New heights

Posted on June 24, 2019 by Cindy

For our last walk in Ireland I chose Belfast Castle. Not a castle built for royalty, it was built in the 19th century by the 3rd Marquess of Donegall. And in 1934 it was presented to the City of Belfast, which usually indicates financial difficulties on the part of the owner.

adorable bears, but they are extinct now on the island
caves in the hillside, from which Cave Hill gets its name

The castle was not open to the public on the day we were there, in preparation for a wedding that evening. But we weren’t there for the castle, which is a good thing. The visitor center was extremely limited in scope. The brief video wouldn’t play. The staff member shrugged. Sometimes it does. Sometimes it doesn’t.

We were there for the hike. Belfast Castle was built on the face of Cave Hill and offers fantastic views of Belfast and Belfast Lough, especially at the top of the hill at McArt’s Fort, which today is just a few rocks on a promontory. I’d love to tell you more about its history, but there were technical difficulties at the visitor center….

It was the perfect hike for us. Three hours, 900 feet of elevation gain to get the heart pumping, gorgeous views, and sunshine.

When we got to McArt’s fort, there were four guys trying to assemble a kite. Marcus watched them struggle until he couldn’t stand it any longer. “Who’s the engineer?” he asked. They all laughed. Not an engineering gene amongst them.

“I’m a clinical psychologist,” one of the guys quipped. “I can help if you need to know how we feel about making this kite.” They all laughed.

“What kind of a knot are you planning to use on that harness?” Harness?

Marcus put down his hiking sticks and shed his camera. I knew we were in for the long haul. The guys watched in wonder as he pulled his multitool from one of his cargo pockets, cut string, and tied knots that would knock the socks off a sailor.

“Should these stays be bowed inward or outward?” he asked. Stays?

“I think it would be more aerodynamic if they bowed inward.” Sure, sure, they chimed in as they watched over his shoulder.

Thirty minutes later, the kite was constructed and Marcus was instructing them on the rudiments of flight. Their eyes glazed over.

“You know, trying to launch a kite on the edge of a cliff is a bit dicey,” he counseled. “You might want to try it on more level ground, where you have room to run with it.” Yeah, thanks mate. We’re good. Cheers!

view of Belfast Lough behind the big heads

We continued our walk. Every now and then we’d hear a cheer in the distance and look back. The kite would get some wind, and then nosedive back to earth.

the city of Belfast with the Mourne Mountains to the south

Of all the things I love about Ireland, I’ll miss walking the most. Every good-weather day (probability of rain less than 50%) we’d find a trail within 50 miles of where we were. We were out in it three or four times a week. And with each walk you never knew what, or who, you’d find. As with this three-month journey of ours, there’s an adventure waiting around every bend in the trail.

If I lived in Ireland…

Posted on June 1, 2019 by Cindy

…this would be my backyard. I just love this rugged terrain. Big, wide rocks almost submerged in the wild grass, scrubby gorse, vibrant rhododendrons, and dainty wildflowers. The front yard would be neat and trim, like any self-respecting Irish cottage. And the back would be mayhem.

This is the view I’d see out my back window each day. I’d stand and gaze at it for awhile, cup of coffee in hand, and then, unable to resist any longer, I’d grab my jacket and go out in it. The moodier the weather, the more dramatic the landscape. And on sunny days, I’d eat a picnic lunch in those ruins.

We had a nice little walk today in the almost-rain along a rails-to-trails path in Burtonport (Ailt an Chorráin—don’t ask, my Irish is not that good), County Donegal. We were in between cottages, having checked out of our snug little stay on the north shore of Donegal Bay, near Slieve League Mountain. Up next, a remote little village in the northwest corner of County Donegal, near Glenveagh National Park—our last Airbnb in the Republic.

This is what peat looks like after brick-sized slices have been cut out of the bog. They’re left out on the grass to dry in the sun, then stored to use in the fireplace during the winter. From muck to fuel. Very resourceful. We’ve grown accustomed to the smell of a peat fire, but it does take a bit of getting used to. It smells a wee bit medicinal to me. (Have you tasted a peaty whisky? Tastes a bit like Bactine smells, doesn’t it? Yeah, not to my taste.) Most Irish people love a good peat fire because that’s what they’ve grown up with, as we love the fragrance of a good wood fire when the weather turns cool.

Despite my momentary fantasy, there is no real threat of me moving to Ireland. As beautiful as it is, I could never live here. Too cold and too damp for my blood. I’m beginning to wonder why I brought short-sleeved tops on this trip. My forearms haven’t seen the light of day since we left Florida. I really thought it would be over 60° by now. Today: a whopping 56° and incessant rain, which makes it feel cooler. There are flood warnings. We’re holed up in our new cottage, waiting for the weather to improve. We just may have to see the national park in the rain. Ah, well, the moodier the weather, the more dramatic the landscape, right? Yeah, well, don’t quote me on that.

Slibh Liag

Posted on May 31, 2019 by Cindy

Slibh Liag, or Slieve League in English—Mountain (Slibh) of Flagstones (Liag). The highest cliffs in Europe at 1972 feet above the sea—yes, higher than the Cliffs of Moher, which, gorgeous though they are, are only a paltry 390 feet above sea level. The cliffs here are the entire mountain, and, just so you know, the vertical layers of rock really do peel off in flagstones.

We waited through two days of soggy weather in County Donegal* for a good hiking day. And then, on the way to Sliabh Liag, I twisted my ankle doing something as simple (stupid) as walking off-trail at some minor ruins (so minor there were no trails) that I really had no interest in seeing to begin with. I was just passing time. The ground was very uneven and the grass so long I couldn’t see where I was stepping. The sprain wasn’t bad, and we were able to hike a bit up the mountain with the help of supportive hiking boots, but not along the ridge to the summit as I had hoped.

As the Irish might say: Come along with us so and enjoy the walk. It’s a grand day to be outdoors!

See the sign in the grass to German pilots during WWII?
Eire, meaning: This is neutral Ireland, not England. Please do not bomb us.
Don’t know what this was…
…but Marcus had fun playing with it.
Watch tower from the Napoleonic Wars on right ridge.
Get a load of those horns!
lighthouse
the mountain
Love the coves!
Love the caves!
reflection of clouds on the water
lake + ocean
Those colored jackets on the trail in the center are as far as we got.

* Bonus Irish/history lesson, for those of you learning Irish along with me: County Donegal is named after Donegal town, or Dún na nGall (dune-na-GALL), which means Fort (Dún) of the Foreigners (Gall) because the town had a Viking fort back in the day (8th century?).
When we were in Cork, we met a retired teacher of the Irish language who was fascinated to hear where we were going on our three-month tour of the island. When I mentioned Donegal, I pronounced it DON-a-gull, like the Americanized surname. He quickly corrected me, out of habit I’m sure, and explained the meaning of the name. I am so glad he did because 1) I find the historical derivations of the names fascinating, 2) the breakdown helps me understand the names of other places we are visiting, and 3) saying it the correct way is so much more fun.
We’re deep in An Gaeltacht (the Gaelic/Irish speaking part of Ireland) now. Go on, give it a try!

Connemara

Posted on May 24, 2019 by Cindy

view of Ballynakill Harbour and Barnaderg Bay from Diamond Hill

Connemara, the wild, remote wilderness of Irish-speaking Galway. Just the name conjures images of The Quiet Man, which was filmed not far away in east Galway. We looked forward to seeing what glories Connemara National Park had to offer. Reading up on it before we got there, we didn’t see anything mentioned other than a walk up Diamond Hill. Well, there had to be more than that. It’s a national park, for Pete’s sake, and one of only six in the country. We’d just go and see what else they’ve got.

Diamond Hill surrounded by typical Irish grassland

We asked at the visitor center and found that the hike up Diamond Hill really is all they have to offer. No exhibits in the visitors center. No informational plaques outside. Just a walk.

An interesting note: No matter how taxing the hike, the Irish (and Brits too, we observed when we were in the UK) called them walks, as in a walk in the park. You can ascend 1200 feet over two hours (e.g. Diamond Hill) and it’s still called a walk, although they do acknowledge it’s a “strenuous” walk. That’s one difference between Americans and the Irish. In the US we’d be plastering bumper stickers on our cars saying “I climbed Diamond Hill.” In Ireland they tell their friends “I went on the loveliest walk this afternoon. It was grand.” I just love their understatement!

We opted out of the strenuous part of the walk, but hiked up far enough to get great views of Ballynakill Harbour and Barnaderg Bay, and it was still a good stretch in the fresh country air.

We started to encounter marshy wetlands.

And as we walked, we gradually began to realize something about the park that we hadn’t seen mentioned. The area surrounding Diamond Hill is all bogland. We noticed the reed-filled ponds and the lumpy tufts of grass that we had seen in Killarney National Park’s bog. After gaining a bit of altitude, we saw fields below us where peat was being harvested—the telltale plateaus of turf where vertical slices of peat were being removed like slivers of dark chocolate cake, one layer at a time. The water running in the streams was brown from the tannins leaching out of the peat. And much of the walk was on boardwalk to prevent people from walking on the bog and destroying the fragile habitat.

The color of the landscape changed from vibrant green to rusty brown.

peat, or turf, on the banks of this tannin-brown stream

The walk was a series of “aha” moments as we put it all together. Why hadn’t they said something about the bog, talked it up, showcased it for unenlightened visitors, used this beautiful park as an educational opportunity? Perhaps it was another case of Irish understatement. Just get out there and walk in it, and you’ll see what you see. Isn’t it grand?

This Connemara pony and her foal grazed amid the midges, annoying flying insects that will suck the blood out of your flesh and the wits out of your head. The mom’s tail was moving non-stop to keep them at bay, and her foal took refuge under her fan. Smart little lad!

Even Connemara lambs have horns. This one can’t be more than a few months old and already has quite a bit of growth.

Stopping at the Gap

Posted on May 6, 2019 by Cindy

It took three tries, but I finally got there—the Gap of Dunloe, a remote pass through MacGillycuddy’s Reeks. The Reeks, Ireland’s highest mountain range, lie just to the west of Killarney National Park. I first read about the Gap months ago, and I knew I had to go. The isolation was calling me. (Plus, the name of the mountains is just so cool!)

I wanted to hike the Gap the first time we entered the park, but we spent too much time in Killarney town after our wild and crazy drive through the lakes of Killarney. Which is not a bad thing. Killarney is a good-sized town with plenty to enthrall, but after a filling lunch, it was too late in the day to start a four-mile hike.

Our second foray into the park was closer to the Gap, but I didn’t have it in me to start another hike after our eight-mile trek around Muckross Lake.

Our time was running out in Kenmare, and I was beginning to think I’d have to give up on the Gap until I realized that the trailhead lies only seven miles off our path from Kenmare to our next home-from-home on the Dingle Peninsula. Stopping to do a little jaunt on our drive would be a good opportunity to stretch our legs.

As we drove into the valley, a man waved us over to the side of the road. The proud owner of a jaunting car, he gave us the hard sell on why we should allow him to escort us into the gap with his horse and cart. Wary of why he was flagging us down outside the normal confines of the attraction, and in urgent need of finding a place to dispose of some used coffee, we begged off and continued down the road. After taking advantage of the facilities at a gift shop, Marcus politely asked a woman behind the counter if the guy we encountered was legit. Oh, yes! she assured him. All the cart drivers live in the community, know each other, and work together. Their rates should all be the same, and you can trust any of them. We drove back to Sean and his horse, Seamus. Why not? We can walk anywhere, but how often do we get to ride in a jaunting car? Sean was very happy—albeit, surprised—to see us again.

our jaunting car
onward, Seamus
our tour guide, Sean
a Chilean pine tree
a house, once upon a time
Purple Mountain
feral goats

An hour, and several Dunloe legends, later Sean dropped us at the end of our chosen tour—four miles into the Gap—and we walked back down the hill to our car.

Everyone was happy: I got to ride in something called a jaunting car, Marcus got to re-take all those out-of-focus shots he took in the jostling jaunting car, we got to stretch our legs a bit, and Sean got to put down another healthy deposit toward his next Disney World vacation. And Seamus? He just lost his 270-pound load, and the walk back to his feedbag was all downhill.

Killarney National Park, Part I

Posted on May 2, 2019 by Cindy

southern entrance to Killarney National Park

Killarney National Park, more than 25,000 acres of lakes, woodlands, and mountains…. What’s not to love? There was so much I wanted to do in this park, I had to give it two days.

First priority: Get out in it. The southern approach, from where we’re staying in Kenmare, took us through an incredible glacier-cut valley filled to the brim with spectacular scenery. And, as you can imagine, rollercoaster roads throughout as we rose and fell, dipped and swerved through the terrain.

The primary attraction in this neck of the woods is the three lakes of Killarney. From Ladies View (so named because Queen Victoria’s ladies-in-waiting swooned as they took in the view on a visit with Her Majesty in 1861) you can see all three interconnected lakes as they stretch from south to north: Upper Lake, the smallest but highest in altitude; Muckross Lake, the deepest of the three; and way in the distance Lough Leane, by far the largest and the one that graces Killarney town. These three lakes comprise one quarter of the national park by area, and they are definitely swoon-worthy.

MacGillycuddy’s Reeks, Ireland’s tallest mountains, flank the west side of the park

Cliff walk

Posted on April 26, 2019 by Cindy

It was a gloriously sunny day, and I wanted to be outside. I had read about a cliff walk in the nearby town of Ardmore. There are no two words in the English language more compelling together than “cliff” and “walk,” are there?

We stopped in the town of Lismore first, walked around a bit and had lunch. Then we drove on to Ardmore. It was 3:30 in the afternoon by the time we got there. We drove to the spot that Google Maps identifies as the trailhead. A hotel? We drove into the long, narrow car park, but couldn’t find an available spot. Obviously we were not the only ones wanting to get outside on this beautiful day. We wiggled our way back out and snagged a spot on the street where a car was just pulling out. Score!

We were walking back toward the hotel when I spotted a sign pointing up the hill that read “Cliff Walk.” How fortuitous! We trudged up the hill.

As is typical, we’ve found, there were no further signs. We saw a local woman walking her dog and asked if we were on the path to the cliff walk. She looked at us, confused for a second, then said, Yes, they’ve plowed up a field, but you can take the next street.

Kinda vague: Field? Street? Maybe it will be obvious when we get there. We walked on.

We spotted several plowed fields, multiple streets, and a castle-looking building that appeared to be at world’s end. Perhaps it’s on a cliff! We tried to get to it, but every street led to a plowed field that blocked our path. “If the next street doesn’t lead to a cliff walk,” I told Marcus, “we’re giving up.” Twenty minutes later we were returning to the car.

As we came back down the hill, I had a thought. “I’m just going over to the hotel for a minute.” I had seen something at the end of the car park that I want to check out. There was a path marked “St. Declan’s Hermitage.” No mention of a cliff walk, but maybe… I started down the path, and, sure enough, it led beyond the hermitage to some cliffs overlooking the Celtic Sea.

I ran back to get Marcus. It was 4:30 by this time. We had no idea how long the path was. Should we just call it a day? Of course not! Have I taught you nothing? [Backtracking in the Wicklow Mountains]

I would like to say that, confident in our decision, we walked with abandon, but that’s not us. At every bend in the path we stopped to reassess: What time is it? Should we turn back now? Is it getting dark? (We have an obsession with time, and a tendency toward overthinking.)

Fortunately, every bend revealed something intriguing that propelled us to the next one until we had completed the entire walk. It took us 35 minutes to walk out, but only 15 to return. And we still had hours of daylight ahead of us.

Beyond the Pale*

Posted on April 14, 2019 by Cindy

*the English Pale: that part of Ireland over which England exercised jurisdiction before the whole country was conquered. Centered in Dublin, it varied in extent at different times from the reign of Henry II until the full conquest under Elizabeth I. (macOS Dictionary)

Bray Head: our destination is the teeny-tiny cross on the peak

We have left the city and have begun our clockwise, eleven-week route around the island! First stop: Bray. Okay, we only made it thirteen miles south of Dublin, but we had to get used to the driving—Marcus to turning right into the left lane and merging left into roundabouts, and Cindy to stop shouting “Watch out!” every time Marcus passed anything. American drivers talk about the difficulty of driving on the left side of the road, but consider for a moment how difficult it is to be a passenger on the left side of the car. I feel like I am riding astride the white line on the edge of a road with no shoulder. Every tree limb, every bus pulling out from the curb, every sideview mirror on a parked car is doomed. I envision large gashes where paint has been removed from some unsuspecting Dubliner’s car. I think of the 5000 euro authorization on our credit card to cover any damage to the rental car that we dismissed as something that would never become an actual charge, and I think about all the much more entertaining ways I could spend that kind of money. [Note: I finally promised to quit shouting out if Marcus accepted full responsibility in the event that we actually hit something. I now just close my eyes and wait for the impact.] But I digress….

view of the Irish Sea, with Dublin just north of the peninsula at the far end

Bray. There’s an outstanding walk up Bray Head with stunning views of the Irish Sea. You can even see the Howth Peninsula on the north side of Dublin Bay in the distance. The skies had finally cleared, and we had a gloriously sunny day.

There’s a 640-foot elevation gain from the beach up to the cross at the top of the Head. I hadn’t done so much as a calf stretch since leaving home. Was I up for this? We sought out local knowledge—a guy emptying the trash bin at the car park.

“No worries!” he said. “The whole path is paved. It will take you 15 minutes. Sometimes I do it during my lunch hour. I run most of it, and walk some.”

I looked up at the cross doubtfully, but who was I to question a local? So we began. After ten minutes the paved path became a muddy track. Fifteen minutes in, we were picking our way up tree-root steps, then scrambling up rocky cascades.

You know, we’re still growing accustomed to the Irish sense of humor, so I’m wondering (as we scrambled): Is anyone who asks advice from an Irish person presenting themselves as the butt of a joke? I had to laugh. Perhaps we had asked for it. But one thing he said was absolutely true: the views from the peak were spectacular.

GSMNP

Posted on October 21, 2018 by Cindy

Smoky Mountains

Great Smoky Mountain National Park is the most visited national park in the United States. What? More so than Yellowstone or Yosemite? This surprised me until I considered its proximity to the population-dense East Coast. Its 800 square miles straddle the North Carolina/Tennessee state line, and the popular Blue Ridge Parkway connects it to the Shenandoah National Park. The park is extremely popular during peak foliage season, which is now–except that this is a dud year for foliage in this part of the US. Ah, well, there certainly are no guarantees.

absolutely perfect creek on the Alum Cave Trail

But not so, according to the woman from Pennsylvania whom I talked to in the park. She was quite upset that there wasn’t much color to capture in her camera. “My friends in Pennsylvania assured me this is peak season for foliage in the Smoky Mountains,” she lamented. “And there’s really nothing to see.” She regretted making the nine-hour drive when it was obviously not Peak Week. “But this is peak foliage week,” I told her. “It’s just not a peak foliage year.” She looked at me dubiously, and I wondered how she could live in Pennsylvania and not understand the relationship between a year’s weather and its fall foliage color. It’s not like the leaves don’t turn in PA.

below the arch

Despite the lack of color, we enjoyed seeing the Smokies–our first time. According to Wikipedia, the mountain range gets its name from organic compounds that are released from the conifers in the dense forests that cover 95% of the park. These chemicals have a high vapor pressure and naturally create smoky-looking vapors when released into the air.

through the eye and out the top of the arch

We hiked part of the Alum Cave Trail in the park. The first milestone was the arch naturally carved from the rock by wind and water. It’s 1.4 miles off Newfound Gap Road (US 441), the main thoroughfare that crosses the park from Cherokee, NC, to Gatlinburg, TN.

chubby little bird

Another mile along the trail was the Alum Cave Bluffs, with inspiring views of the mountains below us. There actually is no Alum Cave; the trail gets its name from the protective ledges that project from the bluff walls. The trail continues to Mount Le Conte, the second highest peak in the park. We opted out of the remaining 3.2 miles of strenuous, uphill scrambling and returned to the trailhead. Wise choice, as the sun was already starting to set.

victory cairns created by hikers who successfully return to the beginning of the trail

On our way out of the park, we were rewarded by an appearance of a park resident we were beginning to think was purely myth. Elk were reintroduced to the park in 2001, but despite our best efforts, we couldn’t find the herd. Three elk were grazing nonchalantly in a meadow next to the Visitor Center. They even performed a little rutting pas de deux for us. A planned performance for the tourists? I wonder….

“They’re paying me $1.50 an hour for this gig. What are you getting?”

Deep Creek

Posted on October 19, 2018 by Cindy

Tom Branch Falls

The Deep Creek loop, just inside the Great Smoky Mountains National Park near Bryson City, North Carolina, is a great hike that takes you past three small waterfalls. Each fall is not remarkable in terms of height, but is pretty in its own way.

hellbender salamander

These hellbender salamanders, known locally as “snot otters,” are found throughout western North Carolina. This one is approximately 15 inches in length, but they can grow to about 30 inches. They have a frilly skin that ruffles as they move through the water, earning them the additional nickname “lasagna lizards.”

Indian Creek Falls

undercut

Love these undercut banks along the trail! There’s a lot going on here, a veritable forest in microcosm. Looks like the perfect home for woods fairies!

Juney Whank Falls–you gotta love the name!

fill ‘er up!

The rain held off (barely) while we hiked, but started up when we sat down for a picnic lunch afterward. Fortunately Marcus brought a tent with him. Roughing it in the Smoky Mountains!

Spinning Compass

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