Nine Weeks!

Nine weeks from now, I'll leave behind the heat and humidity of our tropical paradise for the lush, cool, green hills of Ireland. It'll be nearly ninety degrees here today and only fifty in County Kerry. That's quite a change, especially when you've fully acclimated to hot, sticky temps.

I get goosebumps just thinking about hiking along quiet country lanes, lined on both sides with heady-smelling wildflowers. Fuchsia grows in huge, bushy hedges everywhere. (When we lived in VA, we paid fifteen or twenty bucks per hanging basket.) The pinks and purples of its double flowers never fail to pull me in for a closer look and, as a result, slow my arrival to the next town. Did you know that the fruit of all fuchsia species are edible? I've never tasted it, but some people make it into jam. (Maybe I'll pick some and try to smuggle it back home for a jam-making experiment.)

The only downside to the wildflowers are the gigunda bees that seek their nectar. Those who know me well know that I'm afraid of everything with wings. (Yes, even butterflies terrify me.) More than once, I've run off, screaming and flailing my arms, weaving a crooked path in the attempt to outrun a bee who decided I might be competition. Turns out, Irish bumbles are just as scary as American ones.

In spite of the bees, I know I'll spend too much time appreciating the beauty of whatever grows along my way around the Iveragh Peninsula. Without Lauren or her dwarf to pull me along, I'll probably arrive at my accommodations after dark more than once. Then there are the cows. Lord have mercy, nothing slows me down more than a cow. (Except a dolphin or manatee, but I won't have to worry about that happening on the trail.) I can't tell you how many times Lauren and I were waylaid by cattle last summer while walking the Dingle Peninsula. Just ask her dwarf. More than once, he harumphed and took off, annoyed at our fascination with milkers and their calves. Then there are the horses and donkeys. Don't get me started on donkeys. All I'll say about them (for now), is that when I move to Ireland, my little farm will be graced with at least two. They will be named Owen and Grumpy, which are really the same thing.

Aside from buying train tickets from Dublin to Killarney - a four hour trip - the logistics have been settled. The "economy two door" car I rented to drive to Mayo will probably be smaller than a golf cart. I'll be sure to post a picture on the blog. I hope it doesn't come equipped with clowns because I'm afraid of them, too. Odd, I'm not afraid to walk 135 miles of woods/farmland/mountains alone, nor am I afraid of ghosts, dark cemeteries, or whales, but I'm petrified of clowns and things that fly. Huh. I suppose a shrink would have a field day with that.

I've gone back to working full-time (why, I don't remember), so my training has again taken a back seat. However, I'm putting in miles of running around the resort each day, looking for someone or trying to help resolve guest issues, so that's better than sitting behind a desk for eight hours. However, there's still the issue of hill climbing. These islands are absolutely flat. Endurance will be an issue, but I know that I'll succeed. Just imaging the wildflowers, cows, and donkeys waiting for me at the next village will be all the motivation I need.

Slan.

Countdown

I've been waiting to begin a countdown. Today's the day.

Fourteen weeks!

Sounds like a lot of time, but it's not. I've not yet begun to train in earnest... well, except for the drinking beer part. I think I've almost mastered that. The real work begins this week, but no matter how hard I train, I won't be ready for steep climbs. The Keys are flatter than my mother's pancakes. There's no way to train for mountains and extended climbs, but I'll manage just like I did when we walked across England and then again when we walked the Dingle Way.

Here's an aerial view of the peninsula I'll be waking. Looks like a piece of cake from here, aye?

As far as arrangements go, all that's left to book is the train from Dubin to Killarney. Unfortunately, the Irish Rail website doesn't allow bookings more than three months in advance. I hope I don't forget...please remind me next month to get it done or I'll be up the proverbial creek.

My itinerary for walking the Kerry Way is set in stone, but the rest of the trip will happen however it will. I know as soon as I finish my walking adventure, it's straight to Minard Castle for a reunion. Just me and the ruins and the beach. It's just one peninsula over and I can drive there in less than thirty minutes. I can't wait to be there again...it stole my heart.

When I finally force myself away from Minard, I'll head north to Newport, Mayo. It's about a four hour drive, but it'll take me at least six, probably eight because I'm going to detour to see the Cliffs of Moher. I can't be that close and not stop. And what if there are pubs along the way?

Then there will be handfuls of old churches and ruins that will require detours. That's just of many time during the trip that I'll miss my girl. She shares my love of castles, abbeys, and ruins and she's one damn fine navigator. How am I going to read a map and drive and find pubs? I've located a someone to ride shotgun, but I'm not sure how good of a navigator he'll be....

Gilding the Lilly

As if having the opportunity to walk the Kerry Way wasn't enough to qualify me as a dirty-rotten spoiled brat, I've tacked on a few days afterwards to transform what was sure to be a grand adventure into a Monumental Escapade of Epic Proportions. MEEP for short.

Do you recall when I blogged about a charming older man we (Doug, Lauren, and yours truly) had the privilege to meet  - the one resembling Yoda in all the greatest of ways? Mr. Kilroy is his name and he is uncle to a Mr. Joe Reid, owner of the Black Oak Inn in Newport, Mayo, Ireland.

Joe was kind enough to try to help me reconnect with Lavelles and introduced me to his uncle, "Padder" as he's affectionately known. I was so taken with him, mesmerized by his appearance and manner of speaking that I neglected to write down anything he said. He could have read me the phone book and I'd have been spellbound. I've kicked myself a thousand times for not taking his picture, but I was afraid to appear rude. (Can believe it? It does happen from time to time.)

Padder suffered a heart attack when he was 92 (he's now 95) and rode to the doctor's office on his bike!! "It was all downhill," Joe had explained. Well, then, it wasn't such an amazing feat, now was it?! Images of the man have floated in and out of my imagination since that awe-inspiring meeting. I suppose I fancy him a surrogate Grandfather, never having met my real ones. Nothing lasts forever and I feel a compelling need to see him again. "I want to see you when I come back to Ireland," I told him last year when we parted. "Will ye bring a spade or a shovel?" he asked. In spite of the devilish twinkle in his eye, the melancholy sentiment stuck with me. Every time I think of Padder, I remember that comment.

So, there you have it. I can't go all the way to the Motherland without seeing the cute old man who captured my heart. Who knows if I'll have the opportunity again and we all know there are no do-overs in life. I won't miss the chance to sit and listen to his buttery brogue again. No way.

I extended my trip by a few days and rather than walk the last day from Kenmare to Killarney, which is by and far a reversal of the first day's walking, I'm going to cancel the last day's hike in favor of getting a cab to Killarney. From there, I'll rent a car and drive 172 miles to Wesport...plus some because I'm sure to get lost without Lauren as my able-minded navigator. I've already spoken to Joe and he's promised to arrange a longer, more planned reunion with Padder...most likely over a few pints. When I've filled my heart again with his adorableness, I'll dash over to Wesport to visit again with Christopher Anthony Lavelle, owner of Lavell's Bar. He's quiet in a way that reminds me of my Dad.

Finally, I'll drive 160 miles to Dublin airport to return the car. I'll drive through the middle parts of Ireland I've never seen and stop off to check out every castle, abbey, and graveyard along the way. MEEP will be a whirlwind of a trip, but I plan to cram as much as possible into each and every day. Like Padder, I'm not getting any younger and I don't want any regrets.

An beoir, le do thoil! Go raibh maith agat! (A beer, please! Thank you!)

Daydreaming

I was going to walk several miles this morning, outfitted with my fully loaded pack, but a nasty front blew in and it's too damn cold out there! I know those of you in the northeast suffering with multiple feet of snow don't want to hear it, but for us - this is cold. It's only 55 degrees and the wind is blowing like hell. I'm staying inside with a nice cuppa. This morning's flavor is chamomile and lavender. I'm on my third cup and still can't feel my toes.

The chilly weather (and my aversion to it) sent my thoughts across the pond to Ireland. My ultimate pipe dream is to buy a small farm there, preferably in Kerry. I'd love to take care of an old stone house and couple of small barns. I've scoured the real estate websites...there are dozens for sale that would be perfect. I want to raise a few heifers and some chickens, have a couple of goats and sheep, and at least one donkey named Owen. Boozy and Bear would love it, too. Doug...well, probably not so much.

From there, my mind turned to Minard Castle in Annascaul, Kerry. It's where I had an inexplicable but exhilarating experience. Unfortunately, we could only spend a short time there because we were walking thirteen miles to Dingle and didn't have wiggle room in the itinerary. Built in the 1600's, it's like something from a dream - at least the kind that I have. Perched on the edge of the sea, it's nestled among boulders worn smooth by the rough waves. The ruins are nothing short of breathtaking. When it was time to go, I reluctantly followed Lauren up a steep hill behind the castle, I looked back frequently, teary-eyed and heartbroken about having to leave. It was then that I looked across the water to the Iveragh Penninsula, although I didn't know it at the time. I was unaware that I was gazing upon what would be the location of my next walking adventure. When I'm there in June. I hope to look across the bay and catch a glimpse of my beloved, majestic castle. I wonder if it's velvety whispers can be heard from such a distance?

Although I'd love to be able to call Minard Castle home, it's not for sale. I check often. There are, however, several castles and towers that are available for purchase. Ballymaquiff Castle, located near Labane in Galway, is one. It reminds me of Minard because it too is a tower house, as opposed to a full-blown castle. It's even older, built in the 14th century. Imagine being so fortunate as to care for something that ancient! Here's a view of the exterior.

It's only about forty feet tall and sits on four acres of land. The two stories are habitable, which I find absolutely amazing. It's charming circular staircases need a little TLC but they are still beautiful.

Like I said, it needs a little work, but then again... don't we all? Here's a hallway...just imagine the glass that used to fill that door's pane. Can you picture it? Now imagine tapestries adorning the stone walls. ("I've come to see the tapestries!" - a line from Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade.)  

At $223k, I think it's a steal, but I really prefer to live in Kerry. Unfortunately, I can't find any castles for sale in Kerry so I may have to rethink my plan. Live in Kerry on a farm or live in Galway in a castle? Life is wrought with difficult choices.

Until then, I'll have to be content visiting Ballycarbery Castle in June. It's a couple miles from Cahersiveen, which is five days walk from Killarney. She's not Minard, but she's a beaut and I look forward to getting to know her. For me, each castle, tower, and ruin has it's own personality, it's own feel. Does that make sense? I'm anxious to discover Ballycarbery's and wonder if it will be as powerful as Minard's. That one knocked me on my ass.

Was It Something I Said?

Why did I wait 47 years to learn to speak Irish? It's lyrical. It's poetic. It's a damn good time. In less than a week, I've learned a few greetings, how to ask someone how they're doing, answer same, ask where someone is from, answer same. I can ask someone their name, which translates as "what is the name that you wear". What a wonderful way to phrase it. I can also ask the time, answer same for the hour, quarter past, half past, and quarter to. If the time is anything else, I can't say it. I can count to twelve! Got forbid I want to order thirteen pints. I can also inquire about the weather and tell you that it's dry, wet, warm, raining, windy, or snowy. I can ask if you'd like tea or coffee or whiskey (esca baja, literally the water of life) and answer same. I can tell you that I like certain things and dislike others. All in all, a successful few days of learnin'.

One of my favorite things to say is thank you; go raibh maith agat. For the first few days, it sounded like "go row my yogurt" to me. It took some time to develop an ear. I'm still working on it. I've also learned some handy phrases like suigh sios agus lig do scith. It means sit down and take a load off.

It's my hope that when I hit Killarney, I'll be semi-conversational in Irish. Certainly, I won't be able to discuss politics or religion, but I don't do that here so I sure as hell won't want to do it there. However, I will be able to exchange pleasantries and - most importantly - ask kindly for a pint. I won't even try to speak it until I hit County Kerry. If I spoke it in Dublin, there wouldn't be many who would understand the dialect, even if they speak the language. There are three main dialects, Ulster (way up north) Connaught (sorta middle), and Munster (south west). I'm learning some Ulster and some Munster, although I'd prefer to learn Muster exclusively. Those who speak Irish in Dublin are probably not familiar with the Muster dialect and I'd make an ass of myself. Better to save the ass-makin' for Kerry.

I'm sad to say that I haven't learned any bad words, but I'm not going until June, so there's hope. If you know any, please feel free to share in the comments section below. Extra points if it's extremely vulgar.

When Lauren and I walked across England, we hired an outfit called The Sherpa Van to pick up our bags each morning and deliver them to our next night's accommodations. Because of that, we only had to carry what we needed for each day's hike (rain gear, first aid supplies, extra socks, emergency blankets, lots of water, hats and gloves, extra layers, and food. Don't be fooled, that's a lotta shit to carry on one's back.) In the van, we sent a suitcase of clean clothes and extra shoes, plus two carry-ons with laptops, chargers, hair stuff, etc. For our 16-day hike, I think I paid 200 lbs for baggage transfers. It was absolutely worth it. They even gave Lauren and I a ride from one town to the next when she was too sick to walk.

I started looking into something similar for my walk of the Kerry Way. No such luck. Although there's no organized service, I could pay each B&B/hostel to send my bags ahead...in a cab. The going rate is about e45/day. That's more than I'll be spending for most night's accommodations and breakfast combined. It's highway robbery.

Since I'm traveling alone and I'm flying home immediately following the walk, I've decided to carry everything I need on my back. The idea of that should make you cringe. Included in that pile of things to carry will be my laptop because I HAVE to blog every day (I already promised you that I would) and I'll want to skype my family. I really don't know how I'm going to 1) fit everything I need in my pack; and 2) carry it twenty miles a day over mountains. Maybe I should look into hiring a pack horse. Lauren's dwarf had this advice: "Go small and be dirty." Those of you who know Owen are not at all surprised by this. I have time to look for odor-resistant fabrics and practice hiking with a full pack.

You'll be pleased to know I've begun training....and not just the drinking of Guinness, either. I logged about fifteen miles last week and just completed another six today. I've a long way to go, but while I'm walking I practice my Irish. While walking the Old Rd today, I was going through everything I know - out loud. I was really getting into it and made a rather large arm gesture as I explained to an imaginary person that I don't like tea but would love a glass of whiskey. While gesturing, I whacked a man passing me on his bike. Then I apologized in Irish. He pedaled faster.

Was it something I said?

Preserving The Language; It's More Than Just Words

As you may recall, in June 2012, Lauren, and I walked 200 miles across England – from the west coast to the east coast, from the Irish Sea to the North Sea. You can read about that wonderful, eye-opening adventure on another blog; walkmyfatass.blogspot.com. Last June, we walked 111 miles around the Dingle Peninsula, in Ireland’s County Kerry. It’s about as far west in western Europe as one can be and it’s a world all its own. Like so many other people these days, I’d been tracing my family heritage, searching for information about my ancestors. After months of digging through Ancestry.com's church documents and sorting through faded black and white photos, a trip to the Emerald Isle seemed inevitable. I had an urgent need to walk the land my people had lived on. I wanted to find family. I found far more than I’d hoped for.

Without a doubt, one of the most moving experiences was hearing Gaeilge (Irish) spoken for the first time. It was on the train from Dublin to Tralee, the county town of Kerry. The computerized female voice that came from the train’s speakers gave instructions first in Gaeilge and then again in English. I was enthralled and almost hypnotized by the strange vowels and consonants. I heard it again, spoken more naturally and lively, in a quaint Tralee pub named the Abbey Inn. (Talk about great food, great beer, and atmosphere!) The lyrical language captivates me like none other. Unfortunately, it’s a pale shadow of its former self and restricted to a small portion of only seven counties along Ireland’s west coast.

So why is the language in danger of being lost? Its decline began under English rule in the seventeenth century. The crown viewed its use unfavorable, a serious threat to all things English in Ireland. In the late nineteenth century, Ireland lost a significant portion of its population to either emigration or death following the Great Famine. Thousands of English-speaking families moved onto Irish land and English policies actively promoted the adoption of the English language. I imagine that the most powerful force against Irish was the fact that the wealthiest and most powerful people spoke English. The ability to speak English was a necessity if one hoped for opportunities for advancement. As a result, the Irish language became associated with rural folk and became a sign of poverty and disadvantage. (Those damn Brits!) Between 1700 and 1900, Irish went from being the majority language of the island to a minor tongue spoken by disenfranchised groups in the West. (My people.)

We're truly fortunate that the language was preserved and no doubt have the efforts of many generations of stubborn (or were they tenacious?) Irish people to thank for it. I top my hat to them...and my pint glass, too.

Although the Irish government has instituted programs to preserve the language, the percentage of native Irish who speak it daily continues to decline. To many, the loss of Gaeilge would be a cultural calamity. I unconditionally count myself among them. I’m committed to help raise awareness of the threat facing the Irish language. I hope to see the Irish government dedicate additional resources to education and I hope to encourage travelers to visit Gaeltacht (Irish-speaking regions of western Ireland) to show support for the survival of the language of our ancestors. Two things: please don't go while I'm there, I want it all to myself and please don't go on some crappy group bus tour. Hire a car, ride bikes, or better yet, walk. The best parts of Ireland and the most gracious, wonderful folk can't be enjoyed from a bus window.

My first solo distance walking adventure will certainly be a physical challenge, but more than that, I hope it will become a vehicle to enlighten people regarding the importance of protecting Ireland’s language, and as a result, its culture. It’ll be a true honor and privilege to walk alone among the stones and hills that shaped my ancestors into the hardworking, steadfast people they became. I will glimpse into my past and in doing so, perhaps find my future.

Until then, I'm taking a stab at learning the beautiful language of my people.

Slan.

'Tis Official!!!

Well, then, 'tis official. I'm walking all 135 miles of The Kerry Way solo. Yep, it's true. I'm pretty gull dang excited about it, too.

I spent a few hours yesterday afternoon booking quaint accommodations for each of the ten nights it'll take me to complete the circuit. One of them, the Druid Cottage, dates back to the 1800s. Its name refers to the bronze age druid stone circle found on the edge of Kenmare, which I plan to visit on my way through the village. The heavy stone walls and the traditional half front door are charming and I suspect I won't want to leave once I've spent a night there. There are other accommodations that have just as much charm and others with far less. Since I won't have my trusty walking companion with me, I don't feel the need to stay in the nicer places along the trail. I'm saving euros for evening pints by staying at a couple borderline dumps. In fact, at one of them, I have to rent my bath towel! What do you expect for 18 euro a night?!

Once the accommodations were well in hand, I set to finding the least expensive airfare. Not easy. Although there are four airports closer to the Kerry Way than the one in Dublin (Kerry, Shannon, Waterford, and Cork), Dublin is slightly-to-significantly less expensive, depending on the carrier. Not to mention that the layovers through an airport like Shannon can be as long as eight or nine hours! It's only a four hour train ride from Dublin to Killarney where the Kerry Way begins and I look forward to the trip. Watching the countryside slowly morph from bustling city to the suburbs to farmland to mountains is stunning. And exciting. I truly savor traveling by train.

I booked a flight from Fort Lauderdale (20 mins north of Miami and far less crowded) to Dublin on Aer Lingus. Because you probably won't find this information on your Word of the Day Calendar, I'll tell you that the airline's name is an anglicisation of the Irish Aer Loingeas, which means Air Fleet. Try to work that into a conversation today and leave those around you absolutely unimpressed. I leave FL at a leisurely 3:45pm, which means I don't have to force myself from bed before dawn to fight traffic into Miami. Arriving at JFK just three hours later, I'll have a three hour layover before heading to the Motherland for the second time in my life. I'll hole up in a bar while going over maps and route plans for the umpteenth time. On the return flight, I sprang for the airline's private lounge, because after spending nearly two weeks alone on the trial, I won't be able to tolerate American tourists. I frequently pretend to be British while traveling abroad (something Lauren originally found endearing but now finds annoying) just to avoid being characterized as American. They're loud, rude, and ignorant. Yes, I know that's a generalization and unfair, but it's also true so there you have it. American tourists in Europe are total dicks. Except me. Duh.

I land in Dublin at 8:40am, leaving plenty of daylight for a pre-trail adventure. I plan to catch the first train to Killarney that I can connect with and once I arrive, I'll walk to my inn. It's not far from the station. (This is, of course, suspect. The Irish are notorious for being terrible at measurements. Never trust an Irishman who tells you something is a "short walk" or "just beyond the ridge". Likely as not, it's miles away.) Regardless of the distance, once I check in and leave my bags behind, I'll set off on foot to find Ross Castle, which is two km from town. It's a 15th century tower house on the edge of Lough Leane. I love castles and can't wait to step inside and press myself against it's stone walls. I wonder what it will tell me. From there, I'll set off to find St. Mary's Cathedral, which was built in the early 1800s. Its a neo-Gothic revival cathedral and is certainly worth a visit. After I've satisfied my curiosity about those two sites, I'll find a pub, enjoy a meal, and get to bed early. My first day's walk will be 15 miles and I want to allow time to stop and check out the ruins of the Muckross Abbey along the way. I can't pass up the chance to wander among ruins, even if it adds another hour onto an already long day.

Although it seems like I've got a good start, there's much to be done:
  -  I have to buy real maps. I've never used real maps on a walk; I relied on the good navigation sense of my girl or her dwarf. Since I will be alone, I would be foolish not to invest in real maps.

  - I need to learn to use a compass. It's not as easy as one would think. Maps are fairly useless if one can't use a compass.

 - I need to start training. I'll be faced with two twenty-mile days. (The trail actually has three, but I was told about a small pub with a few rooms for rent on the outskirts of a town almost halfway between Glenbeigh and Cahversiveen.) The shortest day is 8 miles, but most are 15 or 16....and they won't be flat like Islamorada. I'll be crossing mountains and farmland and moors. I need to be ready.

 - I need to practice drinking Guinness. It's an important skill. Ordering a Smithwick's or a Peroni would be an insult to my Irish ancestors. I've gotta drink the black stuff.

Let's start with the Guinness. That sounds like the perfect place to begin.