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