Ireland/England Trip
It’s nearly a month since I’ve made an entry, and although I have written down travel notes (as I usually do on any long journey) I will have to give a shortened version here: the trip was so long and so eventful that a complete account would run to a volume.
It was a stressful trip. The hikes in Ireland took us through some lovely scenery; the society of my hiking companions was an invariable source of pleasure; it was delightful to connect with my friends in England after a hiatus of three years. But I could not enjoy it as much as I would have done under ordinary circumstances, for three reasons.
First, the company that organized our trip thoroughly mismanaged the arrangements. I cannot understand it. I have taken two other trips with this organization previously, and everything ran like clockwork. But in this instance almost every aspect of the trip was bungled. No documentation was sent, and it would have decidedly useful; for the Kerry Way, though well-marked, frequently presents a choice of alternate routes. We had no guidance whenever this happened, and had to blunder our way as best we could. Occasionally we had to rely on taxi services to transport us after the hike from the endpoint to our accommodations, and these were a nightmare: it took repeated exchanges of Emails to obtain such fundamental details as the time of pickup and the place we were to meet. Even in small details there were troublesome omissions: for instance, we never received any labels for the luggage that was to be transported from one location to another, and I do not envy the transport employees who were forced to examine each piece of luggage to locate its label when the labels had no standard size or placement.
Then, too, the Kerry Way is rather a mixed blessing for hikers. It traverses, as I said, beautiful scenery, with lofty ridgelines, broad green valleys, clear blue lakes, and dramatic coastlines. But over a third of it consists of road-walking, and in addition it is poorly maintained, going through many boggy areas with no drainage or water runoffs. In several areas the trail is visibly eroding, as a result of people tramping through the mud that oozes several inches deep. Even in Wales, where (as will be seen) I did a little additional hiking and where the terrain and soil are similar, it was much better maintained and it almost came as a shock to be treading on firm ground again instead of on slippery mud and stone.
Finally, the COVID test that I was required to take at the end of the trip cast a long shadow over the entirety of my stay. Initially I had hoped that I would be able to find a place to take the test in Shropshire, where I was staying with my friends. But there weren’t any; the British test centers for the most part shut down in April after the UK lifted its requirement for testing to cross its borders. In the end I had to take the test at Heathrow, which meant that instead of being able to go to London the day before the flight and enjoy a few hours touring the city, I had to book a hotel in the vicinity of Heathrow in order to take the test there. (Heathrow is quite a distance from London, and traveling back and forth from one to the other multiple times would have taken several hours.) On top of that, I developed a cold that was characterized by a persistent cough and nasal congestion – not a surprising consequence, one would say, of hiking several days in wind and rain, but one whose symptoms could obviously have another interpretation. The account of those friends of mine who had toured the Lake District and afterwards were forced to stay three additional days in quarantine continually recurred to me, and I was all but certain that I would be enduring the same fate.
To proceed to a day-by-day account, including the hikes I did:
May 17/18, Washington to Shannon
A wretched flight, two hours late in departing – which was, indeed, the case, for many of the flights at the airport: I was sufficiently curious to look at the list of departing flights, and over half of them were delayed, most of them significantly so. Landing in Shannon, I took the bus to Limerick and then to Killarney, where I was much relieved to arrive at the B&B booked for us – and I will say, at the onset, that the accommodations throughout the trip were excellent. So, too, was the dinner at a place nearby. Killarney is a considered a small town, but it has many attractions and, as I was to discover later, is delightful to walk through.
May 19, Killarney to Black Valley, 14 miles, 2000’ elevation
This first hike was a good one to start with, leading alongside a bay, then around a 19th-century mansion (Muckross House), then ascending up to a waterfall and from there to a ridgeline. That was the big climb of the hike; afterwards the ups and downs were gentle, circling around a lake and eventually leading to a road that led to our B&B for the night. The landlady was obviously apprehensive about COVID, wearing a facemask throughout the duration of our stay and taking some care to keep distant from us. I don’t suppose it can be very enjoyable being forced to have a stream of strangers in one’s house on a daily basis in the midst of a pandemic.
There were eight of us in all, and we separated into subgroups. Four members of our groups going together got lost – thanks to the lack of documentation that I remarked upon earlier, as they came to a place that had a choice of routes and they took the wrong one. In the end they had to take a taxi to arrive at the B&B.
May 20, Black Valley to Glencar, 18 miles (not counting a few detours), 2000’ elevation
This was a frustrating hike in many ways. It rained in the morning, not heavily, but in sufficient quantities to make the rocks on the ascent to the first ridgeline and the descent afterwards very slippery and to transform much of the path into a quagmire. The hike had much to offer: green valleys, dense forest alternating with broad meadows, swift-running streams. Later on the weather cleared and the ascent up the second ridgeline, although longer and steeper, was less arduous.
After coming down we had a choice of routes, one described as the cross-country route and the other as a roadwalk. MG and I, who were hiking together, naturally chose the cross-country route. This was a mistake (which could easily have been avoided if we had received the appropriate documentation). The first half-mile of it was a misery, nothing but boulders and mud and puddles. In drier conditions it would have been tolerable, but as it was, we were longing for it to be over. The remainder went over some road walking and a rather long fire road, eventually leading us to an impressive stone bridge, where the accommodation for six of us was located (the other two stayed at a different one, not far from the point where the choice of routes occurred).
The landlady was a very charming person, albeit somewhat subdued in manner. I afterwards learned, by accident, that she had recently lost her husband. How difficult it must be to maintain a B&B or any sort of private inn at times! This unfortunate woman had no time to mourn in private. But she did not give a hint of any emotional upheaval and she treated her guests with quietly attentive service throughout the duration of our stay. It was a lovely place, and possessed, among its other attractions, a beautiful sitting room where we had a view of the dark waters of the Meelagh River flowing under the moss-covered bridge.
May 21, Glencar to Glenbeigh, 5 miles, 1000’ elevation
It should be noted that those of us at staying at Blackstones (the B&B close to the stone bridge) had hiked a miles past Glencar itself, which is why this hike was so short. It was wonderful nonetheless, taking us first along a road (with, thankfully, little traffic) up to a trail that went up to a ridgeline called Windy Gap. As we looked back, we had magnificent vistas of the valley, ringed with mountains, that we had just quitted; after reaching the summit, we had equally imposing views of the bay area with the Atlantic Ocean to the west and the Dingle peninsula to the north. The houses of Glenbeigh were clustered along the flatter portion of the meadow stretching to the shore. From here we descended to Glenbeigh, where we met with the other two members of our group for lunch.
Glenbeigh itself is rather a pretty little village with several restaurants and a couple of stores. Several wedding parties were being held when we arrived (it was a Saturday), with people quite elaboratedly attired. Since we had several hours to wait before the taxi to our next accommodation arrived, we strolled about, eventually going to the shore of the bay and then back to the main street.
May 22, Glenbeigh to Cahirsiveen, 15, 2000’ elevation
We cut off the first three miles of the route, which consists entirely of road walking – walking on a road that services a fair amount of traffic – by taking a taxi on our own initiative. The first part of the hike was spectacular as we ascended Drung Hill, which climbs steadily to a ridgeline that overlooks the broad Ferta valley and numerous cliffs that drop down to the sea. The wind blew steadily as we gained in elevation, but it was the type of wind that invigorates rather than disheartens – for me, at any rate: I felt an energetic spring in my gait as I went forward. We passed a group of Ukrainians, who were being hosted by a few of the local residents. One of those hosts appeared taken aback by rapidity of our pace, as ET and I skirted around them, and he called out towards “Don’t kill yourselves now!”; to which ET replied airily, “Try telling that to Josh!” I could not help it; the combination of the increasingly dramatic vistas, of the wind blowing about us, and the steadiness of the ascent that gradually exposed views of sea and cliff and meadow and streams, so that I felt as if I were floating upwards – these all acted upon me like an intoxicant and it was impossible for me to traverse it sedately.
The remainder of the hike was something of an anti-climax. Most of it was on fairly level ground, much of it muddy. There were a few good views here and there of the valleys between the mountains, but less imposing than what we had seen earlier. Cahirsiveen, however, was a surprise: it was considerably larger than I expected and possesses several attractions, some of which I explored the following day.
May 23, Cahersiveen, 16 miles, 1000’
Officially this day was a “0” day, which no specific hike designated. But the weather was too splendid for us to remain inside all day, and, besides, there was much in the area to see. Cahirsiveen, among other things, is the birthplace of Daniel O’Connell, the liberator of Ireland, the determined opponent of slavery in every shape or form, the adherent of non-violence whose policies helped shape those of both Gandhi and Martin Luther King.
TK, CC, MG, and I had bypassed a mile or so of the Kerry Way towards the end of the previous hike, going into the town by a more direct route; so I went along the portion on which we had missed out, and it featured one or two notable viewpoints. Then I went along the Daniel O’Connell Heritage Trail, which included his birthplace, a very mournful-looking old abbey and graveyard where several of his relatives and associates are buried, the memorial church built in his honor, and the old army barracks. The church looks like a Gothic church, but is in fact a Victorian imitation and was not fully completed until 1902. Then I went to a summit outside the town called “The Top of the Hill,” a magnificent 360-degree view of the town itself, the marina, Valentia River, Valentia Island, the Dingle peninsula jutting into the ocean, and the Blasket Islands to its west. Finally I went to two old stone forts – not military outposts, but strongholds built by landowners in times when law enforcement was barely known and most people had to fend for themselves. One of them dated back to 600 A.D. and the other to 1000 A.D. They are entirely circular and built of flat portions of slate that fit together with astonishing precision. The interiors were wide enough to sustain several dwellings, the remains of which could be clearly seen. I had anticipated a rather dull day, so all of this activity and variety were a delightful surprise.
May 24, Cahersiveen to Waterville, 12 miles, 2000’ elevation
Initially the hike was estimated to be 19 miles, but again we took a taxi to eliminate a portion of road-walking (a step, as it turns out, recommended by the documentation), five miles of which we had already done on the May 22nd hike. The first portion was quite challenging, consisting of a series of ascents and descents, all of them steep and most of them extremely muddy. Eventually we obtained the top of a ridge, where we had many panoramic views – including, interestingly, several wind turbines that did not jar with the natural beauty but actually accentuated it. At one point we reached a choice of routes, one that continued along the ridgeline and one that dropped down into the valley. This time ET, MG, and I, who were together, made the correct choice, continuing along the ridgeline and eventually making our way to our accommodation, which was about a mile outside of Waterville itself. Along this ridge there were many lovely views of the lake below and of Waterville itself nestled along the narrow isthmus that separates Lough Currane from the bay opening out to the Atlantic.
Waterville itself is a well-known golf resort and, consequently, has many restaurants, some of them quite elaborate. We splurged that evening, selecting one about a mile from our B&B; and our hosts obligingly drove us to its doors.
May 25, Waterville to Caherdaniel, 11 miles, 1200’
Again we were split up into a group of six and a group of two for the night; the group of six all walked together.
I started this hike without enthusiasm. The first mile was along a major traffic artery without shoulders, followed by another roadwalk through the town and then outside to the south; the sky was gray and overcast; the wind blew persistently and mistily. Waterville is sufficiently pleasant, but nothing more. As we passed by the golf course it was rather amusing to see golfers swinging at balls in the midst of a high wind. Most of the views were obscured by mist.
Who would have guessed that this unpromising beginning would lead to one of the most splendid moments of the trip? We went over a ridgeline and down again, crossed that same traffic artery on which we had hiked for the first mile, and went down to a junction where we had a choice of routes, one that led over more ridgelines and one that went along the coast. But we were prepared for this, having been notified beforehand, and took the coastal route. The weather began to clear as we descended to the beach, and soon we were passing through a succession of little bays and inlets, low cliffs covered with foliage and with flowering purple rhododendron in particular. This plant is regarded as an invasion species in both Ireland and the U.K., but it was magnificent to behold nonetheless.
Afterwards we stopped at Derrynane House, the ancestral home of Daniel O’Connell. We did not tour the house itself, but stopped to treat ourselves to ice cream at its food store and afterwards to tour its extensive gardens. Then we went to our accommodation, which involved a fair amount of road walking. But the B&B featured by largest bedrooms by far we had slept in, and our hosts were delightful people and obliging as well, driving us to the local pub in Caherdaniel (a village with a single street) and picking us up, and driving us to the trailhead the following morning.
May 26, Caherdaniel to Sneem, 10½ miles, 1400’ elevation
Again, I was not looking forward to this hike. The wind was beating against the windows, and the air was misty and wet. Our B&B, however, was at a somewhat higher elevation than the our starting point, where it was much less windy and the moisture for the most part consisted of drizzle – quite tolerable on the whole. Still, there was nothing much to see: only the vaguest of outlines were discernable through the mist, which never lifted during the entirety of the hike.
“It is a queer little Cornish village, very picturesque – too picturesque, perhaps. There is rather too much of the atmosphere of ‘Ye Old Cornish Tea House’ about it. It has shops of bob-headed girls in smocks doing hand-illuminated mottoes on parchment. It is pretty and it is quaint, but it is very self-consciously so.”
Substitute “irish” for “Cornish” in this description by Agatha Christie of the Cornish village of Mousehole, and you will have a fairly accurate description of Sneem. It is pretty and it is quaint, but very self-consciously so. Sneem is a popular tourist destination, with several busloads of foreign visitors duly unloaded to stay there for a few hours (we encountered one of Norwegians when we stopped there to snack to fill in the interval between our arrival at our destination and the check-in hour for the B&B), so its self-conscious picturesqueness has considerable economic motivation.
May 27, Sneem to Kenmare, 22 miles, 2500’
Only MG and I did the entire hike; the others took a taxi to cut off the first five miles. This portion was pleasant walking, but nothing out of the ordinary.
There followed one of the best sections of the Kerry Way and one of the worst. MG and I eventually crossed the Blackwater Bridge, at which point the trail went down to the bank of the Kenmare River (which actually is more of a bay than a river), with a stunning panoramic view of sparking blue waters and the Beara peninsula to the south. As it happened, we arrived just after 11:30 and we had completed (as we thought) about half of the hike, so it seemed the perfect spot for lunch.
This turned out to be a fortunate choice. Afterwards the trail left the shoreline and went through what the guidebook describes as a dense woodland but which is much used for timber and is filled with fallen trees; then it went along service roads and eventually along a major traffic artery.
And here our lack of documentation hampered us in an infuriating fashion. Our maps indicated that we had to continue along this traffic artery for about a mile. But the signs for the Kerry Way indicated that we should deviate off of it onto a series of secondary roads. It turns out that the route indicated by the signs adds more than 2 miles and 500 feet to the hike, which already had been estimated at 20 miles. But MG and I were unaware of this (as was everyone else in our group); we had to choose between the map and the signage. In our ignorance, we went with the latter, which took us first up and then down winding asphalt roads past a series of suburban houses, a most tedious diversion.
Afterwards the two routes converged and we were on track again. But the trail went up and down two hills, and it was thoroughly sodden on both of them, and on the second one in particular. It was maddening to see the town of Kenmare just below us while being forced to go at a snail’s pace along a seemingly endless series of marshes and quagmires studded with wet rocks. Going up on these hills was not too bad, but the descents were a torment.
Kenmare is a lively, prepossessing town and all of us wished that we had had time to explore it a bit – which would have been possible if we had known in advance about the shorter route. As it was, the arrangement was for us to be taxied back to Killarney and to be driven to the start point of the hike for the next day, so that we would not have to pack and unpack for the last day of hiking.
May 28, Killarney to Dublin
TK, CC, MB, and I elected to bow out of the last day of hiking, which repeated nearly 10 miles of what we had covered on the first day.
I had intended to ascend Torc Mountain, but at one point I realized that I was too constrained by time. I strolled about the town for a while, then took the train to Dublin, staying overnight at a hotel near the airport. I would have done better to take the ferry, as my British friends advised; had I done so, I could have stayed in Dublin itself and spent a few hours sightseeing.
May 29, Dublin to Bangor, plus walking tour of Bangor, 7 miles, 500’ elevation
Another dismal flight. Ordinarily it takes 45 minutes to fly from Dublin to Manchester, but this flight took twice as long. It took more than an hour to check in and go through security. Factor in the train ride that I took the preceding day from Dublin to the airport, and it will be seen that the 4½-hour ferry from Dublin to Holyhead would have amounted to the same time in travel, and much pleasanter, to say nothing of being closer to my destination. The train ride from Manchester to Bangor is three hours, whereas from Holyhead it would have been only ½ hour.
Bangor is an attractive university town. I had a good walk through the town, going through the center to the pier, and up the Coastal Path to the summit above the university. After savoring the birds-eye view of the town and the strait between the mainland and the Isle of Anglesey, I gradually descended through the university grounds and skirted by the cathedral.
May 30, Bangor to Twywn
My British friends live in Shropshire but have a second home in Twywn. I took a bus to meet them in Dolgellau, met up with them, toured the town (not a time-consuming enterprise, since its population is well under 3,000), drove to Machynlleth, where we had lunch, and toured that town as well. Machynlleth is connected with Owain Glyndwr, the Welsh prince who rebelled against the English during the reign of King Henry IV and who was crowned in the town’s Parliament House (one of the three medieval buildings in town that still survive). We also stopped along the way at the beach town of Aberystwyth, which resembles Cape May, NJ in some ways: the house architecture is somewhat more elaborate than those of the neighboring areas and the exteriors have similarly bright pastel colors. After we arrived at their place in Tywyn I did little, being tired by so much traveling during the preceding two days.
May 31, Talyllyn Railway Trails, 16 miles, 400’ elevation
My friends had various household tasks to pursue and, having recovered my energy after a day’s rest, I took their suggestion of hiking along a network of trails in the vicinity of the Talyllyn Railway, a narrow gauge preserved railway about 7¼ miles long. My friends accompanied me first to the main church, St. Cadfan’s, which contains the Cadfan Stone. It is a stone cross whose inscriptions are possibly the oldest known examples of writing in Welsh. Afterwards they pursued their errands and began hiking.
The railway itself, originally designed to carry slate from quarries to Tywyn, is now a tourist attraction. The trails are not challenging but very enjoyable, with numerous view of hills, rivers, small towns, fields, and the railway that weaves in and out of the valley. One of the loops led, by means of a brief detour, to the grave of Mary Jones, a well-known figure in the Welsh Methodist church. I ended by going through Tywyn’s main street and the promenade. Tywyn does not possess the somewhat more showy attractions of Aberystwyth; but it was built up by a 19th-century industrialist, John Corbett, as a beach resort to rival Torquay and its promenade in particular offers striking views of the coastline.
June 1, Happy Valley and back, 4 miles, 600’ elevation
We were to leave for Shrewsbury that day, but because my hosts had much to do in closing up the house for some time, I occupied myself by going up through the Happy Valley up to a saddle from which I had splendid views of the descent on the other side to the shoreline below.
After I returned the house was boarded up and we went to Shrewsbury. English country roads are narrower than ours, sometimes with insufficient room to accommodate cars traveling in two directions. It’s like driving on a road with continual one-way thoroughfare, equipped with occasional bulges where cars can wait to allow those coming in the opposite direction to pass by before proceeding. We ate dinner and then went to a performance by a local theater group of various sketches by Alan Ayckbourn. They were very slight, but rather amusing. What was notable about this evening is not the playlets themselves but the fact that this is the first performance of any kind I’ve attended since November, seeing and hearing Handel’s Messiah in Alexandria. I have not overcome my reluctance, brought on by the pandemic, to enter an enclosed room full of people for two or three hours on end.
June 2, Hereford
This visit consisted of city walking, about 11 miles in all, chiefly to visit the amazing cathedral, as well as the Black and White Museum. The cathedral, whose construction began in the late 11th century, is one of the outstanding Norman churches of England. It is also home to the Mappa Mundi, a medieval map of the world created about 1300, the largest medieval map known to still exist, and the chained library, in which books (most of them handwritten on vellum, long before movable type came into use) are resting upright and are equipped with chains attached to their frames for the purpose of pulling off the shelf. The Black and White Museum is a preserved house of the family of fairly prosperous butchers during the English Civil War, providing insightful glimpses into the lifestyle of middle-class families during the 17th century. The town center is vivid and colorful, consisting of numerous pedestrian walkways, most of them cobbled, and several examples of medieval architecture. Further away from the center is an extensive park along the Wye River, where I saw an abundance of waterfowl, including several swans.
June 3, Shrewsbury
This day was devoted to relaxation, chatting and strolling with my hosts, and afterwards visiting some friends of theirs for the late afternoon. We were expecting to attend an afternoon tea, but we were provided with so much food as to make dinner unnecessary. Again, this was notable for being one of the few indoor parties I’ve attended since the pandemic began.
June 4, Shrewsbury to London
Back to sober reality! I have made no reference to the pandemic during my account of the trip, but it did not fail to obtrude on this enterprise. No COVID test was available in Shrewsbury. I left in the late morning to take the trains (Shrewsbury to Birmingham, Birmingham to Euston Station in London, Paddington Station to Heathrow), arriving at about 4:30 to register for a COVID test. The registration process was difficult; the form is not easy to fill out via cell phone and I had to enter nearly every piece of information twice over before the application would accept it. The test process itself was rapid and seamless. It was completed in a matter of minutes and I received the results a couple of hours later. There was one advantage to this enforced COVID test: it was relief to know that, after taking so many journeys on trains and buses in which hardly anyone wore masks and after dining at more restaurants in the past two-and-a-half weeks than I had done in the two years since the pandemic began, I had not come down with the disease. That sounds unduly fearful and even old-maidish when written down; but the effect of the pandemic has been to transform many of us into hypochondriacs.
After testing I took a bus to the hotel. I was exhausted by that time and had little inclination to dine out. My friends had packed some sandwiches for me before I left, and these sufficed for dinner.
June 5, London to Washington
In contrast to my departing flight, the return home could not have been better. Boarding, for a wonder, began precisely at the time advertised; whereas the usual procedure is to delay boarding until about ten minutes before the scheduled departure and then hastily cram the passengers on board in an effort to make up for lost time. The flight departed on time. I was assigned a middle seat, but three of the people in the row were a family that wanted to sit together and they asked if I would mind taking the aisle seat instead. Needless to say, I accepted with alacrity. We landed a few minutes early. The line for Customs was long, but it moved surprisingly quickly, and I got through just as the luggage had been transported from the plane and was appearing the in baggage claim area. The taxi ride encountered little traffic, for we were traveling on a Sunday. In short, it was as close to perfect as I’ve ever experienced on any airplane journey.
Among the choice of movies to watch on the plane was one entitled “The Eyes of Tammy Faye,” purporting to be an account of the rise, fall, and redemption of Tammy Faye Bakker. It was quite a jolt to learn that she had redeemed herself in the least trifling particular. As far as I can discern, she and her husband have no regret for their defalcations, other than that of being found out; and after their much-publicized repentance are devoting their activities to bilking their followers of as much of their money as they can lay their hands on.
How good it felt to be home, after an absence of nearly three weeks! Everything – trees, roads, houses, office buildings – appeared so much larger, after being in Ireland and England for 19 days. It was warm and sunny, the first truly warm day I had experienced ever since I left the country. I still was recovering from my cold, and now at last I had an opportunity to let it bake out. I am committed to leave for Iceland later this week, but the auspices for this trip are somewhat more promising. All of the arrangements have been made in advance and we will be staying in a single set of cabins, rather than moving from one accommodation to another night after night. Best of all, we received news that the COVID test for returning to the U.S. has been waived, as of June 12th.