Heck of a walk for such a low-mileage day. We got a warm send-off from the innkeeper at the very comfortable and homelike An Bothar guesthouse near Ballyknockane.
Last night was pleasant and warm, with long discussions in the pub with the innkeeper and his family concerning life here in Ireland and in the USA. As we ordered supper in the pub, we learned that the Eyjafjallajokull volcano has caused half of the pub menu to be unavailable, as they get shipments from Dublin via the now-closed Kerry airport.
This morning, during breakfast, we were discussing the unusually mild, sunny weather, and I remarked that the sun burned away the rain only when we arrived in Ireland. “Like the old song says,” I added, “‘Thugamar fein an samhradh linn.’” At that point our host’s face lit up, and he made a point of doing everything bilingually and making sure we pronounced the Irish properly. The song verse means, “We have brought the summer with us.”
On our way out, he looked at our map and pointed out a spot for a marvelous, if vertiginous, view over massive cliffs of the ruins of a medieval monastary.
The walk up the mountain became steadily steeper until our calves we burning. As we passed through the last sheep gate before the final climb to the ridge, we dropped our packs and hiked across the mountainside to the top of the cliff and inched our way to the edge. 2200 feet below us–so far that we couldn’t even hear the waves–we gazed down at the ancient foundations of the ruined monastary.
After finally cresting the ridge, we found an ancient ogham stone, with a celtic cross and the cryptic slashes of the ancient Irish language, stating, “Ronan the priest, son of Comgan.” Fascinating things, standing stones.
As we descended the trail in the shadow of Masantiompan, we appreciated the guidebook reminder, “Trail turns treacherous.” Our fert burning, we finally took a lunch break next to the ruins of a centuries-old clochain, or beehive hut. We didn’t eat inside the ring of stones as we felt that we would be sitting in someone else’s house, even if they were long-dead. Instead, we ate our soda bread and cheese in the wind outside the walls.
After the long, steep descent, we’re finally in Clochane, at pub guesthouse. We’re nursing sore feet, sipping tea, and waiting for the pub to open at 8, so we can grab a pint and dinner before crawling into bed.