Where even the sheep don't shit

Internet access has been sketchy, so I am behind in my posts. Sadly, that is going to mean brevity, as I have only about 10 memory pathways still working properly in my head.

We started Monday by leaving the really fabulous b&b in GouganBarra, after a very windy and rough night. Disappointing, that, because the place was on a little lake, with rowboats available and wonderful looking places to walk. Because the weather prevented exploration of the area the night before, we hiked up the mountain in the morning. It was up. I don't do up very well, and the inhaler had to be grabbed when I got down again. It was beautiful, however, and we had to cross a little stream via not-well-spaced stepping stones, which my romantic self just loved. Of course, yrs truly was the first to the top, and when I reached the top, we turned and started down again.



Which is turning out to be a theme. I want to hike to get somewhere and enjoy the places hiking gets me to; but we seem to be hiking just to hike...a lot. I wanted an active trip, but not active just for its own sake.

Anyway. Pammy's thighs were hurting, and I was well established as the lagger in the group. One of the guides was sent after me, which I guess was kind, but embarrassed me, and gave the impression that I was in distress, and I really was not. I was just going the pace I could go.

We then went on the Glengarriff in Western Cork, where Maureen O'Hara apparently still lives, for a visit to the gardens at Garinish. OMG. That was a beautiful place, with a winding walk through the gardens and woods. I was really thrilled with it, especially with the greek-styled temple at the edge of the water. I wanted to sit there the rest of the day, and emotionally I didn't really leave that spot until I woke up this morning.



After a good deal of driving and lunch we stopped to discuss another walk of "about an hour and fifteen." "A bit of a hill at the start, but then it is flat after that." I said I could do another hike, but no straight up stuff. Our guide then offered to start us on the other side so the hill would be a down hill at the end instead of an uphill at the beginning.

Well, let me tell you, this was not an easy hike. We weren't rock climbing, but there were plenty of muddy marshy areas that even the experienced folks were approaching with care, and the downhill part was quite steep, which was tough on these old legs. Pam and I kept up the rear, but we made it. It was well over an hour and a half. Worth it, though, because it was beautiful, though a bit drizzly in parts. Again, however, there was more time spent watching our footing than looking at the big chunks of gorgeous around us. Basically, we crossed a mountain, and I wish I could tell you which one it was. I'm sure it was some barra or other. At one point, Ellen, one of our fellow travelers who stayed behind with her husband to walk with Pam and me to make sure we were okay, said we were so far up even the sheep didn't come here. You see my modification of that quote in the title.

Then we got to Kenmare, an absolutely charming town on the Beara Peninsula. Yes, it is a town catering to tourists, but it wasn't crass and cheap, there were nice coffeeshops and silversmiths, or they looked nice at least. Because we didn't get there until dinner time at 7:30, we got a slim hour in the morning to explore the place. At this point, Pam was getting antsy about finding some nice things for her family, and I was really needing some time to write and absorb what I had experienced in the last couple of days. Beauty requires time to take it in, to let it get from your blood supply to your bones.

I was a bit late for dinner, because there was a guitar shop right next door, and I had to have a look. The long haired fellow working there was born in Wales, but he called himself a Scot. He visited Kenmare on holiday with his grandfather a few years ago, and fell in love with the place, and has now lived there about 4 years. It was striking to me to hear of a young man (clearly a hippy dude) moving TO a small town and staying.

We had some great music after dinner, accordion and guitar and great singing, then folks drifted off to bed. I came back to the bar in hopes of talking to some locals and because a kind of melancholy was coming over me--I didn't want to just go to sleep and get up again and go off to the next thing. But there were only two folks at the bar, and they left shortly after I ordered a pint. I ended up doing FaceTime with Phil (like Skype for you sad non Mac or iPhone/iPad users) to ease my touch of loneliness.

Our hotel is owned by Siobhan and her brother Padraig, and Siobhan, who appeared to be in her early 30s, but may have been a bit older, interested me. She was all movement and efficiency all night, and was clearly one of those folks who sizes people up quickly, is friendly, but holds herself at bay from them. I did manage a conversation with her the next day, and learned that she grew up in the business, and she and her brother inherited the hotel. Would have liked to have talked to her more. I mentioned to her my visit to the bar the night before, and she said you won't find Irish people in the bars during the week anymore, and hardly on the weekend. "So the notion of every Irish person heading to their local for a pint at night is just a myth?" Siobhan said it was once true, but not anymore. DUI laws, the emigration of young people, and the economy have combined to kill off that way of life in small towns like hers.




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Location:Glengariff, Western Cork, and onward