August 3, 2009: Anascaul to Dingle
Minard Castle
Breakfast was prepared and served by our host this morning. I know that Gavan and I would have benefited from an 8:00 o’clock breakfast time on a number of days on this trip, but 8:30 seemed to be the best on offer at a number of places; today, however, we were able to sit down at the earlier time. Just as we were about to go upstairs to fetch our gear Gavan spotted a photo on the wall – our host posing with the actor Jorge Garcia (also known as Hugo and Hurley) of Lost fame. We had just been discussing the show on the trail and so this seemed to be an unusual coincidence – Hurley showing up in such an obscure part of the world. Our host said that the actor was very quiet and kept to himself.
It was 8:50 as we got underway today, a grey morning again, but without rain. I took a number of photos, noting that the Irish were not hesitant in their use of very intense colors in their paintwork – the local hairdresser’s was a bright orange. Gavan found a statue in a local park of Tom Crean holding the puppies and then we crossed the Anascaul River on a road bridge. The initial stages of today’s journey did return us to tarmac for three miles – as we moved in a westerly direction on a series of roads that rose only gently in their usual sleeve of fuchsias and day lilies. We were able to make good time and traffic was light and soon we had our first view of the ruins of Minard Castle above the strand of a little bay below us. Cromwell had evidently had a hand in pulling this structure apart – Gavan was always muttering about his crimes.
There were a few tourists about as we paused to take pictures here and of the Iveragh Peninsula shore as well. Then we continued forward uphill to the path that lead down to Tobar Eion Baiste – St. John’s Well. I let Gavan view this site on his own, not wanting to waste too much off-route energy, but he soon returned and we turned our back on the sea in order to begin a northerly section on tracks and tarmac. We passed a number of farmhouses and were checked out by a number of farm dogs, climbing in stages to a burial ground.
A few minutes later we were again able to head west on a track down to the village of Lispole (whose eggs we saw touted on a menu a few days later). Shortly before reaching the town we encountered a farmer in an SUV. Grey-haired, pink-faced, with watery blue eyes, the chap (like so many others on this trip) wanted to know where we came from. He said he had been to America (another common claim) and that he had been photographed with Ted Kennedy. It was just going 1:00 when we reached Lispole.
Lilies and fuchsias line the road from Lispole
There were a number of other walkers about, including the Belgians, as we followed the N86 over the Owenlondrig River, turning north on a road soon thereafter, and pausing at the roadside for some lunch. Then we continued to gain height in farming country where cows, sheep and horses were a common sight – though not crops. We turned northwest on another road and continued to a point of escape, a stile into a field at the eight-mile mark. Unfortunately a cow was standing next to a gate here and she clearly took against us – staring malevolently, drooling, even kicking at the gate with her hooves. Gavan was well and truly spooked but when the cow moved back to a corner of her field I hopped the stile and made my way up to the escape stile above us as fast as my tired legs could carry me, Gavan in pursuit.
We paused to draw breath at a spot where we had seen the Belgians finishing their lunch, and then we continued in our north-westerly direction, using field paths and farm roads though countryside that not only included the down-at-heels farmstead but some gorgeously tarted-up second homes. Regrettably, it started to rain during this stretch, which is why I am pictured in full rain gear atop a tall stile as Gavan fixed forever the moment when I reached my mile 4300.
My camera was firmly in my rain jacket pocket for much of the rest of the day’s walk since moisture was now driving into our faces. Gavan was doing a good job of reading out instructions from the guidebook but the day was turning into a bit of a slog – one in which there was now a considerable rise in elevation. I kept searching the horizon, trying to figure out how we were going to escape this valley for the next, but it took a long time for us to reach the required transition point since we had to twist to the right with the Garlinny River before crossing this rushing stream by a bridge.
I begin my descent to Dingle.
On the other side we reached tarmac again, soon arriving at a pass and gaining our first view of Dingle far below us in the mist. As with the descent to Anascaul, my legs were soon in protest over this angle of our march, though the sight of shelter ahead certainly spurred us on. A Mutt and Jeff pair of jocks, seemingly mocking us, were running up the road; they must have reached the top and turned around for soon they were charging down behind us. Then at the bottom they turned around to begin a second uphill stint. “Well done!” I said. Meanwhile a family of goats had decided to seek shelter from the rain in the lea of someone’s front porch.
We eventually reached the pavements of Dingle and began our search for the night’s accommodation amid the traffic of holiday crowds and their cars. It didn’t seem to make any sense but the rain was growing in intensity as we headed for the harbor, a sodden pair. I knew that the Dingle Harbour Lodge was just beyond the aquarium but it took us a long time to reach it. We arrived at 5:10, after a twelve and a half mile journey.
The motel, for that is what this place really was, had hardwood floors in its bedrooms so we didn’t feel too awful about entering our room with wet boots, though I was soon mopping up the puddles of rainwater and mud. Gavan discovered how to turn the radiator on and so we were able to dry out our wet gear. Even the map was slightly damp and there was water at the bottom of my daypack. We each had a nice warm shower and then went to see if we couldn’t find Claire Galvin, who with Kevin O’Shea, is not only the proprietor here but also Celtic Trail’s agent on the Dingle Way. I had a suspicion that Gavan still wanted to ask her for the twenty Euros we had spent on our taxi on Friday (though I had warned him not to make a fuss) but in any event Claire was not in evidence. (Though perhaps that was Kevin with whom Gavan had a conversation through our room door a bit later while I was trying to nap.)
The receptionist phoned around for us but no one had an evening meal reservation before 9:00 and so we decided to try our own luck with Murphy’s Bar down the road. On the way we were greeted by the Belgians, who hailed us from an upstairs window at a b&b opposite ours. They were spending an extra day in Dingle, so we never saw them again. Murphy’s was a lively place but it didn’t take too long before a table (in front of the loos) was located and we could drink our beer in peace. On this occasion, I recall, we had the first in a number of fish chowder starters – all of them excellent.
After dinner Gavan wanted to visit some well remembered sites (Dingle being the party capital of the peninsula) and so we took to the roads; at least it had stopped raining. I stepped into an ice cream store to buy some of Aisne’s fudge and Gavan lead me through a huge pub, which he remembered from an earlier visit. We didn’t linger, however, since we were both pretty tired. Again there was still light in the skies when we turned out the lamps for another well-deserved sleep.
To continue with the next stage our walk you need: