I drove to the end of the world and climbed out to look at the Atlantic. Rain was on the way and I wanted to get going before it started. I don’t mind walking in the rain but I find it extremely hard to start when it is already coming down. If I’m out, I’m too stubborn to turn back but it’s a different matter if I’m in the cosy indoors looking out through a rain splattered window. It just never makes sense for me to leave comfort. Delphine and her mother drove off to look at the brightly coloured shops of Kinsale while I joined the trail behind the toilets at Bernie’s Cupan Tae shop.
I climbed quickly, eager to get to the top of Ballyroon Mountain. To my right was Dunmanus Bay. If I got to the top I would be able to see Bantry Bay too and further on, the Beara peninsula. By the time I got to the Camp, a lookout post from WW2, the cloud had dropped, avoiding any sort of romantic views, unless you have a thing for concrete architecture.
A few minutes later, the cloud had turned into moisture. I trudged on, stepping gingerly either side of the water that ran back down the trail from the top. I was in waterproof trail runners, my favoured footwear, but this was edging dangerously close to hiking boot territory. At one stage I was straddling the trail, walking like John Wayne. When I reached the trig point at the top, visibility was down to about 30m. Luckily, the Sheepshead Way is one of the best signposted trails in the world. No matter where I was, I could always see the next marker so I kept going. The rain finally stopped farting around and made honest folk of the forecasters. It arrived. I pulled my hood up and made my way to an old 17th century tower that had been blown down by a big wind years ago. A small flock of sheep stood nearby keeping an eye on a lamb.
It was downhill from there. It was watery in places where the trail ran through rough bog paths but it soon turned into a well maintained stone road. I clipped along nicely here, happy that my trail runners were back on something resembling solid ground and satisfied that my waterproofs were doing what they were designed to do. I came to a gate with a stile. Similar to the signage, I was impressed with the generous engineering involved here. Most wooden stiles that I cross tend to be on the delicate side. Some of them are held together by the fences they propose to cross and you have to be careful the whole contraption does not topple with you on it. The stiles on the Sheepshead Way are a credit to whoever maintains the route. They look inspired by old railway crossings and have a robustness that would not be out of place crossing the Mourne Wall.
This road brought me back down to cross the tarmac road I had driven here on. I turned left here and hung a quick right across the road to get back on the upland trail. This trail hugged a long ridge which meant it had more than your average runoff of water. I had to be careful where I stepped along here as the trail was broken up by random pools of water. One false step and I’d be nursing a squelchy foot for the rest of the journey. With each step I could feel the liquid underfoot spreading through the moss to make room room for my weight. I could nearly feel it urging me on – keep going, one more step, I will support you.
It was this section that I passed the only other walkers for the day – two women going in the direction of the lighthouse. We nodded in passing. Within that nod was an embarrassed acknowledgement that we belonged to a breed of people that considered stepping from clump to clump of rain sodden piece of bog as a good walk. I made it to the top and saw that the downward trail was practically a running stream. I made a few attempts to stay dry and gave up, walking downhill on tiptoes and thinking to myself it’ll be alright as long as my ankles don’t get too wet. At the bottom of this section I passed a sign for the Caherurlagh Marriage Stone. This sounded very interesting but at this stage I had my fill of the bog and I knew the way was going to swing down to the coast here.
I crossed a stone stile into a field, shooed a few cows out of my way and was back on the main road for a while heading towards Letterwest. One car passed me. I turned right again onto a smaller road that said Trá Ruaim and descended into a much different landscape surrounded by bright green fields. The small shit-splattered road led me to a pier with a river flowing into it. I listened to the soothing sound of the waves pulling the rocks in and out. A seal bobbed up and down in the bay. I wondered if it was looking at me and thinking what a strange creature I was wandering about on dry land on a pair of lanky limbs. If I wanted there was a headland loop to explore here but I was eager to make up some distance after the boggy trail. I followed the way markers through the fields and passed an old ruined cottage with the obligatory bathtub drinking trough.
I joined another small road again. This rose back up to the main road and from here I had my longest stretch of road walking, about 1.5km. I passed a couple of cyclists, a farmyard with a pretty large boat and the White House Gallery & Cafe which was closed. The rain started to ease off somewhere along here. The temperature rose and I walked alongside the remains of skeletal burnt bog. Then I turned right over a cattle grid and headed down a farm track towards another headland. The track went through low coppiced woodland but I could see green fields again leading down towards the shore. The air was heavy here and I’d say in the Summer it’s a haven for insects.
It was here that I saw a large bushy fox running across a field. The cows ignored it but it was the largest fox I have ever seen, big as a wolf with a fluffy tail that looked like it had been washed in coconut conditioner. It disappeared into the wooded area. I headed towards the sea feasting on the memory of the fox. The way skirted a farm, crossed a wooden bridge and ran around the shore for a while before cutting along fields again and joining a small road.
The road brought me to a collection of houses that looked like a glamping set up. From there it crossed fields again, skirted meadows and brought me through a field of sheep with new born lambs. This was why the trail was strictly no dogs allowed. The local farmers permitted access as long as this one rule was adhered too. It was not just farmers either. The way passed through at least two yards and gardens of private houses here before finally reaching a small road that led into the heart of Kilcrohane village.
I stopped in the Post Office in Kilcrohane for a cup of tea. I hadn’t intended to. I just went in to get a bar of chocolate or something but I found myself stuck like Oisín after stepping off his horse. Every available surface has something on it, even the ceilings (1970s t-shirts and rock album covers). A handwritten sign said something along the lines of “No, for the last time, I don’t take card”. I couldn’t see a cash register but there was definitely a heavy-duty ham slicer. It was hard to tell what was for sale and what belonged to the owner, Frank. A pair of American tourists came in and asked him if he remembered them as they had been there two years ago and they had a liking for ginger nut biscuits.
“Whereabouts in the States?” he asked them as if it made any difference.
“Minnesota”.
“Close enough to Fargo country” he replied. The way he said it was as if he was going to give them their biscuits because he admired not only their propensity for murder but their ability to make great TV about it. He had a chrome plated red coffee machine down the back so I asked him if I could have a cup of tea.
“That depends” says he, “on where your accent is from?”
“Meath”.
“It’s been a while since you lot had a cup”. Quick as a flash. “Not that we can talk either. Sit down there and I’ll make you a tea.”
He brought me down a pot of tea to the window seat I found. We started sussing each other out like most Irish people of a certain age do. We talked about where we emigrated to, what places we had fun in, what places we hated, who we knew in common until we had the measure of each other. He offered me a ham, cheese and mustard sandwich as he was making one himself and there was plenty leftover. I had my lunch in my bag so I declined and then he wouldn’t take any money for the tea. Frank’s Post Office shop is one of those places in Ireland that is rare in the modern world but you are delighted that it still hangs in there. I imagine that Fáilte Ireland would probably pay someone like Frank to be a tourist ambassador but I get the impression that he might not be too fond of sticking to the approved script.
I left the Post Office and walked down the road towards Ahakista munching on my own lunch – a hefty brie and salad sandwich that I had cobbled together from leftovers in the fridge that morning. The way turned right into a field and I headed down towards the shore again weaving my way through rushes towards the townland of Farranamanagh, which means the Place of the Monks. The cloud came down again and rain was not far off. I walked along an unusual stretch of coast. It was a sliver of land in between the sea and a lake. A herd of alpacas watched me from a nearby paddock. On their gate hung a few strange looking balls of woolly fiber that looked like pagan offerings but were for sale as bedding for birds nests. This is how I learned that Alpacas are bred for their luxurious wool, unlike llamas who are pack animals. The way crossed over the lake via some wet looking slabs and then ascended upwards along the headland.
The rain started to bucket down as I climbed up this trail. I passed a few old ruins before finally reaching the old bardic school at the top. This was a unique school for trainee bards. They came here from all over Europe to spend seven years training in metre and folklore before being sent out to work as medieval PR folk in the courts of the kings. The remains of the school look lonely and the glory days are long gone, replaced by digital Tik-tok influencers. I waited in one of the ruins until the rain died down and the clouds changed from black to a slighter shade of grey. On the path down the other side I passed the Poet’s Well which I was delighted to see had a few coins in its waters.
At the bottom of the trail I crossed the tarmac at Domnea and took to the old Kilcrohane to Ahakista road. This was the highlight of the walk for me. It was a green road, probably built for pony and carts originally. It was a pleasure to walk on. Stone walls and old telegraph poles ran along one side and the other side was the beginning flank of Rosskerrig Mountain. It was a good long stretch. I could feel the heat of the sun behind the clouds. Insects buzzed about and birds were busy in the abandoned fields. Water trickled along the road and probably under the road in places. I took my waterproofs off, stowed them away and sat on a wall for a few moments here enjoying the sounds of nature and taking in the views around me. There was probably more scenic places but I always enjoy a good empty road and I thought of all the people that would have walked these roads over the years. I took a few photos but as often happens in spots that I really enjoy, they didn’t really capture what it was really like.
The old road finally led down to the end of a paved cul de sac where new houses had popped up. A lot of the houses advertised rooms for holiday-makers. This brought me down to the entrance to Ahakista Stone Circle. The circle was nice enough but I was particularly impressed by the route up to it from the road. It led across a stream and then climbed up across huge slabs overgrown with trees that had buried their roots into cracks. Water gushed where it could and in places there were vertical waterfalls. If you believed in fairies, this would be a place you might go to watch out for them. I had another rest on the stone circle as I had promised myself to take time and enjoy just being in nature more often instead of always being on the go somewhere. The sun had come out and was actually blazing now. The view was probably better here. The ring of mountains around the circle opened the views upwards and the bay lay below but there were too many new houses dotted about for my liking. I climbed another hill from here but was not sure of my route in this section so I rejoined the road that I knew would take me to where I was staying in Rossnacaregh.
Google Maps: 51.545880844196816, -9.826439068930059
Distance: 30 km
Time: 7 hours
Type of walk: Uplands, bog, Open fields, coastal paths, road
Views: Mountains, sea
Animals: Sheep, seals, fox, cows, horses
Plant of the Day: Yellow Furze
Humans: 2 x hikers, 1 x Frank
Score: 10/10
A beautiful part of the world.
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