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

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.

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.

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...)

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!!!

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.

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.)