Ireland, Part II

The Wicklow Way

Sunday, 11 April

8 am, taking our leave of Jim and the hostel staff, we set out in the wrong direction. After about a mile, we looked at the map and compass and realized what we’d done and headed back. Ok, so now we've figured out how to use this very detailed large scale map (it was very confusing at first, as the compass points on the map change with every page so that the Wicklow Way is always going up and down the length of the page). But we got the hang of it soon enough. On the right path, we became acquainted with a little yellow figure on a wooden post with an arrow. We liked him.

Anyway, by 9:00 we were well oriented and going the right way. After an hour, we got lost when, instead of going down the other side of a large hill, we went along it and mingled with some cows and bulls along the way. When we couldn’t find anymore little yellow hikers at what we thought was a fork (but really there wasn’t even a path), we took another peek at the map and started posing suggestions as to where we actually were. We decided to go down the hill flanked by a pine forest and landed in some pretty heavy bog, which looks perfectly dry ten meters away, but is very perfectly wet up close. Anyway, we had figured out somewhat where we were, since the map had contour lines and forested areas marked, and we speculated that we’d missed the trail that went down the hill earlier, before the pines and cattle. So, we tried to navigate the bog without getting wet, but that would be of no use since it went on for about 1.5 km. I was knee deep in muddy water very quickly, trying to keep on top of the floating bushes. There was no way around it. It’s like floating ground. You step somewhere, and the ground nearby bobs up and down with the ripples.

Thoroughly soaked to the knees, we reached the road after having been barked at by a dog on a farmer’s land which we could not avoid stumbling through. We climbed over a fence, which seemed to satisfy the dog, and walked along the road. As we’d expected, we ran into our yellow friend again and were relieved to say the least. We sat down for a lunch of corned beef and cheddar sandwiches, some slices of jelly rolls, and Nutella, which we’d happily discovered we both really liked and so had bought a supply before we set out. I changed into a dry but very uncomfortable pair of shoes which I've worn for a good part of the way now.

The Way joined a public road for a while, and then we overshot the Way which was supposed to curve off to the north. We continued east on the road, thinking we would find the right way, until we came to a fork we weren’t supposed to hit. Sitting down, we had an apple each and tried to figure out where we were. We finally decided that we weren’t that used to the scale on the map and that instead of 1.5 km on the road, we went about 5. If we followed the northward fork, we’d hit the Way again, and we did.

We reached a lookout point along the way part of the way up a steep slope. Our trail parted with the road and we were soon going up the rest of the slope through dense forest while the road wound down the other way towards Lough Dan. We reached the summit of White Hill, a 650 m peak -- not very high, but we could see the valley far below nevertheless, and Lake Tay (Lough Té) at its floor. There is a memorial to J. B. Malone up there. We continued along the path towards Djouce, the next peak, at 730 m. We went down the side of White Hill, then started up Djouce.

The wind started up and eventually became the strongest wind I’ve ever encountered. We could, with our packs, lean into it completely, as if falling down, and it would blow us back the other way. It kept blowing us off the path as we trudged uphill. The Way swerved out and around Djouce, but we wanted to go up to the top, so we left the path and went up the rest of the way, about another 1 km up. At one point, the map book flew out of my hands and I practically glided after it down the slope and landed on it in the weeds, my pack still on my back. Almost to the top, the wind got even stronger. We ditched our packs in a little hole we found, and continued up, running the rest of the way and getting blown around almost like paper. The wind, coming in from the side, helped us get up the mountain while we ran.

At the top, the wind was the strongest, and we had trouble staying in the same place. We looked out from the summit, though, and realized why it was so windy: we were looking out over the Irish Sea, towards the Welsh Mountains on the opposite shore.

We sat in a little alcove we found in the rock to avoid the wind and rest a while. Then we headed down again, hoping we were going the right way. We found our packs and continued down the mountain, the wind still blowing, now with a little bit of drizzle. We joined the path and were eventually completely over Djouce and into the valley on its eastern side.

The rain came down in quick periodic torrents, and the wind kept up, as we continued for about two more hours. By 7 pm, the rain hadn’t stopped, and we had rejoined a road and arrived afterwards in Knockree. It was completely deserted except for the couple who ran a hostel in their converted farm buildings; they were hospitable in that way I’d come to expect from the Irish by this time, and the place was very well kept with surprisingly good facilities for a self-catering hostel, even before considering where we were -- on the side of a mountain in a tiny town, which was just a collection of two or three small farms. We changed and hung our soaked clothes, since it hadn’t stopped raining since our descent from Djouce.

There was a steamer in the kitchen, something we were very happy to see, so we started to make all sorts of bizarre hot beverage cocktails using any combination of nutella, strawberry jam, milk, rice crispies, cookies, and jam rolls. We also had a can of soup and some ramen noodles, and some bread and cheese (not for the drinks). Although it may sound unappetizing now, for some reason it was perfect. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that anything tastes good when you're hungry and tired and when there's a fire nearby. It certainly felt like we were camping as we ate and drank at a huge table in the dim stone-walled sitting room filled with smoke from two log fires at either end.

We finished our small dinner while reading the remaining bits of a days-old newpaper that had been used as kindling for the fires. Tired and aching, we slept, hoping the morning would bring better weather (and I was hoping my shoes would dry).

To be continued.