Late March 2010
To start with, the morning didn't promise great things. It was raining steadily and seemed unlikely to stop, as the train hurtled through a depressing low fog; destination Holyhead. It was too late to turn back now, not that he'd want to. The ferry was already booked and this was a day that he had been looking forward to for a long time.
Thankfully there was only a short transfer time at the Stena Line terminal. Out of the shuttle bus window he got the first hint that the cloud cover was growing less dense and the rain was easing. Nonetheless, he was convinced already that the weather across St. George's Channel was certain to be atrocious.
He took up a comfortable seat with a sea view in the lounge, but was soon bored with the endless Sky News loop covering British Airways strikes. He wasn't due to take a flight anywhere soon, if ever, so turned his thoughts instead to what he had planned for this summer. Four weeks ago, in his first excursion across the Irish Sea, he had walked from Rosslare Harbour to Dublin. Now he intended to walk between those two places again, but going in the other direction. Right around the Atlantic coastline. At this point he didn't even attempt to think about what this would demand of him, but was psyched to have a golden chance to give it his best shot.
An hour later he went out on deck to stretch his legs and scan the horizon for the first sign of land. It was too far away to sight for the moment and instead, he came across a couple of kilt wearing Scotsmen, on their way to the final Six Nations rugby match at Croke Park. He still felt endeared to the Scottish after all his time spent walking up there and was eager to fully absorb the spirit of the Irish now.
For a change of scenery he moved around to the stern, to get out of the wind and watch gulls effortlessly riding the turbulence. He looked up with glee to discover the cloud's western edge dissipating into blue sky overhead. He hastened around to the port side for a view ahead and could have easily whooped out aloud with the awaiting emerald hills now clearly there. His to behold once more.
With the crossing nearly complete, the ferry entered the waters of Dublin Bay. Alex found himself transfixed with its northern headland, Howth, which held a massive significance as it represented the last turn of his coast walk... The final hurdle. He visualised himself standing there with the rest of the country behind him, riding a wave of euphoria. Now he just had to complete the not so simple task of making it really happen.
Whilst the ferry men went about their jobs securing the ship to the quayside at Dún Laoghaire, all foot passengers were called to the front of the lounge, ready to disembark. He only had to rein himself in a short while longer as they were soon led into the ferry terminal. After producing his passport, he was then free to collect his baggage with the whole countryside only metres away, waiting behind the automatic doors.
It was a great pleasure to be reacquainted with the sights and sounds of Leinster once more: speed limits all in kilometres per hour, D (Baile Átha Cliath/County Dublin) vehicle registration plates, the different set of road signs and of course, infectious Dubliner accents permeating his Welshness. He crossed the short distance to the train station, which was to provide his chosen means of transportation back down to Rosslare.
After quickly buying a ticket from the self service machine, he started to think about ways to pass the two hour long wait, when a train approached along the southbound line. In front of him, a youth slipped through an unlocked gate avoiding the barriers, onto the platform below. Seeing that it was bound for Arklow, Alex made a snap decision to try and follow suit. Once he'd confirmed with the driver that his ticket was valid on this route, he hurried onboard, with little time to spare before the doors closed.
There was a free seat available by the door which would have good sea views, but before sitting down, he took out his knife and cut away the luggage tag dangling from his backpack. In retracting the blade he managed to drag his fingertip across it, through a combination of his own carelessness and the moving train. Sitting down, he readied himself for the inevitable flow of red, finger in mouth, but luckily it was not as severe as he first feared. As the train left the urban sprawl behind, bringing a captivating new view of the east coast, he soon forgot about this little mishap.
To begin with, the immediate wave top ride above Killiney Bay was succeeded by an even more exposed dash, around and, also through, Bray Head. Before then cruising into Wicklow, along an open stretch he'd not seen up close during his previous visit in February. The route took a sharp turn inland next for some miles, with the journey down the forested Vale of Avoca into Arklow another high point of the day.
The first thing he noticed stepping off the train was the domineering peace and quiet. He still had two hours to wait for the Rosslare train to catch up, but, out of the city he now held equilibrium with the surroundings. Soon he realised that this time could be put to better use than just twiddling his thumbs on the platform, so he left the station and headed for the town centre. After only two minutes along the road he came to a public library. As it had just reopened its doors after lunch break he was the first person in to browse.
He had a good look around all the sections, but was inevitably drawn to the walking books on the travel shelf. He picked out a couple that looked interesting, then took a seat. Scanning a few of the coastal routes at random, one that caught his attention was the One Man's Pass over the Slieve League cliffs in County Donegal. It was about as far away from here as he could get, which seriously focused his mind on all the obstacles he'd face before even making it that far. He had let himself in for several months of nonstop walking, but was keeping optimistic that as long as he maintained a healthy attitude throughout, everything would somehow fall into place.
On resumption, the rest of the journey went by much quicker. After the train picked him up, it called in at Gorey and Enniscorthy, then followed the River Slaney downstream right as far as Wexford. After a snail's pace crawl along the unfenced harbourside section, the final miles of line rolled by swiftly. Terminating at Rosslare Harbour a good few minutes earlier than scheduled. If he had taken the midafternoon ferry from Fishguard he'd still be somewhere in British waters, instead of crossing the N25 National Primary Road and stepping back onto the Wexford Coastal Path.
The first headland, Greenore Point, was a direct mile away and the hairs on his arms pricked with goose pimples as he took his first strides out onto the sand. Over the previous twelve months he'd spent so much time consistently following the shoreline that it barely felt like he had been away at all and a gentle lap of the waves voiced his welcome return. Shortly after rounding the point, he noticed the Tuskar Rock Lighthouse some way out to sea. On a clear night last October he could see its beam across the Irish Sea from the Preseli Hills in Pembrokeshire and he felt very privileged this evening to look at it once again, but from the other side.
An hour later and with the first few miles under his belt, he met a friendly man out for a walk who stopped to talk. He was very courteous and didn't hold up an obviously hyperactive Alex for too long. Originally from County Kerry, he said he's very fond of this here area, but misses the massive waves over there that roll in from the Atlantic to pound the west coast. He pointed out too that today was the day of the vernal equinox, so in the weeks ahead the evenings would start to get much lighter. Lastly, he wished Alex success with his walking before saying goodbye.
At Carna he paused a little while to eat an energy bar and collect some water for the morning ahead. In heading south from there, the foreshore became rougher and the coast path appeared to be much less walked. A collection of wind turbines had been in view for most of the way and when he walked around their bases, he was impressed with the sheer scale of them; wider than a tall man’s height where they sprouted from the ground.
He enjoyed the increasing sense of isolation as he carried on, arriving at the windswept Carnsore Point just after sunset. Even though the light was fading he could still see the first several miles of the south coast clearly enough. First to catch his attention, at the other end of the bay, were the Saltee Islands. Inland, there was a long expanse of low lying ground to begin with, but rising out of the twilight beyond, hills and mountains of County Waterford gave a subtle snapshot of what the coming days offered.
Twenty minutes later and it was almost too dark to find his way anymore. He had kept to a distinct track through Burrow so far, but was now faced with a large pool seemingly blocking the way ahead. He set his pack down and got his torch out to investigate. He soon stopped in his tracks after realising that this very spot would be a fine place to spend the night. A large tyre ditched to the side made a useful seat later, as he finished his supper contentedly watching the night sky. He reflected on today's exciting return to doing something he does best; living only on what can fit into a backpack. Just before climbing into his bivvy bag for an early night, all set for the first full day.
*
The clear sky overnight had caused the temperature to drop quite low, but Alex still managed to sleep comfortably without using his tent. He quickly packed away once it was light. He found his way out onto the beach with little trouble, but was disappointed to see the weather ahead didn’t look very promising. It wasn’t long before the rain started to fall steadily and with no chance of any shelter for miles, he pulled his hood down tightly and faced the elements head on.
The sand and gravel bank to his right had created a barrier lake of brackish water, Lady’s Island Lake. He turned inland to take a look and quickly decided to stay on the track running beside it, as following the beach had been slow going for a while. He kept on this same line through Grogan Burrow too and then as far as the western end of Tacumshin Lake, where he stopped a few minutes for a drink. There were dry hay bales left there which he used to support the weight of his backpack, so he was not out of stride when he got going again.
The rain now having eased off, he took to the beach once more to complete the final miles into Kilmore Quay. As he edged forward through the cool wind, he could distinguish a shape ahead that at first looked like part of a ship's hull, stranded above the high tide line. From a dozen metres away his nose confirmed that it was in fact a poor dead shark, washed up in an advanced state of decay. After hastening upwind, he soon approached an intriguing coastal feature known as St Patrick's Bridge. Projecting a kilometre out into the sea, it is possibly the remains of a land bridge from ancient times which connected the smaller Saltee Island to the mainland. A short distance away he spied a sunning of cormorants, drying their outstretched wings atop a seaweed covered rock. Which once more brought him back to the land of the living and in turn, the village outskirts.
Walking around the empty harbour, he surmised that it was unfortunately not the right time for a boat trip across to the Saltees and so consoled himself with a breakfast roll, including tasty white pudding, from the general store. Around the corner of Forlorn Point, he passed an emotionally moving memorial garden overlooking Ballyteigue Bay, built in remembrance of all those who have lost their lives at sea.
The coastal path took a left turn then through Ballyteigue Burrow for Duncormick. He’d not gone far when a sea mist descended and had to trust himself to find his own way out without getting stuck wandering onto the three mile long spit ahead. He was soon caught between a wall and a drainage channel and feared ending up trapped as he walked along, but eventually arrived at a bridge, which in turn led him out onto the road.
It wasn‘t far to Duncormick and the walk was level and easy, but he decided to take a little break anyway, as time was on his side today. He had no idea at that point how important this would later prove to be. For the last few strides before sitting down on church steps, he sensed something was not quite right with his knee. He knew he hadn’t sprained or overextended it and for now just hoped that he could walk it off by the evening, trying to not let it worry him too much.
He had not long sat down when he heard a noisy gang of children across the road heading his way. Opening up his map, he did his best to look preoccupied, but it was a waste of time. 'Hello. What's your name?' the smallest boy said in a put on deep voice, suggesting Alex was Father Christmas with his bushy beard.
'I'm so sorry.' an older girl apologised immediately, 'He really is very annoying.' That was one of the last things Alex was expecting to hear and he almost sympathised with the little lad, who looked like he was quite used to being firmly put in his place. They were no more bother after that and he drew out his planned five minute rest stop to a full half hour, giving his knee the best chance to recover.
The sound of children’s voices returning was the cue that he needed to get himself back to his feet. His leg felt fine for the moment, so he left the village at a goodish pace, eager to get back to the sea at Cullenstown. After a mile along the road though he became really seriously concerned. The pain was back to the whole inside of his kneecap and he wasn't able to put his full weight on it. He did his best to carry on using his walking pole as a crutch, but at the first hill he came to he knew it was no good and would have to stop. He sat himself down beside the road and put on a brave face for the few cars that passed by.
He had hoped to walk for a couple more hours tonight, but now knew that that was out of the question. If he could make it just a little bit further he would be able to rest up for the night in the village and leave any important decision making for the morning. After a few minutes he got up and did some stretches, whilst walking around without the added weight of his backpack. This was no problem at all, but as always he couldn't go anywhere without needing to carry all his gear too. After another quick sit down he was ready to tackle this little hill that was asking big questions of him. He made quite a meal of it and was glad that there was no one around to see him winding from side to side up the lane to cope with the gentle gradient.
When he did make it into the village, he aimed directly for a picnic table outside the bar, which he was quite dismayed to find closed. He waited a short while, but with nobody around and with the weather threatening to close in, he headed on once again. Down at the seafront there was a large open parking area. He filled up a water bottle at the toilets and then hobbled over to the far end to investigate a sizable concrete structure there more closely. It was a handball court. With eight metre high sides, but no roof, it could possibly provide some well needed shelter tonight, as long as the weather didn’t turn too bad.
It wasn't long before it was fully dark and he had lain his bivvy bag down next to the north wall until then to keep out of view. He could hear the wind blowing over the top of the court, but it was still quite calm where he was and he climbed into his sleeping bag with his fingers crossed that it wouldn’t rain too badly. He came over very sleepy quickly and tried to ignore the gentle pitter-patter sound which had started to build in intensity. All he wanted to do was just drift away and forget where he was, but with it set to chuck down all night, now was a time for evasive action.
He had seen room for his tent on the grass outside earlier on and even with two bunches of dopey fingers he made quick work of pitching it now. He needed a couple of trips to bring everything around into the tent and, taking up his place inside, he groaned on hearing the sound of another familiar pitter-patter. He focused his torch ahead, to light up a gang of dreaded sandhoppers raining down upon his trousers and bivvy from all sides. The light only serving to just make them all the more crazy.
Before, in the twilight, this patch of grass looked plain enough, but studying it up close now he could see that there was enough sand mixed in for the little pests to hold a full scale party. As usual, Alex had chosen to only pack his tent flysheet, so without a groundsheet he’d just have to tolerate sleeping amongst the creepy crawlies. The first thing he had to do was turn off his torch. This at least stopped them jumping berserk at him, but meant a convoluted task of feeling his way in the dark to arrange his bedding. After what seemed like an age he was zipped up in his bivvy, safe behind the mosquito net without any unwanted company, however, all night the rank smell of dirty sand reminded him that their slippery forms were only inches away.
*
In the morning he didn’t turn his phone on to check the time and just laid there, staring through the mesh of the bivvy, until an hour after it had got light. It was still raining hard and he was comfortable as he was. After a long while of lazing, boredom motivated him to sit up for a breakfast snack. The vast majority of sandhoppers were now nowhere to be seen and his knee had also stopped troubling him. Now it just needed to stop raining and all would be fine with the world. With the morning likely set to pass him by, he took out a pen and paper and occupied his mind catching up on writing.
An hour or two passed, but cooped up in the tent it felt like half a day. The rain had stopped and restarted a few times, but right now the sun was seemingly winning the battle. He could hear sounds of people out on the beach, so crawled out sideways himself in the manner of a hermit crab. There was a hint of mild warmth in the air, but with black clouds out to sea, it was just a matter of time until the next shower passed over.
He busied himself packing away and left the tent drying on the wall whilst he made the walk over to the toilets. It was rather annoying to find that they had been padlocked tight since last night. As he returned to his tent a sweet little lady called across to him. 'Are you wanting to use the toilet?'
'Yes. I had hoped to.' he replied.
'I have the key. We are meant to keep it locked during the week. How long are you staying for?' she asked.
'I was just on my way off actually.' Alex said.
'Alright, I would have left it open for you if you needed.'
'Ah, thanks very much.' he said with a smile.
After he'd finished in there, he went over again to hand her back the key. She had a small dog with her and Alex heard her calling its name, Lucky. It seemed like it might be his lucky day after all.
As he finished off packing, he turned his thoughts towards planning the rest of the day. The shoreline ahead should be readily accessible at low tide, but he could see that it was already quite far in at the moment. An alternative plan was to take the road directly to Wellingtonbridge. However he felt that he may as well just give up and go home if he needed to start taking short cuts because he was feeling slightly below par. So he'd at least make an attempt to get by along the coast, or as near to it as possible.
It took only a few minutes more before he was ready to go and it was a pleasant surprise when he finally checked the time to find out it was just only eleven o'clock. That boosted his morale because with the best part of the day still ahead of him, he could manage to cover a respectable distance without needing to extend himself too much. An unsurfaced road led the way out of the village and the front of one of the houses there was beautifully decorated all over with seashells. Alex had to stop and take a picture and then study in detail the delicate patterns which must have taken great patience and skill to create.
The road soon came to an end and there was not much flat beach to follow before the shore became rough and rocky. A short way ahead he could see the spray of waves blocking any further progress, though not to be put off that easily, he climbed up into the field instead. It was ploughed right to the edge and was very muddy, but at least enabled him to continue westward.
Somewhere near Ballymadder Point, a track led back down to sea level and a little way more along he came to an awkward impasse. The soily cliff edge had crumbled badly across his path and as the sea blocked the way below, the only option for going on was scrambling up. He shoved his heavy rucksack onto the ledge first and then shuffled up himself, grasping chunks of grass and clay with both hands to keep the strain off his weak knee. Shortly after, there was enough room to walk the foreshore again, which he followed to public access at a road end. Ahead, the tide was cutting off the next headland and the cliffs were also higher, so he knew that he was definitely going to need to turn inland now.
There was a man already there parked in a car with his window open and he seemed quite disgruntled when Alex appeared and sat down on the bench in front of him; reversing out and driving off straight away. Likely it was not every day that an unsightly hiker popped up here out of the blue. He didn't mind, he too felt that he needed his own space. The short distance he'd walked so far was barely over a mile, but the difficult ground had brought the feelings of discomfort in his knee back again. It would be alright to carry on, just as long as he didn’t walk for too long at one time.
He took it easy walking across to Bannow Bay, but doing so gave a nasty hail shower the chance to overtake him. He took shelter under some trees as he came into Wellingtonbridge, before looking for the oifig phoist (post office) to return his first completed map back home. Once he found out the air mail prices to the UK he resolved to wait until he had at least a couple to send when the next time came around.
Half an hour later he was sat at a picnic table on the bank of Corock River in bright sunshine, eating a pack of sausage rolls from Wallace's Supervalu. He had bought them out of habit, but wasn’t enjoying them at all. Not that they were bad, but he had overloaded on pies and pasties last year, particularly in Cornwall and southern Scotland. He made an pact with himself there and then to not have any more savoury pastries for the rest of his time in Ireland. He was bound to find something else as a favourite soon, but for now had no idea what that might be.
The new map marked a fresh start for the rest of the day. A little spell on the R733 brought him to a network of therapeutic lanes on the peaceful west side of Bannow Bay. Cars were keeping well out of his sight, whilst rolling green hills plumped out either side of the dreamy estuary, with farm buildings only few and far between. Rosslare and the east coast already felt a very long way away. He came down for a deeply relaxing level walk along the water’s edge past St Kieran’s Quay, looking out across the shallows to the headland of Bannow Island safeguarding the mouth of the bay. Crossing the lovely old stone Tintern Bridge in crisp mandarin sunlight provided a fitting climax to the afternoon. Pristine tree lined banks followed the river inland and he felt assured that the abbey nestling somewhere up there was just as idyllic as its namesake in the Wye Valley, Monmouthshire.
A short break at Saltmills and then he was moving again. Now round to Fethard Bay and the open sea once more. It was fully dark for the final kilometre into Fethard village and he should have turned his torch on as there was no street lighting. Instead he trusted his night vision and nearly came a cropper when he stumbled over his own walking pole, almost falling flat on his face. A definite sign that he was physically and mentally flagging as the day drew to a close.
He was glad to find a drinking water tap opposite Londis in Fethard so he didn’t have to linger any longer than he needed to. The mile from there to Baginbun Head seemed like twice as much and it was a cold and sleepy Alex who eventually found a welcome spot out on the headland to throw up his tent and bed down with no hesitation.
Sometime about midnight, the wind grew quite fierce and he had to go out and tightly peg down a couple of guy ropes to secure the tent. He was worried about the pole after having a previous one damaged by strong winds before. He went back to sleep but was woken once again by a barrage of winds pummelling the side wall. The pole was bending the wrong way like a banana and he had to lean into the wall to deflect away the destructive energy. A while passed before the gusts started to ease. The pole had stayed intact somehow, but there would be a few more restless hours to endure before daybreak.
*
It was another rainy morning, so he delayed his start again. When he did venture out he was firstly impressed with the location, but then realised how exposed to the brunt of the weather he was through the night. An intimate bay of sharp cliffs swept around to Carnivan Head and he had the pleasure of beginning the day walking a footpath along part of them.
He took his first rest of the day outside All Saints' Church, Templetown. A farmer driving past saw him sat on the wall looking at his map and stopped to shout. 'Are you lost?'
'Oh no, I’m just fine.' Alex revealed. He was headed south on the Hook Peninsula and there would be only one road down to its tip anyway. This presented him with the opportunity to walk for a few hours without lugging around his full camping kit. Nearby at a Y-shaped junction was Miskella’s store, where he was fortunate enough to leave his backpack under the shopkeeper’s watchful eye for the afternoon.
It was a long straight road for most of the way to the lighthouse and he felt like he was nearly running after a few days constantly carrying everything on his back. To the west, across the mouth of Waterford Harbour, the opposite stretch of coastline from Creadan Head to Dunmore East appeared untouched by development and was very enticing to hurry along for, however the first road bridge to get him there still lay over 30 kilometres away to the north. A walk to the end of any peninsula is always a rewarding experience and today was no exception. Looking out at the sea churning and churning in three directions built to create the impression of having journeyed to a distant outpost of charted territory.
Hook Head Lighthouse is one of the oldest operational lighthouses in the world. The adjacent visitor centre, on the other hand, is a very modern affair and was quite busy already this early in the year. He had a good look at the displays there and read a sad old story about six young girls from Fethard who disappeared in the 18th century. There was also a picture nearby showing Mary McAleese the President of Ireland officially opening the centre to the public in 2001. It was nice and warm inside so he sat around for a while before leaving a little donation in the box and heading back up the road.
The return walk seemed to take much longer and by the time he got back he'd worked up a large appetite. A tin of tuna fish crammed down with Tuc biscuits soon got him back on track. A short way along he passed by a bar showing great character, The Templar Inn. It was adorned with road signs from a whole variety of places and was named after the medieval Knights Templar, whose ruined church still stood just across the road. He then continued northward for over an hour, until he could step down onto the firm sands of a blue flag beach which brought him into Duncannon in great style.
It was dark and time for some food, so Alex found his way into the Strand Tavern Seafood Bar and Restaurant and ordered himself a plate of curry. While he was waiting, he asked around if there was still a youth hostel open at Arthurstown two miles away. He found out that it ceased being a hostel a few years ago, but could at least alter his plans accordingly.
They had a TV on near to his chosen table and there was no escaping British culture even here, as it was now time for Eastenders. A strange thing happened in the middle of this episode though. There was a commercial break. Quite bewildering for a second, as the BBC, whom the show is made by, is renowned for always being free of advertising. This however was RTÉ One.
A little while later, with his plate now empty, scenes from a location that is quintessentially Irish flicked onto the screen instead. Far out to the west, lying across Galway Bay and at the heart of Gaelic tradition, this place could only be The Aran Islands. The sun was shining brightly, the ocean was crystal clear and the landscape, though unusual, showed through with vivid definition in the images. He knew that it might be too much to expect such wonderful conditions for his own visit, but as he was due to get there in late May, he could only hope. Now that he had somewhere definite to aim towards, the rekindled sense of purpose brewing inside him was certain to make the intervening weeks whizz by.
He had to walk over a mile more out of the village in steady rain to find the first suitable place to sleep. The local GAA grounds. At first he set out to pitch his tent in a far corner of the field. That was until he came across the covered spectator stands. Once he'd put his backpack down, he went over to the changing rooms to get some water from an outside tap. He didn't need a hostel dorm after all, not when he had everything he needed right here.
*
The rain stopped in the morning bang on cue for him to set out after he'd supped a pan of hot Beechams. The final miles of the Wexford Coastal Path led him into Ballyhack, where he watched events unfolding at the ferry slip with detached amusement. The vehicle ferry was now due in, but because of some unknown problem it was stuck across at Passage East for the next few hours, going nowhere. One by one the cars turned around as they heard the news, resigned to the long road detour. Or just home to sit and wait. Alex followed their exhaust fumes up past the castle and leering 1 in 5 gradient hill, eventually earning himself a superb view of the Cumar na dTrí Uisce (Confluence of the Three Waters) just beyond Cheek Point.
He needed to keep a good check on his map to find the best way to Dunbrody Abbey through a splodge of interwoven lanes and tracks. North of Campile River, the routes still snaked every which way and now he also had to navigate up the centre fold of the map. Which drove him dizzy having to constantly flip it back and forth to make sure all the relevant roads met up. In the end he decided to stick to the nearest continual lane to the River Barrow throughout the afternoon.
Just south of Poulmaloe Farm the peace and quiet was disturbed by the commotion two dogs were making in another farmyard. As they bounded out in his direction he was a bit concerned that they’d turn aggressive, but instead they just wanted to go for a walk with him. Both of them followed him for a quarter of a mile, until when he sat down on a trailer, the larger and more sensible of the two gave out a yelp, turned tail and ran back home. The other was still hovering though, ever present.
Ten minutes later he came to a junction, which he hoped marked the edge of the dog’s territory and that it would then stop following him. He turned left and frustratingly so did the dog. It was quite small and naive and didn’t seem to have the common sense to find its own way back, so he decided to try and shoo it away. ‘GO BACK!’ he shouted and waved his walking pole intimidatingly in its direction. Every time he tried to get near it ran off, but soon enough it always returned. He didn’t see any other option but to just carry on and hope it got bored.
A mile and a half up the road, after passing the John F. Kennedy ancestral home in Dunganstown, he flagged down a man in a pickup truck who he hoped could help return the dog to its owners. Alex told him first that the dog had been tailing him for a few miles and then described where it had come from. He replied that he was off to make a delivery in that direction and would ask if anyone knew where it was from. He was planning to return this way and would pick up the dog if it was still around. ‘Alright, thanks.’ Alex said. ‘Because I don’t want it walking with me as far as town.’
‘Oh don’t worry. There’ll be no chance of that happening.’ He answered before driving off.
Further along, at the tiny hamlet of Stokestown, he came across an old lady walking in the opposite direction. He explained his predicament with the dog to her, hoping that she’d offer to take care of it, or at least attempt to coax it into the right direction, but the only sympathy she gave was in saying ‘Oh, that is annoying.’
This quiet country lane was soon going to come to an end and there was still no sign of the man in the pickup, so shortly after turning east he sat down by a gate to wait a while. Nobody passed by, not a single car or walker. So when the dog wandered off into a field, he tried to take the opportunity to slip off unseen. Treading on tiptoes he’d barely managed fifty paces before his ripening scent gave the game away and the sound of scurrying claws on tarmac swept by his side once again.
When he reached the busy R733 he took to walking along the grassy margin, but the dog proved to have less road sense and continued scrappling its way along, totally unworried by the cars hurtling past only a few metres away. It was a calamity just waiting to happen, so he stopped and called it over. It came straight to him and tried to jump up onto his lap. It was an adorable little thing with trusting brown eyes; a dear companion that somebody somewhere would be very sad to lose. ‘Well it looks like you are coming with me to New Ross after all then.’ Alex thought, as he hoisted its muddy body into his arms and began walking once more.
It sat perfectly still, admiring the view over his left shoulder through the 30 minutes that they took to reach the outskirts of the town. It must have been getting fed regularly because it was deceptively heavy for its size and his arm was beginning to turn numb from the effort. On the other side of the road was a Garda station. Not knowing where else to go he crossed over and hoped for the best.
He found the place very new and meticulously clean as he entered. Nobody was at the desk, but soon a male officer came out. ‘How can I help you?’ he asked.
‘Oh, hi. I was walking past a farm six miles from here, when this dog began to follow me and it has stayed with me all the way here. Would you possibly be able to help contact its owners?’ In the middle of speaking he loosened his shoulder straps and let the backpack slide to the floor, swapping the dog over to his fresh hand. He was barely able to stand properly at this point, he felt so tired.
‘You walked six miles with it following you?’ he said with surprise.
‘Yes.’
‘...And you didn’t think to go back?’ he retorted.
‘Um, I thought it would have just given up by itself.’ He'd had dogs follow him before and they always left him alone in the end. There was still no guarantee that this one wouldn’t follow him again even if he had returned.
‘I’m sorry we don’t take animals here.’ was the bluntly spoken officious reply.
‘But I know exactly where it came from. Here, I can show you on the map.’
‘How do you know that it is not just a stray?’
‘It came out of a farmyard with another dog and seems to be well looked after.’
‘This is a Police Station.’ the officer cut in sternly, as if Alex had only just arrived in Ireland and had no idea what Garda meant. ‘Stray dogs go to the pound.’ he concluded.
‘And where is that?’ Alex asked.
‘We don’t have one in New Ross.’ Then a pause, ‘Just let it go.’
‘It doesn’t have any road sense. I had to carry it along the fast road here to avoid a possible accident.’
He didn’t respond to that. ‘Is there anything else that you want?’ he finalised. Making it clear that he’d said all that he was going to.
‘A lead.’ Alex ventured; clutching at straws really. ‘I’m just here walking on my own. All I’ve got is what you see.’
‘Why don’t you just let it go?’ This time he spoke with a trace of compassion and Alex finally yielded to the no win situation. He couldn’t hold the pooch any longer and feared that it would run havoc in the foyer if he put it down, so he carried it over to the doors and it willingly jumped out. Free once again.
Somebody else had been waiting and was discussing an issue with the officer as he retrieved his rucksack. He could hear him laying down the law to this local lad, but now in the jovial Irish manner he’d come to expect. While he sat down for some time to cool off, Alex told himself to not let the way the day had turned out upset him. He was sure earlier that there would be a happy conclusion to this particular story, but in the end things proved to be beyond his influence. At least he hadn’t faced the ignominy of being thrown out like an unwanted animal himself.
Ready for the rest of the day, he made a clean breakout from the cop shop with the dog out of sight, if not out of mind. The first place he visited was the tourist information office on the riverside. They were just about to close, but the lady he spoke to was kind enough to let him use their phone to call Macmurroughs Hostel, while they hoovered and tidied up. There was no reply at the hostel, but he was told that he could stay for a little bit longer and then try again in a few minutes. Whilst browsing over some leaflets, a mysterious black clad woman crossed his line of sight as she swashbuckled her way past the help desk. She trailed a flowing cape behind her and spoke like she’d spent her entire life on the high seas. After the initial bemusement subsided, he realised that she was not an eccentric or a film extra, but in fact a tour guide dressed in period costume for the reconstructed famine ship, Dunbrody, which was docked just outside. When he phoned the hostel again there was still no answer, but he decided to risk walking the two miles up there anyway.
Before long, well placed signs had led him up a potholed track and out into the farm courtyard of the hostel. He knocked on the door of a cottage directly ahead and asked if there was any room available for an overnight stay.
‘You’ll need to go to the house on your right, but I’m sure they’ll be able to help you.’ said the man at the door.
‘Oh my, an actual backpacker. And early in the year too.’ was the enthusiastic greeting he received at the farmhouse. ‘Did you walk up here?’
‘Yep.’
‘Well I guess you would have. There’s nobody else staying tonight so you can have a cottage to yourself.’ he promised. This was Bryan, who was in charge of the place and as he gave Alex the tour, he was very interested to hear about his progress since leaving Rosslare Harbour. It was a nice change to have an appreciative ear to ramble on to for a little while.
Soon enough he was left alone again, but before settling in too comfortably he went outside once more so as to not miss the sun's setting. This evening was the ideal introduction to Ireland’s network of rustic hostels. Free range chickens pecked their way across the yard, the hills around teemed with yet more fresh spring life, and above all, to the west, a gorgeous peach tinted sky complimented the scene whilst restless bats flittered out of their shady hideaways to claim the night.
*
It rained heavily overnight but that didn’t deter the cockerel from giving him an early wakeup call at first light, crowing at the top of its lungs from its favourite tree. An hour or so later, Bryan’s wife Jenny brought him a few eggs, which he enjoyed hard-boiled for breakfast before setting out at his leisure into the balmy morning.
There was a lot of traffic passing through New Ross and once he’d crossed the bridge into County Kilkenny, he turned off onto a quieter road, which had superior views over the River Barrow. At Glenmore he bought himself an apple puff from the little store, which gave him the energy needed to climb the steep hill out of the village. Once across the N25 he carried on southwest through slightly predictable farmland towards Waterford.
By late afternoon he had reached the first built up areas of the city at Ferrybank. So it was quite a surprise to see a fully grown horse there, which was grazing contentedly in somebody’s front garden. As he crossed Rice Bridge into County Waterford rain started to fall, but it didn’t matter as he was almost finished for the day. Last night Bryan told him about a new independent hostel nearby and without his precise directions Alex would never have found it tucked away on a backstreet; the second turn right, straight ahead from the bridge. It was a bed and breakfast called Portree Guest House, but they also had two self catering dormitories down in the basement. The name instantly reminded him of the hostel that he had stayed at on the Isle of Skye, but he never did find out if they had any connections to Western Scotland here.
He was quick to leave his backpack behind and go out to buy some food. Not certain which direction to head in, he took the road uphill and soon found an Aldi store. They had no baskets outside, so he had to go in to change a note and get a two euro coin to release a trolley. He left there with just 15 minutes to spare before they closed. The bag containing his shopping set him back 37 cents. It was a sound investment however, because it went on to last him all around the rest of Ireland.
At a bend in the road he stopped to send an O.K. check in message on his SPOT, balancing it on a post to get the best view of the sky. He had to wait nearly ten minutes in the rain to get the solid double light because of all the tall buildings around obstructing the satellite. When he did get back to the hostel it was seven o'clock and somehow his day had flown by without having walked particularly far. Even still though, it wasn’t every day that he got to walk through three different counties in a little over six hours.
He dried off quickly in the cosy kitchen, which was equipped with an Aga Cooker and he soon had a pan of chunky beef soup bubbling nicely on its hot plate. As he relaxed later, he had a pleasant chat with another guest about Everton Football Club and their run of form of late. Finding out that they’d had a good win against Bolton Wanderers over the weekend helped him to sleep very comfortably indeed.
*
It was a bright inspiring morning and he was the first person up into the kitchen, so he turned the radio on in there before anyone else could come along and switch the antisocial TV on instead. The cheerful banter of the local disc jockey was great to hear and even the advertising features helped give him a further appreciation of the surrounding area after his limited human contact to date in touring this part of the country.
He'd almost left the city behind an hour later, but had an interesting diversion in mind that involved trying to catch a private ferry. His attention had been drawn to Little Island on his map, surrounded on all sides by the River Suir. Actually it was not so little in reality, being over a kilometre square in area, with a large hotel complex, golf course and more. He wasn’t sure if he was technically allowed onto the island, but nobody challenged him on the roll-on/roll-off chain ferry, so he was quick to vanish into the trees once he had both feet back on land. He left his backpack out of sight and set about following the path around the edge of the island. Several joggers went by and they didn’t seem too concerned about him being there. At one point he was sure that the same couple had overtaken him for a second time. Surely they hadn’t run all around the island in that space of time?
A quarter of the way along the north side of the island he climbed down to the water’s edge. It was low tide and even though the open sea was way out of sight there was still plenty seaweed piled up to the high water line in the mud. There were more people passing by now above and because he didn’t know where the path would lead him, he decided to return to the mainland the same way he’d came. As he stood on the ferry heading back across King’s Channel he couldn’t help but gloat to himself about how fortunate he’d been to experience his first island visit here in a most unlikely, but still beautiful, place.
After a total of four miles along decreasingly busy roads he arrived at Faithlegg, where he took a quick look at St Ita’s Well opposite a ruinous church. From there he carried on directly uphill, gaining a lofty view at the top across to Barrow Bridge, which carried the railway line from the east. A rough track helped him descend back to sea level. He stopped there for a brief snack, while a pair of hopeful seagulls eyed him from their nearby posts. Two ladies who were conducting a door to door survey went past on the road. From the look of them they would have been more comfortable canvassing city streets and didn’t really appear to be enjoying their time out here. It wasn’t that bad, even if it had clouded over and got quite a bit cooler over the past hour.
Once he’d reached the quay, he wound his way upwards again along a lane to the general store of Cheekpoint village. As he sat outside there, nibbling away at a packet of chocolate buttons, the still of the day was rudely disturbed by the roar of an overpowered engine. He looked up in time to see a car spinning full circle in the middle of the crossroads. Then, just as suddenly as it appeared, it raced off back the same way it had come from, leaving a toxic trace of scorched rubber lingering in the air. This display of reckless driving made him anxious to hurry himself along the pavementless road out of the village and he couldn’t relax until he turned off onto a dead end lane half a mile further. From there a great track led over Kilcullen Upper, with the entrance of Waterford Harbour slowly coming into view once again to the south.
As he trundled down the hill into Passage East the ferry was just arriving, bringing with it a large crowd of schoolchildren who were on their way home, ready for the start of the Easter holidays. The majority were still gathered on the main street as he found his way by, with several of the boys amongst them proudly carrying Hurleys (Hurling Sticks). Delving deeper into the village, which was pushed close up to the sea by a steep grassy promontory, there was an intimate criss-cross of streets snuggling together against the elements, which he took great pleasure in exploring. Somebody had left their washing hanging out in an open area by the shore and discretely, he left his rucksack there too whilst regrouping for a more thorough look around.
Later on at Crooke he called in at the local store to get some extra supplies for the evening. Coupled together with Hook Head to the southeast and still used by many people today, the expression ‘By Hook or by Crook’ is rumoured to have come into common usage after Oliver Cromwell declared during the Irish Confederate Wars his intention for Waterford to fall, either by Hook, or by Crooke.
He was now walking the fold of the map once again, which caused him to mistakenly return to the shore too early, at Raheen Bridge. He didn’t feel bold enough to attempt walking around Newtown Head at this state of the tide, so just stuck to the road instead to take him safely to the sandy expanse of Dromina Strand. At its south end he rejoined the road again and then, at Knockavelish, a footpath took him past some holiday cottages and down onto the final and most remote beach of the day, Fornaght Strand. Beyond, there was just one headland remaining and he could then move on westwards from Waterford Harbour.
After bypassing a family with an over exuberant dog who wasn’t particularly happy to share the beach with anyone else, he skirted a farm and then climbed over a gate onto a private track. It sloped up straight towards Creadan Head, but with a herd of cows blocking the way ahead, he decided to try his luck in a lower field. Once he'd carefully negotiated an electric fence with the help of two plastic handgrips, he proceeded as far as he could until another fence unfortunately brought a complete stop to his progress. As it was too overgrown through there, he turned back and returned a short way to the only patch of flat ground he’d seen. The weather promised to be settled for the night, so it was a pleasure to do nothing else except sit up awake in his bivvy, watching the tide gently ebb across the bay as darkness drew in.
*
For the first few hours of daylight he stayed just where he was, meditating, whilst 30 metres below, the tide renewed its daily cycle with barely a sound. The dawn chorus brought plenty of entertainment to his ears anyway. Even though there was a whole choir of feathered throats in full voice, he could clearly pick out the individual songs and each was sweetly unique from the next. He was in high spirits when he eventually packed away and quickly retraced his steps to the road, curious as to what lay in store around the next corner of the coast. It wasn’t until he approached Dunmore East two miles later however that the elusive sea view opened out again, as more farmland and a golf course had forced him inland.
Walking down the hill into the village, he reached behind to grasp his right shoulder strap and tried to balance the weight of the load on his back pushing him forwards. As an experiment he yanked on the top adjuster, which immediately pulled the rucksack into a straight line with his body. He did the same for the other and the improvement was noticeable right away. This pack was still new to him and so far he hadn't noticed the extent that it had been forcing his lower back and hips out, in turn putting a lot of added pressure onto his rickety knees. Together with this fact and the still uncomfortable setting out weight, it was little wonder that he wasn’t performing as he had in years gone by.
On his way through the village he called in at the local store and got a lot more to chew over than the few basic groceries he had in mind. A chatty man working there, who appeared to be the owner, was quick to ask about where he had come from and where he was going to. He then proceeded to give the full lowdown on Tramore, the town Alex was headed to, which included a quick Gaelic lesson as he explained that ‘Trá’ meant beach, ‘Mhór’ meant big; so Tramore simply translated to big beach (or strand). He also said to expect to find plenty of visitors around the town, drawn in through all seasons by its numerous seaside attractions, suitable for all ages.
Once he had absorbed the great sights that Dunmore Bay had to offer, he settled down for a belated breakfast stop, overlooking the quay. It already felt very familiar to him, as it was pictured on the front of the map he’d been using for the past five days and it was quite relieving now to finally see it in the cold light of day. As he munched away on a bacon sandwich, a passing rook landed nearby and slowly edged its way closer. He placed a large piece of rind on top of his boot to see if the brazen bird would dare take it. It was too smart to jump straight into his reach, but cunningly manoeuvred itself in sideways from a metre off, with its head tilted up in scrutiny of his every movement. When it was only a beak’s distance away, it craned its neck over his toecap and, without breaking eye contact, it swiped away the morsel and bounded off. He threw another piece across to a bashful jackdaw waiting in hope, but it was quickly bullied away by the bigger bird. He was just about finished, so he got up and brushed off the remaining crumbs, leaving the scavengers to squabble over them amongst themselves.
His progress west from the village was once again restricted to following the road, never taking him any nearer than a quarter of a mile to the coast. There were just too many obstructions like: fences, walls, hedges and scrubland to get anywhere through the fields. At Coolum Farm he was eager to turn left onto a track which would take him towards the sea again, even if it may not have been a right of way. Parts of it were a slopping morass which drenched his feet, but he was just about the happiest that he’d been all day nonetheless.
Just short of the end of the track he deposited his rucksack and then continued, with another left turn, back onto the road, aiming to get out onto Brownstown Head which dominates the eastern approach to Tramore Bay. He soon got as far as the road end, but then only made it a short way further, to the start of a track, where some farmers were talking a short distance away. They didn't tell him to go back or anything like that, he was just contented enough with the view from where he stood. So, after some obligatory photography, he eagerly headed back to the place he'd left his rucksack before anybody else could pass by and discover it.
He had been debating whether or not he should go down to the beach and find out if it was possible to wade the short distance across Rinnashark Harbour onto Tramore Strand. If he was able to, he could save himself over an hour of road walking to get to Tramore. As he approached Corbally More Crossroads a loud siren pierced the calm of the afternoon. Ten seconds later, a speeding ambulance came rushing along in his direction and took a sharp right at the crossroads, headed down to the beach car park. This was all he needed to make his mind up to keep on the road. He was quite sure that he didn't want to see what was unfolding down there anyhow.
The road was quite a lot busier than what he'd become accustomed to during previous days and by the time he joined the main road from Waterford a constant stream of noisy traffic had built up. Once he had made his way into the town, he was on the lookout for Beach Haven Holiday Hostel. He knew that it was somewhere here on Waterford Road, but wasn't sure about which side. It proved to be nearer than expected and he very nearly missed it with his attention focussed some distance ahead.
All guests staying at the hostel were required to sign in first, next door at the Beach Haven House bed and breakfast. There was a family on their way in already, so he knew to expect to have a bit of company. What he didn't reckon on, was the place being totally booked out because of the school holidays. He was given the choice of a bed and breakfast room, which he quickly declined out of an old habit, and so found himself outside again right away, mulling over his dwindling prospects. Already fatigued by now, he got no further than a picnic table in the yard to pause at and think over his options. After the briefest of conferences, he realised that he wasn't going to make it any further than the town centre this night, so he might as well go back in here and take them up on their offer of accommodation. 'Hi. It's me again. Do you by any chance still have that room available? Ah, you do. Brilliant,' he said. Closing the door behind him.
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