The Kerry Way, then renting a car to revisit Minard Castle (with which I'm having a love affair) and then to Mayo to hang with some dead people and hopefully some live ones, too. The scary part is that since going back to work full-time, I've walked ZERO miles. None. Nada. Zilch. NADFM (Not a damn freakin' mile.) That's not so good, especially when you consider that my first day's hike will be fifteen miles.
Oh, that's gonna blow. Actually, it'll be rough but it'll be the following days of nineteen and twenty miles that'll really get me. One long walk out of the blue is doable...it's the day after day that makes your body scream at you. Oh well, there's nothing to be done about it. Suck it up, Buttercup! That's what it's all about. Doing something over-the-top that you didn't think you could do. (Except that I know I can.)
So, how do I spend the next two and a half weeks? Not training, that's for sure. It's time to contact each of my B&Bs, pubs, and farms that I've booked and confirm my arrival dates. MFAC. (My fingers are crossed.) Hopefully, I didn't make any bonehead mistakes whilst booking last January. It's easy to do when booking a different night in a different village for ten or eleven nights. I never stay anywhere long enough to get bored...or too comfy.
I'll drag my worn out carcass into town late in the afternoon on most days, find my accommodations, leave my boots and gaitors (water-proof things that cover from the knee to the top of the boot) at the door, find my room, shower, and head to the pub for a few pints and dinner. My favorite Irish pub meals include chicken and mushroom pie, creamy tomato basil soup and a bread board, fish and chips, grilled sandwiches and chips, and fresh seafood. After another pint or two, I'll limp to my room (sitting for any length of time after a long walk results in hips and knees that refuse to cooperate), blog about the day's events, and fall asleep with the windows open. There's nothing like burrowing under a warm, down quilt while chilly Irish breezes whip about the room. In the morning, I'll stagger down to brekky, which will always include coffee (I never drink it anywhere else) and toast slathered with fresh Kerry Butter. (When I die, I want my ashes mixed with Kerry Butter and then have the whole mess wiped on the walls of Minard Castle. I'm trusting you to see to that.) Then a quick pack-up and I'm off, heading for a new village...over several mountain shoulders, across a few streams, and usually several boggy peat beds that make me want to yank out my hair. Good times.
Just yesterday, I ordered the three OSI (Ordinance Survey Ireland) maps I'll need to navigate the Way. They show detailed landscape information and elevation and are printed on water-resistant paper. Note: They are not waterproof. Don't ask me how I know this. It's a sad story. Anyhooooo, I bought the maps and they should be here next week. The only task remaining is learning how to actually use them. And a compass. I still don't know how, which is problematic because I won't have my favorite navigator with me to save my sorry ass. (Lauren is better with that sort of thing, but she will be in DC and NYC being a teenager.) I plan to figure it out on the plane. What else would I do for that long?
So, there you have it. In eighteen days, I'll set off for the two hour trip to Miami International (Hell on Earth) where I'll do a three hour flight to JFK. I'll sit there for three more hours before taking off for the Emerald Isle. If I remember correctly, it's about six hours to Dublin. From there, I'll find a lift to the train station and catch the 11am to Killarney. I'll arrive three-and-a-half hours later with time to explore before finding a pub for an early dinner and few pints. I've no doubt I'll sleep well that night...unless I'm too excited about the first day's walk.
IHGJTAI. (I have goosebumps just thinking about it.)
I leave for Ireland in eighteen days!!!! You realize that's less than two weeks, right? At least it was the last time I checked. OMG. (I actually dislike the whole text language trend, but thought I'd give it a whirl.) Eighteen days?
This is exciting and scary all at the same time. Exciting because, well duh. Do I need to spell it out for you? I'm heading off to The Motherland, alone, to walk 136 miles around The Kerry Way, then renting a car to revisit Minard Castle (with which I'm having a love affair) and then to Mayo to hang with some dead people and hopefully some live ones, too. The scary part is that since going back to work full-time, I've walked ZERO miles. None. Nada. Zilch. NADFM (Not a damn freakin' mile.) That's not so good, especially when you consider that my first day's hike will be fifteen miles.
Oh, that's gonna blow. Actually, it'll be rough but it'll be the following days of nineteen and twenty miles that'll really get me. One long walk out of the blue is doable...it's the day after day that makes your body scream at you. Oh well, there's nothing to be done about it. Suck it up, Buttercup! That's what it's all about. Doing something over-the-top that you didn't think you could do. (Except that I know I can.)
So, how do I spend the next two and a half weeks? Not training, that's for sure. It's time to contact each of my B&Bs, pubs, and farms that I've booked and confirm my arrival dates. MFAC. (My fingers are crossed.) Hopefully, I didn't make any bonehead mistakes whilst booking last January. It's easy to do when booking a different night in a different village for ten or eleven nights. I never stay anywhere long enough to get bored...or too comfy.
I'll drag my worn out carcass into town late in the afternoon on most days, find my accommodations, leave my boots and gaitors (water-proof things that cover from the knee to the top of the boot) at the door, find my room, shower, and head to the pub for a few pints and dinner. My favorite Irish pub meals include chicken and mushroom pie, creamy tomato basil soup and a bread board, fish and chips, grilled sandwiches and chips, and fresh seafood. After another pint or two, I'll limp to my room (sitting for any length of time after a long walk results in hips and knees that refuse to cooperate), blog about the day's events, and fall asleep with the windows open. There's nothing like burrowing under a warm, down quilt while chilly Irish breezes whip about the room. In the morning, I'll stagger down to brekky, which will always include coffee (I never drink it anywhere else) and toast slathered with fresh Kerry Butter. (When I die, I want my ashes mixed with Kerry Butter and then have the whole mess wiped on the walls of Minard Castle. I'm trusting you to see to that.) Then a quick pack-up and I'm off, heading for a new village...over several mountain shoulders, across a few streams, and usually several boggy peat beds that make me want to yank out my hair. Good times.
Just yesterday, I ordered the three OSI (Ordinance Survey Ireland) maps I'll need to navigate the Way. They show detailed landscape information and elevation and are printed on water-resistant paper. Note: They are not waterproof. Don't ask me how I know this. It's a sad story. Anyhooooo, I bought the maps and they should be here next week. The only task remaining is learning how to actually use them. And a compass. I still don't know how, which is problematic because I won't have my favorite navigator with me to save my sorry ass. (Lauren is better with that sort of thing, but she will be in DC and NYC being a teenager.) I plan to figure it out on the plane. What else would I do for that long?
So, there you have it. In eighteen days, I'll set off for the two hour trip to Miami International (Hell on Earth) where I'll do a three hour flight to JFK. I'll sit there for three more hours before taking off for the Emerald Isle. If I remember correctly, it's about six hours to Dublin. From there, I'll find a lift to the train station and catch the 11am to Killarney. I'll arrive three-and-a-half hours later with time to explore before finding a pub for an early dinner and few pints. I've no doubt I'll sleep well that night...unless I'm too excited about the first day's walk.
IHGJTAI. (I have goosebumps just thinking about it.)
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