June 28, 1990: Glendalough to Aghavannah
Elizabeth and Gavan have a rest on a forestry road above Glendalough
The skies were still clear when we went down to breakfast at 8:30 on the morning of Thursday, June 28th. Gavan and I ploughed through the usual full breakfast – I was even beginning to enjoy the black pudding, though Gavan turned his nose up at this. We picked up some sandwiches from the little old bearded lady who waited on our table, and while the others fetched packs I paid the bill (over 100 Irish pounds) on my Visa card. We left the hotel at 9:20.
I was extremely grateful for the sunny morning because I didn’t relish attempting my grand shortcut in the rain. Our having found the beginning of the route on the previous day was also very useful. We were able to set off with some confidence, pausing again in the monastic ruins for photographs. Elizabeth disappeared for a minute while we were doing this but she was soon at our side again as we marched westward on the Green Road.
Gavan was again put in charge of route finding and he had with him Malone’s description of the zigzag path up to the Derrybawn junction with the Wicklow Way. To begin we followed a series of switchbacks overlooking the Lugduff canyon on our right. After a while we started to look for a steeply rising grassy track on our left but when we found it Gavan argued that we were supposed to be on level ground when this junction occurred and that our original track was still rising slightly. We even went ahead for a few more yards and discovered another steeply rising track, then backtracked and took the original overgrown one; it soon joined forces with the second track anyway. I agreed with Gavan that we had not reached level ground but in the mountains such matters are relative and I had an instinct that we were heading in the right direction. Hours of study of this problem were rewarded when, after only a few minutes, we reached our sought after junction with the Wicklow Way, an arrow on a post confirming our success in eliminating several miles of the official route.
I was now so sufficiently contented that I decided to begin a promised lecture on the origins of psychoanalysis – using as a reference sheet a copy of an old handout from my psychology class. Psychology was only one of a number of trailside topics that Gavan and I had been nominating for weeks – I believe by this time we had discussed Gavan’s “Sex, Love, and Marriage Certificates.” I had a very interested audience and the time really did seem to pass more quickly for all of us. We gave our last admiring glances to the Glendalough Valley below us and continued southwest along a series of forest tracks, heading for Mullaghmor. We had a nice rest while sitting on some logs by the side of the road. Our concentration was interrupted every now and then by the insistent whine of the forestry worker’s machinery – whereupon someone would shout, “Wicklow Chainsaw Massacre!”
It was not long before we reached another choice of routes, with the variation again suggested by Malone. He had provided maps this time, enabling us to cut out some 400 feet of vertical elevation by continuing on forestry tracks around Mullaghmor – rather than climbing to its summit. There was no saving in mileage but he estimated we would save half an hour in time and so, on a very long day, we decided to take the alternative.
I was yakking away about Freud, Charcot, and Breuer and so Gavan had the prime responsibility for keeping us on the straight and narrow. Before long we were overlooking the crags of Prison Rock. We decided not to descend to see if we could find the legendary buried gold, but instead wound around one more corner of the track. Here we faced a concluding turntable, with Mullaghmor staring down at us and a boggy path marked with white posts heading off over the open moorland well below the summit.
Glenmalure
We followed the posts and soon views of lovely Glenmalure, our next valley, came into view. There were one or two questions about how to abandon the grassy path in order to plunge back into forest – but in the event there were Wicklow Way arrows to guide us down a steep ride line. We now followed forest tracks as they switched back and forth down the slope. There was only one section of woodland to be negotiated on path in this section, and this proved to be a lovely diversion across several streamlets and into the deep woods. Gavan and I spent a little time here trying to find four leaf clovers. Eventually we came down to a track that headed in a southeasterly direction, with mostly open land on either side – rocks and foxgloves amid the bracken.
We kept on this stretch for several miles, heading gradually down the wide valley – where there was a wonderful waterfall on the opposite side. I noticed that there were some people stumping around among the large trees on our right and since they weren’t on any path I assumed they were botany students of some sort. They proved to be three lost German tourist ladies. They had started out from Glenmalure Youth Hostel, intending to walk to Glendalough, but they had gotten off route and were delighted to hear us confirm that they had at last reached the Wicklow Way. One of them brought out the yellow Ordnance Survey map, their only guide, and tried to have us offer commentary on how to reach Glendalough. It was at this point that I thought of simply giving them all those xeroxed pages from Malone that we had already walked today. They were very grateful and we soon parted company. Although they had no packs they were the closest approximation to other Wicklow Way walkers we encountered on the trail during the entire trip.
We decided to have lunch and to do this we climbed off our road to find seating near some large rocks. Gavan and I fished the still damp washing from our packs and tried drying it a bit on some of the rocks. It was warm in the sun, but there was a nice breeze and everyone seemed to be in pretty good spirits.
I had gotten us through hysteria by lunchtime and I was on the subject of infantile sexuality as we rounded one last curve in our road and headed down to the Drumgoff crossroads at the valley bottom. I had been looking forward to a pint at the hotel but when we arrived at 2:30 it was closed and had been since 1:30 – according to some other disgruntled tourists who were sitting on its stoop. Well, nothing to be done. We didn’t even stop to rest but plodded on past the old Drumgoff barracks and turned onto an ascending road that would climb the south side of Glenmalure. Of course I was entirely unable to chat and walk at the same time on so steep a stretch. I even lost sight of Gavan and Elizabeth on a few of the turns of this road – which eventually leveled off after crossing the Cloghernagh stream on a concrete bridge.
Our route south followed ride lines and forest paths and continued to rise for several miles, although more gradually. The countryside was often unplanted heathland or scrub and we used several stiles to cross fences. The weather was turning grayer now and once or twice there came the briefest of showers. These I ignored, earning the admiration of the others for not giving in to raingear. Only once was it necessary to yield, near the end of this section, when we left a forest road and headed north on grass, searching for a high level ribbon of tarmac that would provide some easy footing – but we had to climb up a hillside and over a stile before catching our first glimpse of it, directly under our boots. A few cars racing along here would have made it easier to see but the road remained innocent of any vehicles for miles.
Along the military road to Aghavannagh
The rain faded as we turned right and headed downhill on the military road. I had expected a mostly downhill stretch but, in fact, we had done completely with ascents by the time we reached tarmac. In a short distance the Wicklow Way branched off to the left but our route continued on the road all the way to the bottom of the valley, where the Aghavannagh youth hostel lay. If we had wanted to hitch a ride moss could have grown on our thumbs for all the traffic we encountered on this deserted road.
We reached a crossroads at the end and I took out the ordnance survey map to make sure we were heading in the right direction. Already there were signposts pointing to the youth hostel but it lay hidden in trees around the corner. A most handsome structure, we located it at the top of a drive at 6:15. We had walked seventeen miles.
Some kids were playing football in the grass in front of the hostel. Their parents directed us upstairs where we found the warden, a middle-aged woman who clearly ran a much more taught ship than her colleague at Knockcree. She brought us some sheet sleeping bags and showed us to our rooms on the second floor. Gavan and I had a room with four bunks and we had to share it with none of the dozen or so other guests who began to filter in. We used the extra bunks to drape our still wet wash.
After a brief rest we reassembled in the kitchen; a German couple were sitting in the dining area and they showed us how to get the stove started and we were able to complete all of our preparations without interruption this time. There was some difficulty in getting the hostel can opener to take the top off our can of green beans but I succeeded at last. I must say that having sauce was a considerable improvement this time although two jars of Ragu barely covered our spaghetti. Gavan and I ate fig newtons while Elizabeth did the dishes. The Germans, cyclists, had been in the U.S. and the guy claimed he had a Ph.D from Princeton in computer studies, although I had my doubts about this.
Aghavannagh was certainly a much more pleasant place than Knockcree, but the common room was rather bare and we preferred to hang out in our room, listening to tapes until it got dark. How I would have liked to sink into slumber once lights were out but Gavan would always come alive with more questions at this time and another hour had to be spent dutifully answering these. On this occasion I recall I continued my Freud lecture just as far as the subject of transference, trying to explain to Gavan that his fierce desire to find in me a beloved father figure (and the occasional object of outraged ill-feelings) reminded me strongly of that moment in the therapeutic process when the patient transfers all those feelings that should belong elsewhere onto the analyst. He understood what I was saying at one level but at another he continued his urgent search for surrogate dad.
To continue with the next stage of our walk you need: