Thursday 27 June 2013

Rosslare Harbour to Dublin

Mid February 2010

As I stepped out of the ferry terminal the temperature was falling rapidly, and by the time the luggage truck eventually came around it was fully dark. I really didn't want to start off by walking along the main road, so attempted to try and follow the coastline instead. A dog walker did his best to direct me, but soon I found myself in a rough field not knowing how near the sea was. First of all I had to get across a ditch and then climb over a fence. What I hoped would be a road was in fact the railway line. After following it for a few minutes I found a suitable place to climb the next fence and ditch. I reached the cliff top at last, but the tide was too far in to be able to climb down to the shore. The fields were really uneven and boggy and I soon took a break to regroup, tired and dirty after less than an hour of arriving. I came out onto a now welcome road but had to follow it inland a short way, before at last reaching Rosslare Strand.

I tidied myself up somewhat and kicked the loose mud off my boots, prior to entering an Irish shop for the first time. Centra, a chain store I would soon grow very familiar with. I built myself up with expectancy as I walked in. Of course it was just like anywhere back in Britain, but with many enticing different brands. Club orange fizzy pop, Tayto crisps, Goldgrain biscuits and Denny's sausages. I easily could have filled my basket. However, I still had most of the food I'd brought with me from home. To compromise I grabbed a cheap tin of baked beans and a delicious Wexford Creamery branded litre carton of milk.

I stopped in the middle of the village and ate the beans cold with a sandwich. There were very few people about even though it was still early and I was able to enjoy my 'meal' in peace. Well fed, I left the comfort of street lighting behind, looking to make up for some lost time. At Woodtown I realised I'd missed a turn to the left, so had to head back a few hundred metres. Double checking the map, I jumped a gate onto a little used green lane. Which was fine for the first few metres until it became completely swamped with icy water and deep mud. Undeterred I pushed on through the worst of it. Things seemed to be improving once the track bed became solid again. Around the next bend however, my hopes of navigating the coast to Wexford were dealt the final blow, when an impassable drainage channel brought me to a complete stop. I'd had enough by this point, so just pitched the tent right there, wisely waiting for the morning instead.

*

After a quick look around in the daylight it was clear that this way certainly was a lost cause, so I retraced my steps and then followed the fast N25 road. This wasn't as bad to walk along as I feared. On the left hand side there was a wide lane painted with a dotted yellow line, which only slower cars used to let others overtake. Otherwise everyone else was driving in the centre, so there was room enough for me to relax with one foot over on the grass verge. I turned off onto a lane a few miles further, but a lady sent me back saying it was a dead end. I'd lost a lot of confidence in the restricted byways marked on the map already by this point and resolved to follow either only public roads or the coast from then on.

I crossed the railway line again coming into Wexford. It runs unfenced for some way alongside the harbour and I nearly tripped up taking in the view. Lingering a while at the impressive Crescent Quay to study the John Barry memorial statue, I then headed along the bustling high street. Here I bought a pretty postcard, the last one they had of the Saltee Islands. They're in the opposite direction to that which I was headed, so when the shop lady told me it's a lovely area really worth visiting, I had to say unfortunately it won't be this time for me, but next month I'd love to go over there.

After visiting the ruins of Selskar Abbey I walked along the south bank of the River Slaney, moving at an unhurried pace for Ferrycarrig. The tidal waters were high and I spied a heron stood in the shallows waiting for its next meal to swim by. Then, I saw an elephant half hidden in the reeds. The afternoon was bright and sunny so I could easily tell that it was just a sculpture, but I don't know what I would have thought if I'd glimpsed it later in the twilight. Crossing the bridge at Ferrycarrig stuck in my memory as one of my favourite experiences of this trip. With an enduring castle tower guarding the narrows and densely wooded banks upriver, it appeared all so timeless and unspoilt.

Feeling settled into my new surroundings now, I stopped a while at The Frying Irishman cafe in Castlebridge. Over the radio the town received a mention in the regional weather forecast, recording a current temperature of 4°C. I must have taken longer in the bathroom than I realised, because the sun had gone down already when I came out. Nonetheless it brought me a good photo opportunity stood on the bridge, with a neat pointed marquee in the foreground. Afterwards, I spoke to a man in the petrol station who struggled to believe I was out walking. He looked at my map and confirmed I could still get to The Raven Point that night.

I had to walk on an overgrown flood bank through the nature reserve because the tide was still in and unfortunately disturbed a large flock of geese feeding on the North Slob. After a taxing walk I reached a track leading me into eerie and forbidding forestry of The Raven. The sky was moonless and a mosaic of constellations stippled the spaces between the trees. I stopped for the night near to the car park and sat out eating a panful of Lidl chicken curry in the peaceful calm, but soon after had to rush into the tent when I inevitably became perished.

*

There was a heavy ground frost overnight, even down here at sea level and a layer of frost coated the tent. I waited for the sun to rise before setting off and then headed directly to the beach. The sand was soft and the tide was in so I didn't progress too quickly, but it was nice now to be on a direct coastal route. Once I’d left the beach I followed lanes into the peaceful village of Blackwater, passing a few horse riders along the way. After getting something for breakfast at the shop I stopped to eat, across the road from an electrical goods store which seemed to be shut. Shortly after, a car pulled up and the owner went straight in as the premises had been left unlocked. Obviously he had no concerns about anything going missing.

I then followed the quiet road further to Kilmuckridge. At this point I was out of water and was considering interrupting my walk to stop at a bar or cafe. However I was glad to find a tap unexpectedly in the centre of the village, thoughtfully provided for everyone to use. I followed the R742 some more and then returned to the coast briefly at Cahore Point. Here I found a display for the Wexford Coastal Path and took a picture for later route planning.

It was now night as I passed Ballygarrett, so I needed to turn my head torch on as there was no pavement. There was little traffic though and even less as I went down a road with diversion signs pointing away from it. Soon I was at a junction with a ‘Road Closed’ sign in front of me. I was worried that I'd have to detour, so sat down at a newsagent stand to prepare myself for disappointment. A man walking his dog came by and I asked him if there was any way to get through. He said it was fenced right across the road, but I should be able to get by if I was determined enough. The roadworks were only a short way beyond. I got beside the first barrier by climbing along the wooden fence of a field boundary. There were several hazardous deep excavations in the road, but I found my way around them safely by torchlight. The next barrier was a bit more awkward. I needed to pass my backpack over on one side and squeeze through the gap in a hedge on the other.

It was nine o'clock and bitterly cold when I arrived in Courtown. I really had to get indoors somewhere to warm up for a while. I found my way into Ambrose Molloney's bar, after nearly walking past. I had a pot of tea and a toasted sandwich and was talking to the landlord Michael about my walk before he went outside for a short while. When he came back he asked me if I was looking for somewhere to spend the night. There was a flat beside the pub for summer staff and after showing me up there he kindly gave a key for the night. I returned to the warmth of the bar to finish my tea and watch Fulham secure a 2-1 home win over Shakhtar Donetsk in the UEFA Europa League. I then quickly headed back up to the flat, and was soon snuggling into my sleeping bag on the soft double bed.

*

After a hot Beechams drink in the flat and a breakfast roll from the shop, I was ready to get a good day’s walking done. I found my way out of Courtown on a pleasant woodland walk before following the shoreline for some way. High tide waters then forced me inland, up past the golf course to Ballymoney Crossroads. On the way down from Tara Hill a jovial farmer in a Land Rover pulled over for a chat. Where he had stopped he was blocking the road and remained quite oblivious to other road users trying to pass. He was the first of countless friendly characters I would meet on the road all over Ireland who would instantly strike up animated conversations, as if they'd known me for years. Soon enough though the man in the car behind, spoiled the moment beeping his horn at us and I had to part company with the farmer, but now feeling the most cheerful since arriving on Tuesday.

After sitting down for a little bit of lunch on Ahare Bridge, I directed myself back to the coast through Clones Upper. After a short walk along the beach I climbed back up onto the tranquil little road. I was taken unawares by the sudden sound of hooves on tarmac and a horse with a thick blue rope trailing behind it came racing round the corner. My gut instinct told me to hold my ground in the middle of the lane and the horse stopped abruptly a few metres in front of me. I was thinking that it had just escaped from a nearby field and maybe if I distracted it, the owner would come and lead it home. Yes. A man with a dog was walking my way and a car following too. However, when the car caught up with the man the driver casually wound down his window and they just started chatting away, absorbed with their own things. The horse was giving me an agitated sideways look at this point, so I stepped aside and with a toss of its head, it galloped on along its way once again. I was a bit lost as to what was going on. The two men just said 'Hi' to me as I passed by and nothing more. For all I knew, the horse had been let free for a run and it was commonplace around here.

Next, I had just a few kilometres to cover along the beach and through dunes to get to Kilmichael Point, but somehow managed to find a waterlogged route between thorn bushes, which was unavoidable without returning the same way. I slopped on through, with the fetid water finding its way over the top of my boots. I was halfway into the thorns from then on, my backpack acting as the pin cushion instead of my right arm. I emerged on the landside of a large sand dune and kicking my boots through the warm sand soon dried them off. There was a lovely view northwest here to Croghan Mountain just below the cloud level. The water I'd come through was in fact a little lake trapped behind the sand and the quaint scene revitalised my clammy extremities.

Kilmichael Point marked the end of the Wexford Coastal Path and I was faced with an awkward half mile of rough coastline if I was to continue forward directly into County Wicklow. All the diversions inland were becoming frustrating, so I decided to take a risk and keep going straight on. I made my way down to the first stony beach, which proved slow going. I soon needed to climb back up the overgrown bank when a small headland was obstructing the way along the foreshore. I walked on a rabbit trail through long grass until the coastal scrub became impassable. I squeezed through some trees, finding a little space between them just large enough to then be able to climb into a field. I slipped through here as quickly as I could and managed to climb another fence by a farmhouse without drawing attention to myself. A little more barbed wire still needed negotiating and then I was back down on another rocky beach. This time however I could see a good path leading up from the far end.

Something bulky stood amongst the stones caught my eye. Strangely, it out turned to be a large gas canister, balanced ready to offer me a seat while I took a picture of the arch in the headland. I could see a gate at the bottom of the path and it looked like it was for private access only, but I had to go up with no other alternative. There was an old couple out in their garden but not looking in my direction, so I could slip by unnoticed along the long track back onto the road.

I came around Arklow Rock and down through a huge quarry approaching Arklow. I'd timed it well, because the gates at the entrance would have been locked for the night an hour later. It was very dusty, with a fleet of trucks and earth movers thundering around the site. A holy well with a flower covered shrine was marooned in the middle of it all, helplessly surrounded by the work which transforms God.

The low sun pasted a vivid glow across the rooftops as I found my way through narrow streets to the Nineteen Arches Bridge. I didn't want to leave the town too hastily, so whilst the light faded gradually, I nipped into the Arklow Bridge Hotel. With a large pot of strong tea to keep me going I settled down to get some writing done. I had a great time recalling an unforgettable day walking south on the Trotternish Peninsula, Skye, as two hours seemed to flash by here in Arklow.

Now that it was dark enough for my torch beam to come into full effect, I was more than ready to return to the open road. It may have been the Irish tea they were serving in the hotel that night, but my eyes seemed to be playing tricks on me as I walked several more miles towards Mizen Head along the lonely deserted road. I first noticed this stopped at Pennycomequick Bridge for a length of time I couldn't estimate now. Maybe it was five minutes or maybe fifty. I was having difficulty deciphering between the fanciful notions in my head and what was real and genuine, perched there befuddled in the cold.

Walking once again, I kept imagining that there was somewhere to camp ahead on the other side of the road. After rushing over and scaling a gate it would be plainly obvious there was nowhere to pitch the tent, or even lay my bivvy out. I called on myself to show mental discipline and just concentrate on maintaining a controlled march, knowing that inevitably the campsite would find itself. I'd just rounded a bend in the road and overlooking Brittas Bay, a little path led to a viewpoint. Flattening some long grass, I berthed with just enough space to raise my flysheet and even though I was in clear sight of the road, it was plainly apparent that I could tuck away there for a few hours as secure as in a hotel room.

*

Three days out in the crisp fresh air had me sleeping like a pharaoh and I cherished a sacred pan of steaming porridge sat in my own private pyramid, watching lazy faint stars vacate the dawn sky. As I was wrapping away my tent pegs, the chubby sun peeped its nose over the distant horizon. It was a rare treat for me to capture an east coast sunrise, so I snagged a couple of photographs and stood there a moment longer very satisfied.

I spent some time at the local store seeking out postcards, however it was too early in the year to start displaying them, I was told. Dismayed, I bought a packet of Fruit Pastilles and sat on the wall outside brushing my teeth, having lost impetus for the moment. The occasional car would stop by, as locals collected their Saturday morning newspapers and the cheery folk gave me heart to tackle the final miles into Wicklow.

Where the R750 turned right, keeping to the coast into Wicklow, I decided to carry on straight up the hill along a quiet country lane. I was thinking I had made the wrong choice at first, but as soon as the view to the north opened out I knew that this was the better way to go. I could: see right along the coast as far as Bray Head, look down over the whole of the town; and inland, scan the best part of the county's mountains and countryside. I couldn't help jogging most of the way into the town centre, but put the brakes on quick enough to swerve into a traditional cafe and order some seafood soup with wheaten bread for lunch.

For the second time in the day I chose an inland route leaving town. The railway line now ran right along the coastline for over ten miles to Greystones and I didn't want to take a risk of needing to cross the tracks again. With a litre bottle of red lemonade bought at Rathnew to fuel me, I enjoyed a relaxing stroll right through into the late afternoon, reaching Kilcoole at dinner time. I was aware that it was one year to the day that I had left Prestatyn train station, setting out to walk around Scotland, so I couldn't begrudge myself a plate of cod and chips to mark the occasion. The Molly's public house was serving food, so in I went. The old world charm of the place was striking immediately and I learned later that scenes of the popular RTÉ series Glenroe were filmed there.

I took my sheet of scrawled jottings out while waiting for my meal, but when I couldn't find any words coming to me I moved my stool to get a better view of the sports roundup on the large screen TV. Just in time to see Everton applauding their fans after a memorable win over Manchester United. I couldn't see the score sat so far away, but did hear an Irish voice shout 'Blimey 3-1', though with a less polite choice of words. My meal was soon served and I couldn't have wished for any more that night.

Quite a crowd had gathered in the bar by the time I had finished, it was certainly time now to leave inconspicuously. Coming into Greystones the extended period of dry weather came to an end and I snuck out of the rain into the shadows of a gas fire showroom frontage. I couldn't delay as long as I would have liked to, but did put away two pots of yoghurt for an impromptu pudding.

The rain intensified as I continued again along the main road and just short of Bray Head I stopped again. This time in a vandalised bus shelter. It was a good deal colder now and not as a result of the hundred metres height gain, but because of coal black clouds stuffing the air with a thickening flow of sleet. I sat there a while considering my options. I was unsure whether wandering around snowy Bray Head in the dark would be wise. Maybe it was to my advantage that the shelter's glass was smashed in, because I had a look in the field behind and could see enough space for my tent partly concealed in the corner.

After cautiously negotiating the broken glass, I climbed into the field and set about pitching up the best I could with little feeling in my fingers. The large compartment on the front of my new Arcteryx backpack had been proving a useful feature this week as I could store the tent in there loose. Not needing to remove it from its tight bag sped things up a good deal for me now. Again I'd found another unlikely place to camp, but didn't deduct any points lost for style. Drawing up the tent zip and climbing into my sleeping bag fully dressed, I was simply content to let tomorrow dispatch another wakeup call of the unknown.

*

It only snowed for a few hours in the night, but there was still enough lying on the ground to give the hilltops a gentle fingerprint dusting of white. Four hundred metres on my feet and I came upon a picture perfect winter view of Little Sugar Loaf hill at a road junction. Indeed, another early riser had just parked up and was out taking photos. I headed over to the fence to do the same. He snapped a few more before approaching me. 'There's a cock pheasant just over the fence.' He told me. The oblivious bird was sat there motionless, its senses probably dulled by the cold. The bold plumage looking rather unnatural amid patchy snow. After one more silent moment it finally flew off. And so did I.

The sun was shining brightly down on Bray promenade and I was quick to take the opportunity to dry my tent in a southeast facing shelter. Now mid morning and with plenty of colourful activity around the seafront, I motivated myself to finish the final twenty kilometres into Dublin city centre. Part of the way along the promenade something on a railing post coming up caught my eye. A poor little fish had been stranded on top of it. I have no idea how it got there or what relevance it held, but it was left facing seaward and pointed out the direction home for me.

I had come slightly inland again to Bray Bridge crossing the Dargle River, just before passing into the Dún Laoghaire-Rathdown district of County Dublin. In Shankhill I saw two youth teams energetically contesting a Gaelic Football match. At first I thought they were playing rugby, but when they bounced the ball between each other I realised not. The coast road led me down to Killiney Bay and here I got my first good view of Dalkey Island. The railway line however hogged the best position. Trains whizzing out of the tunnel through the headland were treated to a chough's eye view directly over the strand. After climbing up a steep hill I had the whole road to myself for the next kilometre, as roadworks had closed it off to motor vehicles.

Coming around Sorrento Point the semicircle of Dublin Bay was becoming ever more visible, revealing a heavily urbanised landscape. Here though, looking out across Dalkey Sound I still felt I had a good chance of seeing interesting wildlife like a seal or rare sea birds. The town centre of Dalkey was positively bustling without being hectic this Sunday afternoon and I made sure I passed the splendid old castle on my way through.

I had to take an unforeseen rest stop soon after. I'd progressively aggravated an old injury to my right knee over the course of the day. The whole week I'd not used my walking pole at all and was suffering for it at present. I would depend heavily on it now to carry me over the final section. I ate my last two yoghurts whilst giving the complaining ligament a rest and took stock of the situation. It was still early, so even if I made slow progress I should be able to easily reach Dublin before nightfall.

Standing up ungainly I recommenced. I needed to walk with a juddering step, but was able to continue without making the problem any worse. With all the commuters Dún Laoghaire was still very busy for a wintry weekend. Groups of day-trippers gathered around the ferry terminal and the N31 brought a ceaseless stream of cars too, but it was the impressive architecture across the road that kept my attention. From here I found a cycle track running parallel to the DART line through Blackrock.

As Merrion Strand became Sandymount Strand I really started to struggle. Many people out for a stroll were overtaking me, but I wouldn't stop for a break until I'd reached the northern end of the path. I sped up as much as I was able to to claim the last bench before anyone could beat me to it. From here there would be no more places to rest up to the River Liffey in the centre of Dublin. Knowing that I was about to head into the claustrophobic inner city I drew out my time as long as possible, taking in all the activity around the spacious bay.

It wasn't too long before I had passed buildings of the renowned Trinity College and was stepping out across the Liffey. I'd avoided the notorious tourist hordes that flock to Ireland's attractions all week long, and now suddenly every last one of them seemed to have squeezed together, forming a tight line along the rails of O'Connell Bridge. I was laughing to myself as I took up a place of my own near the opposite bank, next to a group of camera snapping Japanese. Definitely a case of 'If you can't beat them, join them' for the time being. Dusk had advanced stealthily across the city skyline. Bringing with it a slide show of colour smudged delicately upon the water, projected by a kaleidoscopic array of bright lights along the vibrant riverside.

I turned left onto Bachelors Walk and didn't have far to go to find budget accommodation for myself. Abbey Court Hostel still had beds available that night, leaving me with plenty of time to wander along O'Connell Street at my leisure. As I prepared to head back home in the morning I was sad to be going after such a wholly enjoyable week. I felt so comfortable already. I knew that I'd be leaving a little part of me behind here in Ireland, and until the time came to return for the next epic coastal adventure I would not think about anywhere else that I'd rather be.

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