A tale of three hills

It has been a tale of three hills. Sure we’ve spent nearly every night by the sea and had some spectacular stops. But the hills! The first was a smallish (300 metres) jobbie close to the lovely coastal village of Roundtsone. The top was in cloud and the route guesswork – they don’t have an Ordnance Survey equivalent here and there are few marked paths. But it was fun and well worth the views. Next, having run one morning from a quiet, quayside spot at Tully Mountain, we managed to find ourselves in the Connemara National Park where, if you wished, you could climb one of the 12 Bens (Diamond Hill) … which we did. Three hours and almost 400 metres of climb later in pretty strong winds, but alway buoyed on by a group of teenagers schoolkids just ahead of us, we loved it. And we congratulated ourselves with tea and scones at the end … the Irish do like their scones.

The weather at this point was getting windier and wetter and, in fairness to this chunk of land sticking out into the wild Atlantic, it seems that this is absolutely normal. Anyhow, we drove to our furthest northwest point, the island of Achill, where we attempted runs in conditions in which the seagulls had shown disdain. We then found a quiet(ish … in terms of wind) spot in a quarry and watched rain we’ve not seen since Sierra Leone, plummet from the sky. We woke, very clear that after yesterday’s run today was an easy day and all we needed was a coffee. Well, that didn’t happen. But an assault on Croagh Patrick, a 762 metre monster which is a pilgrimage for followers of the great man (apparently he killed some monsters from the peak), did. We were both convinced that the wind precluded anything above sea level, but then we also knew we were starting our return journey and who knew when we’d be back.

on top of a mountain …

So off we jollywelled. 762 metres from Sea Level is like climbing the Pig Track on Snowdon, and is only 100 metres short of Scafell from the NT carpark. Both of which, in my book (and I’ve done both four times), are easier climbs. The final 300 metres of St Patrick’s mountain was straight up, close to a scramble – and you can see the route and your fellow hill walkers for ages. It looked tough. And it was tough. C only once said those immortal words, ‘I can’t do this’, for which I am v proud. But we did it. At the top is a small, white chapel which we hid behind and drank our tea. Then! I got an SMS from Doris telling me she’d been broken into. In fact I got 4 SMSs. Well, there was nothing we could do about that. In favour of not panicking was the fact that she was on the main road where, hopefully, we might assume she had been rocked by a truck and the internal microwave had gone off. 

long way down

From the top we could just make Doris out. And she wasn’t going anywhere. And I couldn’t see, surrounded by buses and on the main road, how someone would have had the confidence to break in. Well, we wouldn’t know until we got down. And getting down required diligence, as it was steep. I fell on my backside once. And C, who was hanging onto me, fell on top of me. No major damage done. But we made it. And, sure enough, at the bottom we found Doris unharmed, which was a big phew all round.

gotta get down yet and deal with Doris’s alarm

In terms of other stopovers … we had a lovely night at Doo Lough, a super lake surrounded by hills, where we were invited in for a drink by Dutch, motorhome neighbours. And, last night, we stopped, sea-lough side, at Leenaun, where we had a pint at the local, very Irish bar followed this morning by a coffee at the visitors’ centre – where we met our Dutch friends again! Fab.

We’ve headed east now as our ferry is on Wednesday. We’ve stopped by a bridge over a canal, and tomorrow we’re pointed towards the WIcklow Mountains, before we hit the east coast and head south. It seems like we’ve been away for a year, which is a good thing. But it’s still not long enough. I don’t think I’m ready to head back onto the mainland where Johnson’s dad has just been given his French citizenship, because he wants to keep his European identity. It does drive you a little but mad, no?  

mmmmmm