Ramble
Quest - Christmas The Kerry Way
At a large Killarny hostel, a week before Christmas, I'm told I can't spend more than a night because they are closing for the holidays. Vaguely, from the back of my mind, incidents involving difficulties finding accomodation in Ireland around the Christmas holidays come back to me. Clearly, I'd underestimated the problem. I didn't expect the hostels in a touristy place like Killarny to close down!
Remembering with fondness my last Christmas spent hiking the Overland Trek in Tasmania, I make a quick, imprudent decision to start on the Kerry Way. It's an ill-conceived scheme for several reasons. First, I'm just not up for a hike, as I have a weird pain in what I imagine are the glands in the back of my throat. It's bearable, but if I lean forward or even breathe deeply, the pain brings tears to my eyes. Next, it is winter in Ireland and not summer in Tasmania, so that means long, cold nights and short rainy days. Finally, the Kerry Way is the longest trek in Ireland, taking a minimum of eleven days at this time of year, and I'm only starting out with two days of food, since that's all I can fit in my little pack. Need I add that I'm the only one attempting the trail this time of year?
Yet, head out I do! Staggeringly slow at first, after a night of little sleep, I move along in an Ozzy Osbourne shuffle -- my hands even shake a bit like his. Just hiking from town to the start of the trail is an effort. I quickly realize that while I may well have done crazier things in my life, there may not be too many. Trudging past the Muckross Abbey ruins, I almost skip it in my funk -- just another ruin anyway. Then I rally myself, perhaps one of my most valuable traits for long-distance traveling, demanding: "what the heck are you here for anyway?" I go back to the ruin and thoroughly enjoy it.
After that I think less about my poor condition and bad prospects, and more about how fantastically beautiful the area is. The path skirts a lovely lake and heads past a stately Muckross House, perfect in its current state of loneliness. Everything is wonderfully green and lush, amazingly so for the end of the year.
Next is a climb up above Torc Waterfall, with wonderful views at the top. Then the path turns Highlandesque, leaving behind the park-like atmosphere of Muckross and feeling more remote. I climb over a saddle, marveling at the views, and discover an abandonned hut not long over the hump. It's very poor compared to the West Highland Way bothy I found, but it does block out the often strong wind and it has something of a roof over it. Although it's still relatively early, I decide to stop there, pitching my tent inside. The location is beautiful, with plenty of red deer grazing nearby and calling to each other in curious croaking barks at dusk. Inevitably, it does rain at night and my tent was drier than it would have been outside.
Morning brings new optimism, as it nearly always seems to for me on the trail. The scenery is stunning, with fantastic mosses growing on every rock and ancient oak. The track is often muddy and difficult though. I come out onto a road at Black Valley, which despite its proximity to Killarney retains a remote feel. It was the last place in Ireland to get electicity, during the 70s! Today, one could get food and even a bed here in season, but now it's like a ghost village.
Towards the end of the valley, I'm moving directly into a tremendous headwind, the type you get in nightmares, with just enough rain to drench me thoroughly. At the far end of the road is a lonely ranch, with two large dogs who bark ferociously at me for at least a mile as I tortuously plod my way towards them. I'd been dreading the thought of going through the gate with the dogs, and sigh with relief when I see that the path makes a 90 degree turn right in front of the dogs, who of course are now going crazy trying to get at me. They parallel my turn, barking furiously from behind the fence, until we all get to a slippery mud slope full of chickens, and everyone is equally amazed to find a gap in the fence! The dogs attack; I try to fight them off while trying to calmly talk them down, despite slipping around in the mud and the chickens jumping about in a panic. Fortunately, these dogs are not killers and eventually back off. I spot the gate that I'm supposed to take and make my escape. Whew!
Next is a wet, muddy climb, but of course I'm already completely wet and muddy, so what the hell! Up, up I go, remembering to look back at the incredible views of the long valley behind me. It feels quite mountainous at the top, even though it can't be too high. The descent is slippery, coming down at the top of another gorgeous valley. Throughout this entire day, I've kept one eye open for potential places to pitch a tent, not because I wanted to stop, but just to get a feel as to how difficult a task this will be when I'm forced to do it. I haven't seen any! Every place is either too wet, muddy or rocky. So, when I find a little green space, not quite flat but still servicable, and best of all inside something of a stone wind block (I'm later told they used to use these little rock enclosures to shear sheep inside) I know I can't pass it up.
So, I sleep as well as one can with wet clothing in such a place. I start out the next day by taking a wrong turn, as the trail arrow sign has been knocked over. I chose the most well used path, which is the wrong choice. I wind up doing a long lap around some fields before getting back to the road out. I figure I can't get lost now, but nope, the Kerry Way quickly leaves the road and goes off on a completely impossible-to-follow maze through muddy fields. Honestly, it seems like an absurd joke and I wonder if the locals have moved the markers around. Probably in the summer you can spot a path around here but you certainly can't now. Still, just when I was about to give up and head back to the road, I somehow puzzle out the route, which switchbacks up the hillside. The views remain stupendous but this is a miserably wet, muddy, and windy track.
Then it gets a whole lot worse. The Way makes a right turn over a saddle and simply turns into a marsh. Nothing to do but slush your way through and then it gets treacherous on the descent. The rocks are just icy enough to throw you and lower down there are black slugs whose sole purpose in life is to climb out on similarly colored rocks and give you a sure slip when you step on them. Often the best I can hope for is a controlled slde down this slick slope. I only take one spectacular fall, landing on an arm that sinks all the way down to my shoulder in mud, stopped only by my turned cheek.
Eventually, I make it down and then out to a road, where I see a sign to the Climber's Inn, 5km away. I trek there and of course it isn't open. Actually, they are open as a bar, but won't take me in for the night, despite my looking completely pathetic and hanging around for a bit trying to get them to take pity on me. It's rainy like mad, everything I own is wet and muddy and I'm out of food. It's also Christmas Eve and absolutely everything is closed. I know this because I hitchhike up and down the entire north side of the Iveragh Peninsula and can find no place to stay or eat. I hitch out again and an ex-racecar driver speeds me to his town where he's certain I can find a bed. I can't; so I hitch to Tralee, all in the rain mind you and thank goodness for all the nice people who keep picking me up. Here I could probably find something if I was willing to shell out 70-80 euro. I'm actually tempted, but then I discover that this is the last day for bus service for the next two days and I certainly don't want to spend three expensive nights in Tralee, which isn't terrible but nothing to look at.
There's one last bus leaving for Dingle, which I know to be touristy, so maybe I can find something there. After a short, beautiful ride, I arrive at dusk to an ominously quiet town. While walking down the street, a bit dazed after this long arduous day, a woman calls to me from a van: "Are you looking for the hostel?" "Well, yes, I am." "You must be," she laughs, "because it's the only place you can stay in the area." The Rainbow Hostel is an awful place, jam packed since it's the only hostel open, and terrifically smoky and noisy with drunken reveley. I can't tell you how happy I am to be there. I stop shivering after a hot shower and manage to survive Christmas in Ireland.