Ireland 2022 Part 2: A Perilous Hike

The house we rented in Dingle is a 20-minute stroll from the town center on an unnamed road that’s off another unnamed road, which unlike the other is paved. The paved road is wider, enough for two small cars to pass if they squeeze against the hedgerows at a crawl, and features blind, hilly curves. The speed limit on the larger road is 80 kilometers per hour, or 50 miles per hour, which seems a little optimistic.

Directly behind the house is a mountain, covered on the lower parts either with thick, impassable waist-high thorn bushes or mucky, swampy ground covered with chest-high grass.

Three years ago, when Donna and I and Donna’s siblings and their spouses stayed at the same house, we walked up the gravel road a ways and discovered a path through the obstacles that led to the top of the mountain. Besides offering spectacular panoramic views of Dingle Harbor, Dingle Bay, the town, surrounding vibrant green fields dotted with sheep and cows and the mountains across the harbor (watch the video below), we saw various stone markers we later learned were mass burial sites from the Potato Famine of the 1840s. There was a continuation of the path down the other side of the mountain that terminated at another nameless gravel road that brought us to maybe a quarter mile from the house. But that was three years ago.

Since that time, the vegetation has grown much thicker and swallowed up the paths. We walked along the gravel road looking for an entry point but never found one. Donna, being the practical, sane member of our team, thought we should forego the trek but I, being neither, thought we could blaze our own trail. So off we slogged through the sucking mud, sheep shit, elephant grass, and ripping thorns. It was unpleasant for us but the several wandering sheep I think were entertained by our folly. 

We finally made our way past the obstacles to a semblance of a path along the ridge of the mountain to the peak.

After celebrating our success in surmounting the peak and enjoying the views and wild, blustery wind, we followed the continuation of the path down the front of the mountain (if the way up was the mountain’s back), happily believing our descent would be a welcome contrast to our difficult ascent. We remembered from the past that the hike down the front being shorter than the way up.

Unfortunately, the path petered out after maybe 40 yards among the thickets and, ominously, another, larger burial site being guarded by two rams who backed away as we neared them (luckily, neither felt the urge to charge us).

I’ll note here that before we embarked, we had assumed our hike would be easy and relatively short, so while we wore good hiking shoes, our other clothes were not rugged and we had no water. Further, the sun sets early in Ireland in October and it was mid-afternoon when we started.

Perhaps channeling some of the mysticism that infuses Ireland’s culture, or perhaps out of a growing sense of unease if not desperation, we foolishly considered that the sheep might lead us to a path. We followed them for too long, as they led us, of course, nowhere but to dead ends that terminated in unpassable briars. Unable to find a route down the front of the mountain despite multiple time-consuming attempts, we decided with great frustration to go back to the top and return the way we came. Dusk was not far off.

By now we were tired, thirsty, and downtrodden. We wanted to be back in our comfortable house, sitting in an overstuffed chair with our feet up and holding a tall glass of Jameson’s. But first we had to figure out a way down.

We back-tracked as best we could but all the potential routes looked too steep or too thorny, and we were getting further away from the house. Finally, we decided to take our best shot, hoping to avoid the stickers as much as possible, and off we went, with a small herd of sheep in a small, stone-walled pen across the distant gravel road as our North Star. Reach the sheep and we’ll be good.

The trek was arduous. The thorns were pricking and cutting us. The underlying muck, hidden by the tall grass, was slippery and tough to walk in. And the tall grass, difficult for me to transit, was more challenging for Donna’s shorter legs to step over. We both fell multiple times, and getting up was hard because the stickers rendered our hands useless. But with the mindset that we had to reach home before sundown, we persevered toward the herd.

It took us more than an hour of plodding, staggering, falling, and toiling to reach the gravel road in front of the sheep pen. We were close to a mile from the house, but now were on a clear, smooth road and relieved to be off the mountain we never should have tried to climb. We arrived home before dark. And the tall glass of Jameson’s was very good, indeed.