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.