WHEN WALKING

Wandering around: 25km

Today is an attempt at a rest day. The problem is, I like to walk on my days off. So, having got to Glendalough a day ahead of schedule, I decide my rest will be a mental one: no plan, no destination, just explore.

However, I discover there are all sorts of coloured paths around the lake, and I’m quite excited to complete some of these because to complete a coloured path is a “proper” walk. I fight the urge to complete them all.

As I get to the car park of the Glendalough Hotel, I’m immediately distracted by five young men pedalling on static bicycles to the Dubliners playing Whiskey in the Jar. It’s a fundraising event, but there’s no explanation of what anyone is fundraising for. I give them a couple of euros.

I start walking from the hotel along the main path towards the lake, and intermittently there are crowds of people, all going faster than me. At this stage my legs are still sore. I try not to be in any way judgmental of the coach parties. I remind myself of way back in 2006, when I was teaching in Hungary, going to Szilvásvárad and walking up the tourist trail by the salmon lakes with my fellow teacher, Liz. We walked a little beyong the main trail and I saw signs going further into the Bükk Mountains and I thought how great it would be to walk all the way across. And not long after, I did. I wonder if any of these lot will get hooked like I did into just carrying on (and on).

The route becomes quite tough as you walk up to get the views of the upper lake. It’s surprising how many people are still doing it, and how almost all, however unlikely, are much faster than me today.

There’s one older lady and her son going about my pace, and I become fascinated by her hat. It’s a convertible which folds down into a fan. I ask where she got it from. The son translates and finds it for me on Amazon. But she got hers from a French market and I decide I want to do the same to make sure it fits my very big head.

Eventually I decide that, beautiful as it is, I’ve had enough of following the lake route and I cut off onto the Miner’s Way for a change of view. So not even one full colour route completed today. I tell myself it’s OK.

I head up the mountain, almost collapsing with exhaustion, saved by a banana I’d stolen from breakfast and forgotten about. My legs are rebelling. Reaching the top I look down into the Glenmalure Valley from the boardwalks on the bog. I had been planning to continue to Glenmalure after Glendalough, but on the first day out of Dublin, I’d been informed that the warden at the hostel had taken ill and my plans had had to change. It was very much a “Bullseye, this is what you could have won” moment.

And then I turn back.

Half way down a long forestry track, I meet two Italian teenage girls, horribly unsuitably dressed, but they’re here for the day and have decided to take a hike, so good for them. They stop me and ask, “How far is it?” An excellent question, which I’m unable to answer. I try to find out what ‘it’ might be, and I think they just mean something to look at.

I say, “You’ve not much further to the top here, and then you can do a circle and come back by the lake.” They say no, they just want to go to the top of the track and come back down. I show them on a map what they’ll get if they follow a route, and I think they’re convinced. Who knows. Maybe one day they’ll come back with sensible shoes and rucksacks and walk for days, or maybe they’ll just stay good normal kids.

On the way down I also meet my lovely Belgian dormitory companions from last night, lugging heavy gear up the hill on their way to the Glenmalure shelter. I force them to pose for a picture and somehow, despite the hill and the heat, they manage to pull it off beautifully.

On the rest of the way down, I seem to be seen as an obvious route expert. I think it’s the kepi. First, an Irish family who are struggling on the very first part of the uphill. They ask me if it’s far. I say yes. I’m honest. I tell them that if they just want to see the lake, they’d be better off turning back and taking the direct way. But they assure me they’ll be fine, laugh, and carry on happily, except for the 12-year-old daughter lugging along behind them who appears to have listened to what I said. I get the feeling my words will be repeated to them later.

Finally, just getting back down to the beautiful stretch by the lower lake, I meet an Italian woman who is also about to set off on a nine-kilometre hike with only 40 minutes until her bus leaves from the Glendalough car park. Her I do manage to convince, and I send her back the scenic way by the lake. She tells me she doesn’t have time for that and has to go straight back down the road she came on. She clearly gets lost again as I meet her by the lake later. I’m afraid she never made that bus.

The upper lake is stunning in a different way from the beach at its lower end. There are crowds, people happy, people playing games, paddling, swimming, eating burgers, queuing for ice creams. It’s a proper resort, and it feels good after the wildernesses.

I go back for a quick, happy nap at the hostel. Then, in the cool of the evening, when the last of the crowds have gone, I walk along the orange route through the trees to Laragh village, where I’ve seen there’s a highly rated convenience store. I’m determined that I need some fruit, veg, and proper food, but I end up with mainly Jelly Babies and walk back in the last light of the day along the mossy banks of the wooded route, stopping for a brief look at St Saviour’s Priory just off the path, set in its own little magic forest.

It’s been a happy day, despite not one full colour trail being complete.