From the Field | Some Guy In Nevada

Off We Go — Farewell to Erin

Some Guy — Fri, 30 Apr 2010 06:27:08 +0000

Out of money and out of time, so I suppose that’s it for our Ireland trip. We’re on the way to catch the bus to the airport.

As the days go on, we’ll get some more photos up, and I’ll consolidate some of the adventures into feature articles, embellished with gory details and such.

Next stop, Chicago — Woohoo! Sausage!

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Back in Dublin

Some Guy — Thu, 29 Apr 2010 15:55:14 +0000

Lounging in the Library Bar back at the Central Hotel after a quick bus and train from Doolin. Pretty cool, though…the hotel staff recognized us as we came staggering through the door.

We felt a bit forlorn at leaving the Twin Peaks B & B, as Sinéad and Pascal were great hosts for five nights. Over the past couple of days, we had even been referring to it as “home.” Pascal even slipped us a couple of envelopes Sinéad had thoughtfully stuffed with good, Irish tea bags. I’m going to miss the scrambled eggs and salmon for breakfast.

As we passed by the hostel to wait at Doolin’s lone bus stop, David came running out in his bare feet to bid us farewell. Cosidering that we didn’t even stay at the hostel, we found it very touching. We’ll miss his cheerful energy.

Now that we’re back in Dublin, we managed to catch up on the one remaining item on our Dublin to-do list. We strolled over to the Trinity College library and visited the Book of Kells. Although they only display two pages from the Book of Kells, plus two pages from contemporary manuscripts, the whole presentation and descriptive anteroom made it a worthwhile visit. In the imposing Long Room of the Old Library, many documents from the Rebellion are on display.

Hard to believe that in two days we will be back in the cultural mecca that is northern Nevada.

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Days of Doolin — Day Five: The Burren

Some Guy — Thu, 29 Apr 2010 11:14:58 +0000

The Burren

The Burren…it’s a Tolkein-esque name for an amazing area of western Ireland south of Galway and our area of interest for today, kids. Geologically, it’s a large area of limestone exposed during glacial activity of the Ice Age that had scraped away the top layers of sedimentary rock. As the eons passed, the weak acids in rainwater slowly etched away the at the exposed limestone, creating crevasses, caves, and underground rivers beneath a rugged topology and strangely-etched rocky landscape called “karst,” a term sure to spark immediate interest amongst cavers.

We were curious about this area, plus we know nothing about it outside of the few tourist brochures lying about. Therefore, we decided to take our first and only guided event during our Ireland trip. We found the flyer for John Connolly’s “Burren Wild Tours” in our B & B, so we scheduled a guided, 3-hour walk for this afternoon.

Corcomroe Abbey

As he sold us our bus tickets, David, the host at the hostel in Doolin, took great pleasure in digging out his map of The Burren and pointing out the various trails in the area. He heard that we had scheduled a tour with John, and in the time-honored tradition of “you can’t get there from here,” he began pointing out all the ways we could walk the ten miles across the rugged hills to get back to Ballyvaughan. “Ah, don’t worry, it’s an easy walk,” he opined. “You’ll be back in plenty of time to catch the afternoon bus.” I’m glad that there are rugged indivuduals who can hike ten miles of harsh trails in two hours…but that’s not us.

Noel, the Bus Eireann driver, dropped us off in Bellharbor, and pointed up a road. “That road’ll get you to John’s. Make sure you visit the Abbey first.”

Inside Corcomroe Abbey

The Corcomroe Abbey lies at the end of a valley road, flanked by a pastoral landscape. For being a ruin, it’s in beautiful condition. The old graves are slowly being erased by centuries of exposure to the elements, so it’s worth a visit while it’s still standing. Over the years, people have buried their dead within the ruin itself, so the entire nave and apse is lined with old and new graves. Back in the 1400’s, in recognition of the unique area, the Cistercian monks named the abbey “Sancta Maria de Petra Fertilis,” or “Blessed Mary of the Fertile Rock.”

After slowly passing amongst the stones, we cut across a handy cow pasture, minus cows, and emerged on the road only a quarter-mile away from Burren Wild Tours, which is an old, family, working farm. We sat down by the garden and chatted with John’s father, who was kind enough to take a break from chores and talk with us about weather, the potato blight, and some of the strange geological features of this landscape. John came from the barn area and introduced himself, saying that we were waiting for two more people. It gave us more time to relax by the garden and watch clouds and birds float by.

The Burren

Karen and Kristen pulled in, right on time. After giving John €25 for each of us, we began our walk. John is an energetic guide, eager to share the landscape that has been his family’s farm for two and a half centuries. He brings his knowledge as an archaeologist and a scholar of history to give walkers on his tour a sense of time and place in history and geology.

From a distance, the Burren doesn’t seem like it could support life, but it is host to both warm climate and alpine plants. Brilliant blue gentian and alpine aven appear alongside orchids and primrose. As the limestone retains heat so well, the soil temperature never drops below 16C, even in winter.

As we walked, we carefully stepped over fissures and strangely-shaped drainage channels in the pale gray rock, which had formed over millenia.

The Fairy Tree

We came across a whitethorn tree, also known as a Fairy Tree, where generations of people would tie a little piece of cloth or ribbon, frequently blue, to the branches of the tree. Doing so would transfer whatever you were worried about to the tree. Right next to rhe Fairy Tree was a stand of hazelnut shrubs. There is a tradition that describes the hazelnut as a tree connected with the underworld, which John said was a way for ancient peoples to highlight the importance of certain plants and pass that knowledge on to the next generation. Kristen and Karen both tied on little strips to the whitethorn, and we headed further into the hills.

Famine-era Potato Drills

As we climbed up the jagged limestone, we paused as we entered a small, grassy plateau. John pointed out faint ridges in the earth, fading scars of desperate attempts to grow potatoes during the famine. One hundred and fifty years ago, the farmers had hoped that planting on the hillside would avoid the blight that was devastating the valleys below but sadly discovering that the blight was present even there.

We turned and looked across the valley towards the other Burren mountains at the odd, random stone walls meandering across the hillsides. These were “Famine Walls” built by Irish tenants at the command of the English landlords. The walls served no purpose, divided no parcels of land. The English figured that giving the starving citizens busy-work in exchange for a bit of soup or such would quell any potential unrest. John quietly added that looking at the walls is a solemn reminder of a tragic period in Irish history.

Heading for the Burial Mound

We finally crested the mountain and descended a little ways into an alpine valley, scoured by a chilly, strong northwest wind. Even here, the small, brilliant blue gentian and orchids popped up between the ridges of limestone.

We could see low mounds of stones on the opposite ridge, one at either end. Legend holds that two witches got into an argument that soon dissolved into a heated battle where they stood at either end of the ridge and hurled rocks at each other.

These mounds actually are pre-Christian burial mounds, holding the bones of ancient generations. We approached a mound that was nestled in the valley. This particular mound was torn apart by rabbit-hunters during the famine, although most of the mound still appeared intact. John climbed down the unearthed depression in the middle of the mound and reached deep beneath a stone. He emerged with two bones, one a first metatarsal and the other a fragment of a humeral head. They were sized right to be human, but whether they were human or animal will remain a mystery. Given that it was a burial mound holding many generations, and John’s professional archaeological opinion that they were indeed human, we believe the bones were human .

Bones in Burren Burial Mound

After placing the bones back in the mound, we climbed a short way up the opposite mountain. A sheltered cleft in the mountainside provided us opportunity to enjoy a rest out of the wind with tea from John’s volcano kettle, carrot cake made earlier by John’s mother, and some trail mix from Karen and Kristen from the Trader Joe’s in Baltimore.

We carefully picked our way down the mountainside while John seemingly floated over the limestone. We stopped at Saint Colman’s holy well, quite a beautiful spot, with an windswept ash tree bending over the tiny pool and stones. Lore says that washing your eyes with the water would alleviate eye problems.

By Saint Colman's Holy Well

Holy wells are a pre-Christian, pagan tradition adopted by the church, much like Easter eggs or Christmas trees. The last generation that understands these traditions is dying out, leaving only the hippies and weird sorts to have any interest in these ancient ways.

We made our way down to the farm track and followed it back to John’s farm, where Karen and Kristen were kind enough to give us a lift back to Ballyvaughan where we caught the bus back to Doolin.

We normally avoid guided tours, as we find they limit our ability to spend time on our own truly learning about an area without being dragged off to a new place. John Connelly’s Burren Wild Tour is a glowing exception, and we heartily recommend it. It was one of the better side trips we made this entire holiday.

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The post Days of Doolin — Day Five: The Burren first appeared on Some Guy In Nevada.

Days of Doolin, Day Two

Some Guy — Sun, 25 Apr 2010 22:43:45 +0000

Or, How What Was Supposed to Be a Relaxing Layaround Day Wasn’t

Inisheer at Dusk

First off, be aware that any decision to visit the Aran Islands is a commitment to a major, all-day undertaking. Second, if Miss Fish repeats a desire often enough throughout a trip, it tends to materialize at some point.

Yesterday, we had taken a stroll down the boreen in front of the B&B towards the seashore as the sun was vanishing beneath the horizon pursued by angry clouds. As twilight deepened, we could barely make out the silhouette of Inisheer, the nearest of the Aran Islands, with its flickering lighthouse.

Golf course...all you need is a pitching wedge and a putter. Seriously.

Today, we walked to the pier past a very strange, yet tiny golf course, and we bought our tickets to Inisheer. The boatman behind the ticket counter suggested that for a little more, we could also get a cruise around the Cliffs of Moher. (“Do you guarantee that we can see at least one tourist stumbling over the edge?” I asked to appreciative snorts from the other crewmen lounging around the office) So, for an extra €5, we splurged and booked seats with a bunch of German tourists on an earlier ferry that also did a sightseeing turn around the base of the Cliffs of Moher.

Cliffs of Moher from the Sea

After finding makeshift seats on the rubber dock bumper, we sat back agaist the railing and watched as the cliffs loomed nearer. We found this view of the Cliffs of Moher much nicer, as we could see the bird colonies, and we could truly appreciate how high and burly these cliffs are, which isn’t apparent from above. Well worth €5, and the fact that your ferryboat is taking you for a scenic spin around the coast really doesn’t seem odd here. Imagine the Staten Island Ferry taking a siteseeing detour around Battery Park and Jones Beach. There’d be an outraged mutiny and a sensationalist story in the New York Post.

Birds nesting on the Cliffs of Moher

Miss Fish’s Wish

After we dropped off the Germans back at the Doolin pier, we continued to Inisheer. Inisheer is a tiny island, only a couple of kilometers across. So, imagine my disbelief as we disembarked and headed inland from the pier, when Miss Fish’s head snapped up, and she said, “I hear a sporting event. It’s unmistakable.” and she started up the road at a racewalker’s pace.

Inisheer vs. arch-rivals, Connemara...Connemara with the ball.

Gaelic Football is one of those inexplicable sporting events that we never see in the states, but is shown regularly on Irish television. Essentially, it’s a blend of soccer, dodgeball, keep-away, rugby, basketball, and good, old-fashioned kill-the-guy-with-the-ball, played with a volleyball. (“Hurling” is basically the same game played with a softball and Polynesian war clubs). It’s addictive to watch, so about a week ago while we were still in Dingle, Miss Fish began her repeating desire to see a live Gaelic Football match.

Oddly, her wish came true on Inisheer. This tiny island actually has a regulation size paying field and a team as well. The lads in green were playing the boys from Connemara, and we leaned against a split-rail fence and enjoyed the game.

The gist of the game, from what the Irish tell us, is to either put the ball past a goalie into an opponent’s net–much like a soccer goal, except it counts for three points, or kick it between the uprights as in American football, except that instead of three points, you get only one, plus you do it on the run while the opposing team tries to dismember you. A player must dribble the ball every three or four steps, and can toss, dropkick, soccer-kick, pitch, or volleyball-serve in order to pass the ball to a teammate, in any direction. Although tackling and in-game assaults on other players aren’t allowed, the incidental contact is pretty tough, and a successful run downfield can leave the field littered with horizontal players.

Inisheer kicks the almost-gamewinning score

So we got to watch a live Gaelic Football match, where Inisheer rallied to pull ahead of Connemara, only to have Connemara tie it up in the last few seconds of the game.

After leaving the game, we walked trough a maze of fantastic stone walls (apparently, Inisheer is also the site of a wall-building symposium) and visited the lighthouse, the Napoleonic-era watchtower, and the ruins of the O’Brien castle. Along the way, we met a gentleman with a pony cart, and upon inquiry about the game, he proudly stated that his son had kicked the last point for Inisheer. We were very pleased for him and congratulated him and his son.

Miss Fish and the lighthouse

After far too much sun, not enough water, and only powerbars for lunch, we caught the last ferry to Doolin. Next time we come to Inisheer, we’re booking a room overnight. It’s a tiny island with too much to do in a single afternoon.

After catching dinner and the last half of the afternoon session at O’Connor’s, we went back to our room for the night, with plans to go out in a little bit, but seeing as Miss Fish is comatose under the covers and my ear hurts when I even *think* of playing the whistle, this’ll be the last of it for the evening.

[findmespotmap start=”2010-04-25 00:00:00″ end=”2010-04-25 23:59:59″ id=”0-8062822″]

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Days of Doolin, Day One

Some Guy — Sun, 25 Apr 2010 21:12:22 +0000

After seeing the doc in Limerick, we finally caught the bus to Doolin. All the other riders got off in Ennis, Ennistymon, Lahinch, and Lisdoonvarna, leaving us alone on the bus. At our stop, our B & B host was waiting for us at the stop to drive us the one remaining block to the house just as it was getting dusk.

The Dalys’ is a cozy, yet very well-appointed B & B. After sitting in the sun room conservatory, our host led us into the garden area, where he served us coffee liberally laced with Bailey’s, as the sun went down. We learned that the B & B was closing for the weekend and that we’d have to find a new place for Saturday.

O’Connor’s is the pub everyone around here points to when you ask about food and music. There’s also McGann’s and Fitzgeralds, and McDermott’s, all of which have local traditional music, although Fitzgeralds seemed to have more of the young, club-oriented crowd and no sessions.

The problem with tourist spots are all the tourists with nary a brain cell to share amongst them

Cliffs of Moher fade into the distance

Yesterday, we caught the bus to the Cliffs of Moher, which is a spectacular line of vertical cliffs extending several miles just south of Doolin. They are home to several massive colonies of seabirds and infested with ignorant morons who call themselves “human.”

Now, as we’re in the rescue profession, we know that cliff edges are extremely dangerous and prone to crumbling, especially when they are routinely battered by Atlantic waves. When we got off the bus and headed to the cliffs, we wandered along the official walkway. We were astounded by the numbers of witless tourists that jumped the wall and milled about on the very bleeding edge of the cliff. One bookend set of Darwinian examples even climbed over the edge of the cliff and stood on an unstable, loose stone shelf so their tarted-up girlfriends could get photographic evidence to show their soon-to-be-fatherless, bastard children of how monstrously stupid their daddies were. Miss Fish and I stopped to see if they would entertain the crowd by plummeting 702 feet to their ignominious deaths followed by their little lemming girfriends, but we were denied when one of the wardens showed up with a lifeguard whistle and in no uncertain terms told the teeming horde of future charcoal briquets to get the hell off the cliff. As soon as the warden disappeared, the roahes went scuttling back over the barrier wall and resumed their milling about inches from the cliff edge. We thought that Ireland could get some seriously-needed revenue by sending the gardaí around every 20 minutes and issuing some citations. It would be a steady income, as fresh meatsticks tootle off every new tourbus. The whole spectacle was an egregious example of the whole “We’re on holiday so we don’t have to obey any rules or use common sense because nothing bad ever happens while on holiday” behavior.

Is this where the teletubbies work when they grow up? Would Tinky Winky wear a tie or cravat?

We then went into the visitor’s center for lunch. As the visitor’s center is built into the living rock of the rolling landscape, it looks strangely like an office building for the Teletubbies if they were grown up and worked for Enron.

In all, do try to visit the Cliffs of Moher in spite of my rant, as the are truly magnificent and one of 28 finalists worldwide for the new Natural Wonders of the World.

We walked the nine kilometers along the road back to Doolin with each step ringing in my infected ear like Tito Puente playing timbales inside a beach ball. We then moved into our new accomodations at the Twin Peaks Doolin B & B not even 30 meters away from Daly’s. Easy move. Once in, our host, Sinéad O’Connor, told us to visit McGann’s for dinner and to order the crab claws. And no, not *that* Sinéad O’Connor.

Pub-hopping and sessions

Fiddler busking at the Cliffs of Moher. No one but us stopped and listened...they were all busy trying to inadvertently kill themselves.

After washing up from the walk, we lounged around for a bit, and to our surprise, it began raining for the first time in sixteen days. We dug out the raincoats, and headed out the door.

The handy thing about McGann’s Pub is that it also features a trad session hosted by a friend of fellow musicians back home. We walked ten minutes down the road to the pub and were duly impressed with the crab claws. What the claws may have lacked in size, they made up for with excellent flavor. We also had the delicious lamb shank with potatoes and carrots…but avoid the ham and vegetable. We still haven’t figured out what the veggie was…something military, I think.

Unfortunately, the banjo-playing fellow whom we were to seek wasn’t there–indeed, the entire session was non-existent–so we trudged back up the road in the misty drizzle and wound up back at O’Connors. There was a small but tight session going, with a flute, a fiddle, and a button accordion, surrounded by an appreciative pub crowd of locals and tourists. We pulled up some stools at a small table already occupied by an elderly gentleman of Clare and a young woman in a red sweater–we think daughter.

At a break, the flute player, Christie, pointed over at the elderly man sitting next to us and asked, “So how’s about a little song there?”

“Oh dear Lord no,” replied the old man. He leaned over to Miss Fish and said, “How about you? You must have some songs to say. You do sing, don’t you?”

“No!” she quickly replied and then pointed at me. “But he does.”

And that’s how, in spite of a raging ear infection, loss of hearing and pitch, and a raw throat, I had my debut performance in Ireland. It actually came off sounding better than I feared.

After apologizing beforehand to the session leader for any imminent suckage, I sang May Morning Dew, a slow, pensive number. The fiddler requested another song (“A bird doesn’t fly on only one wing”). So I finished with Aughrim’s Great Disaster…another epic, not-so-happy song…but with fighting and gore. I returned to the table where the old fellow shook my hand repeatedly throughout the night. He wound up being a very nice table companion. I bought his next pint.

We were then treated to more tunes–none of which I knew–and then to local singers showing how it’s really done. All in all, a very pleasant evening.

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“Take four a day and have a lovely holiday…”

Some Guy — Fri, 23 Apr 2010 12:45:35 +0000

Sometimes, ya just gotta throw in the towel and see the doc. After transient chills, hot spells, night sweats last night and the pain in my ear spreading to my throat over the last hour on the bus, we opted to find a local doctor in Limerick.

We didn’t decide right away; we were walking down a street and saw a pharmacy with an attached surgery–a G.P.’s office for the Yanks. Feeling another crawly chill and feeling an ominous tickle in the back of my throat, we decided that I was finally due to visit the doctor. At 11:46, we walked into the pharmacy and inquired about an appointment to see the doctor. The pharmacist pointed down the street and said, “Go down the next lane over, and there’s a surgery at the end.” So, down at the end of thin, dark alley, we found the doctors’ shingle over a small, green door, nothing fancy. At 11:50, we walked in.

The waiting room was small, with a few people in the chairs. After only taking a moment to consider the situation, since we had no Irish health card, the friendly receptionist handed me a blank sheet of paper and told me to fill out my personal particulars. After turning the sheet back in, I took a seat and began this blog post. I hadn’t even completed the first sentence when the receptionist called me in right at noon.

“I’m glad to see a tourist, especially an American one,” Dr. Alicia Flynn smiled, shaking my hand. “It’s been a little thin here lately.”

She worked as we chatted, checking my vital signs as I related my symptoms. After cleaning out my ear with a water pick–ouch–, Dr. Flynn wrote out a prescription for antibiotics and a topical steroid, while incisively quizzing me about my benign lump on my neck. We paid a total of €50 (US$60) for my visit, and we left the surgery at 12:04.

We returned to the same pharmacy, “Got you sorted, did she?” asked the pharmacist as she took my Rx slip. A few minutes later, we walked out of the pharmacy with my €28 antibiotics…at 12:14.

So, from the time we walked into the pharmacy seeking a clinic to the time we left the same pharmacy with the meds, it was a total of 30 minutes, with just enough paperwork to put me in the system, a visit with a competent medical professional, and a filled prescription, all for less than US$100…and we as foreign nationals with incompatible health insurance. We were very impressed. If we lived here, I’d choose Dr. Flynn in Limerick to be my G.P. I felt that the care was exemplary and first-rate, and we feel that the US has a way to go before we catch up to this level of service at a fair price. Heck…my GP at home *still* hasn’t noticed the lump on my neck.

The post “Take four a day and have a lovely holiday…” first appeared on Some Guy In Nevada.

Off we go — Tralee to Doolin

Some Guy — Fri, 23 Apr 2010 08:44:35 +0000

Fareewell to the Dingle Peninsula, thanks to the crud, which I’m sure I caught from a girl in the next cubicle over at the Dingle internet cafe. She sounded like she was dying of plague, tuberculosis, and dysentery of the nose all at the same time. She couldn’t use a tissue or even cover her mouth because, omg, like she’s IM’ing her bff and she can’t stop typing long enough to USE A DAMNED TISSUE!

Anyway, we’re on the bus, which looks like a giant, white ant, heading for Limerick, the murder capital of the EU in the safest country in the EU. From there, we’ll transfer to Doolin, via Ennis and Lisdoonvarna. Once we get to Doolin, we’ll settle in, go catch some sessions, visit the Cliffs of Moher and the Burrens…and a pharmacy.

We’re sad to be leaving the Dingle area, as everyone we met there was warm and pleasant and went out of their way to make us feel welcome. We look forward to a return visit–sick internet grrls notwithstanding.

In all, we hiked 78 miles in six days, with an extra zero day in Dingle. Our target was 111 miles, so I suppose that means we need to drink 33 shots.

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Bummer, dude…

Some Guy — Thu, 22 Apr 2010 10:23:16 +0000

Well, Some Guy ran a fever last night and is still feeling kinda punky. To play it safe, we’re coming off the trail and heading back to Tralee. We might be back in a couple of days to finish, as we were really looking forward to the fourteen mile beach walk.

For now, we’ll see how I do. We’ll probably head up to Ennis and Doolin, and enjoy some music.

It’s all good…we’re in Ireland, and there’s still plenty to see and do.

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Made It Over Brandon Mountain

Some Guy — Wed, 21 Apr 2010 17:53:38 +0000

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.

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Off We Go — Ballycurrane to Cloghane

Some Guy — Wed, 21 Apr 2010 07:30:51 +0000

After a pleasant evening sitting in the only pub in the village, we’re starting the toughest leg of the trip. Today, we go over Mount Brandon, the second highest peak in Ireland. Fortunately, it’s over a pass and not the peak itself, but its still a 760m (2490 feet) gain in the first couple of miles.

Yesterday, we ooted for a short day’s walk to a b&b at the foot of the mountain. Once settled in, we visited Brandon Creek, where St. Brendan himself set sail with seventeen stalwart monks and dicovered America before the Vikings.

In case you haven’t guessed, the maps below show the actual route that we walked in orange and the “official” route according to the Irish Ordnance Survey maps.
[findmespotmap start=”2010-04-21 00:00:00″ end=”2010-04-21 23:59:59″ id=”0-8062822″]
[kmlmap w=500 h=500 kml=”06-feohanaghcloghane.kmz”]

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