The Wicklow Way
"The sandhills were full of skylarks rising in the dawn, the first I had heard for years the first sound I heard through the surf was their song, and I waded through the breakers and they kept rising all the time up to the old rath at Currashone, where I stayed and sent the others on, and all around were primroses and wild violets and the singing of the skylarks in the air, and I was back in Ireland again".
Roger Casement
In a quest to find my feet upon returning to Ireland I decided to use them properly. MacDuff the Scottie and I set off from Marley Park of a Tuesday on a brightly sparkly morning in the summer of 2019 and headed up a steep old road to a megalithic tomb in a pine forest. The granite stones were drenched in moss and everything else was a russet brown from the pines. It was much bigger and more solemn than I thought it would be and we stepped carefully around the circle of ancientness and I thought of those that ‘went before’.
What did they eat? Wear? How did they live without decent dentists and painkillers? Makes one ponder on the benefits of mead, magic mushrooms and potions made by gnarly women with sparkling eyes. We headed south on the Wicklow Way, gaily marked by an earnest yellow figure wearing a backpack and toting a walking stick. The signboard at the carpark was pretty ominous with graffiti ‘Get your heart pierced at Full Moon’, ‘666 this way’.
It was full moon that night. Taking a deep breath and banishing the thought of the missing man who’s name and face was plastered on the noticeboard we set forth. Up and up through plantations of sitka spruce on graveled paths and popping out with a view of Dublin shimmering down below. The sea looked azure and inviting but our path was mountain bound so we soon got into our stride. MacDuff is grand little walker for a small dog and once the initial heavily wee-ed upon areas were behind us he trotted out like a show horse. My body felt delighted to be on the move again and we churned up towards Fairy Hill and stepped onto the beautifully designed paths in the bog, they have great slabs of rock embedded in pairs in the ground with a sluice way between them for drainage and these are laid every 10/20 metres. After a while these give way to a long stony path heading downhill that we pick our way through and I take big breathers to gaze at the valleys and tawny mountainsides full of gorse, heather and squelchy brown bog.
We descend into a green valley lush with oak trees and fields and I spot a ruined cottage off the path. Lunchtime has arrived and after some clambering and nettle hopping we settle into the little green arms of a miniature homestead overlooking the road. It’s a very small home with a large chimney and no discernible windows. Glass was expensive and windows were vigorously taxed so the Irish had miniscule gaps to let minimal light in.
On the road again we stomp along merrily through the valley by industrious little homes and farmsteads and loop around and head upwards into the forestry roads. As we walk uphill I pick up some fool’s gold, embedded with mica, it shines and glitters and I think about how we spend much of our lives chasing ephemeral types of meaning. Food, drink, addictions, love, sex, fame, excitement, adrenaline, stuff. So much stuff. Much of which turns out to be shards of mica which looks gold but is almost translucent and very brittle when examined closely.
There are acres of these spruce forests with mounds of dripping moss and as we turn a corner a deer bounds out, stops to look and leaps away. MacDuff is thrilled but restrained by his lead so he engages in his killer-dog hoppity bounce and leap routine and I am glad that he is unable to set forth and disappear forever. We end up in Curtlestown and my sister Eithne arrives like an angel to retrieve us and our stretched legs.
Over the next few days as we walked, I mused the concepts of time and immortality, we walked, spotted a fox trotting along beside beech trees embedded in stone walls, we walked and braved the icy winds on the wide open heathery slopes of Djouce mountain. There were muddles of sheep and long wooden boardwalks over the bogs coming out at Lough Tay- known as the Guinness lake for it’s peaty brown depths and creamy frothy shoreline. There were stark landscapes and deep treed valleys with fertile riverine fields all running downwards (my South African design orientated brain became very confused until I realized that it was to release water from the fields down to the rivers and there is not a speck of erosion)
This was a veritable Game of Thrones area during the 11th and 12th century, full of murderous rebellions, cruel landlords and bloodthirsty tribal families all out for revenge. Eventually we arrived past all this crazy history out into the dear little village of Laragh to the fine sight of the marvelous artist Aoife Fitzgerald, waiting for us in the sunshine with a broken leg in a cast and her book. She recently counted the books she had a home and it came to a grand total of 11,000 (this was after a clear out) it was lovely to catch up with her as she has been out to South Africa a few times and stayed with me often sketching, reading and eating with gusto. Leave her without books though and all hell breaks loose. Too right.
The last day of my hike was from Glendalough to Glenmalure and it broke me. MacDuff was on stalwart form and was straining at the lead the whole way and I felt sad at the endless forestry paths, the relentless spruce. My legs hurt and walking became an arduous task full of angst. The 7kms of uphill to start the day didn’t help. I decided to take a break at Glenmalure and return to the Wicklow Way when it felt exciting again and my internal relief was palpable. Who was I trying to impress anyway? One day perhaps I’ll walk days and days in old deciduous forest and it won’t feel so very sad.
