unironedman

IN WHICH WE TAKE TO THE HILLS IN ORDER TO TEST OURSELVES ONCE MORE AGAINST THE ELEMENTS, AND DISCOVER THAT THE ELEMENTS REALLY DON’T CARE WHAT THE HELL WE GET UP TO… ELEMENTS-1, HUMANS-0… EVERY TIME… BUT COULD SALVATION COME IN THE FORM OF A MAN SPORTING A BEARD ON WHICH KEIRA KNIGHTLEY ONCE CAVORTED? THE MOUNTAINS ARE CALLING – I MUST AWAY…

The plan to take on this long distance trail coalesced shortly after Dad passed away. I think the seed was sown in the funeral home in Lucan in January, though I didn’t know it at the time. My running friend and all-round decent skin, Jarlath, had arrived to pay his respects. Dad was laid out in his linen suit, as a nod towards Bloomsday. Very dapper indeed.

As Jarlath headed out the door, he suggested I join them for a few runs in the hills. Saoirse was very enthusiastic. It would be good for me to get out with a few running folk, and try something new. These sorts of plans are often bandied around, but Jarlath is not one to idly toss out suggestions. He follows up.

Not long after, I was invited to join a WhatsApp group for those keen to run in the local mountains of Dublin and Wicklow. February 2nd, to be exact. And shortly after, I was car-sharing with a few other keen runners, and I was introduced – inducted, perhaps – into the wily ways of mountain running.

Prep for the Wicklow Way was less than glorious. As the Spring gave way to Summer, the running continued, but my casual approach to training (with a view to not over-training) had a little too much emphasis on ‘casual’, and not enough on ‘training’. (And there was the added temptation of drinking beer, since the shackles of the fire service have been removed). The metrics do suggest I was getting in some miles, and some of these were in the mountains, which was important, but compared to other ultra events I’ve taken on, I don’t believe I had done enough. But it would have to do.

The big day, despite its rather obvious place in the calendar, seemed to sneak up on me. It may be a feature of May into June generally. You wait for the weather to improve, look out for your favourite wildflowers, look forward to those longer evenings, and suddenly, it’s the first week of June, and some eejit reminds you that in about two weeks, the nights will be getting longer again…

Perhaps I’ve become used to taking on these events later on in the year. Dublin Marathon, for instance, is at the end of October.

Never mind.

The bulk of the prep was done, really. The last piece of the puzzle was to get a couple of T-shirts and hats for the occasion. I fiddled with the design for a while, and the last little thing I dropped in to the layout was a small silhouette of a Raven. They are a feature of running in the mountains, and you will often hear them calling to each other when you are out and about. You won’t get too close to them, but it’s wonderful to see them soaring and rolling over the valleys.

Fans of Irish mythology would be familiar with the Raven and its place in folklore. Typically, the triple goddess Morrígan could shape-shift into one, and famously, a Raven landed on Cú Chulainn’s shoulder as he nears death. The root of these stories tends to be found in something reasonably obvious; in this case, corvids (crows) are opportunistic feeders, and some have been labelled as lovers of carrion (the Carrion Crow being the obvious one). There are plenty of ‘carrion luggage’ gags out there. And whilst I’m on the subject, the ‘matter of a pinion’ gag is not true (see https://www.aap.com.au/factcheck/viral-crow-joke-murders-the-truth-with-featherbrained-claim/) though it is a funny one. Just be prepared to be corrected by an ornithologist at a party one evening… Or indeed, by me 😉

Bottom line, there’s a Raven on the T-shirt. It’s not macabre. It’s nature. And Dad would have appreciated it.

I suppose I had better explain the Wicklow Way, then. It is billed as ‘the oldest and the most scenic long distance linear walk in Ireland’. As with all things Irish, you cannot find agreement on the actual distance of this thing, but the generally accepted figure is 80 miles, or 130 kilometres.

There is no official website for the Way, as far as I can tell. This one (www.wicklowway.com) would fool you, but it’s run by a travel company. It’s old and creaky and needs some updating. It turns out this would be useful advice for several sections of the actual route, but more on that as we potter along. Another option is this one from Sport Ireland, and it mentions boreens (more on those shortly) and the total ascent of 2,820 metres. It grades the route as ‘strenuous’.

The run-up to the attempt (did you just say ‘run-up’? ed) was enveloped in the most glorious weather. Much of May and the first few weeks of June will be remembered fondly by many in Ireland, except, logically, the farmers, who needed some rain, and the students sitting state exams, because regardless of how lovely it is outside, it always rains on the last day of exams. This year proved that maxim once again.

As the week neared its end, rumours of rain began to surface. And then the rain would be turning into heavy showers, and then heavy downpours with thunder. An emergency meeting with all the crew and participants was hastily convened (well, okay, I sent Gary a WhatsApp message…).

A quick conversation concluded with the sensible decision to delay the start from Friday evening to Saturday afternoon. It turned out to be a wise enough call, as the heavens opened overnight and everything got a really good soaking.

The last call for ‘stuff’ was made on Friday, and by Saturday morning, numerous labelled boxes took over the whole dining table at home. Two large boxes for running clothes, another for food, one for camping gear (not that we were camping, per se, but we did bring a gas stove and some pans), and various smaller boxes with first aid, gels, creams, ointments, lights, etc. I knew we were carrying more than we would need, but as the old saying goes: better to be looking at it than looking for it.

Gary arrived, and the packing commenced, and shortly we were off on our adventure. The spin down was reasonably uneventful. As we neared Carlow and the little village of Clonegal, we could see rain clouds beginning to gather over the higher peaks. But for now, the rain was staying away, and it was very warm with little breeze.

We parked up opposite the trailhead: a little green area in which lives the official information board for the Way. A local gent was out mowing the grass. This would add a rich layer of sound to the video clips of the start 😉

We had a couple of minutes to get a few words in on camera, and then Gary reminded me to set up the watch, which I had forgotten to do. And as any runner knows, a watched Garmin never boils. Or something like that. It’s not my best metaphor. It duly beeped as it finally found a satellite it could work with, and a few seconds later, without any fanfare at 4pm (we had forgotten to hire the brass band), I was on my way. A few seconds after that, I remembered to actually start the watch…

It was going to be a long day.

Gary and I had recced this section of the route for the first 26k, so I was comfortable with the directions. The first mile or two is along a quiet country road, and without any fuss, you slip out of Carlow and into Wicklow, and soon after, you begin your first climb. It’s a modest-enough stretch, skirting the flanks of Urelands Hill, and Garmin tells me it topped out at 264m. This would be the first of many Sitka Spruce plantations along the route.

Behind me, the clouds were gathering. The weather ahead looked promising, but a rumble of thunder sounded a note of caution. No lightning that I could see for now. A pause. The surrounding countryside seemed to pause in sympathy. A collective holding of breath. Another rumble; louder this time. I kept moving. The rain seemed to be holding off. For now.

I had a thought that I might see a deer around the next corner. The next corner came, and sure enough, there was a deer. I’m not sure that it counts as a premonition, because deer are a common sight in the hills of the Wicklow Way, plus I’m not a fan of the supernatural. But I had little chance to ponder the possibilities, because Gary was up ahead, filming me as I approached, and as he hit the record button, the loudest crack of thunder I have ever experienced split the sky in half overhead. We did what any ultra-runner would do in the midst of such potential threat, and kept running, hoping it might pass overhead. We reached the gate at the end of the forest road and had a short break. I pushed on, and within a minute, the weather gods decided my first warning hadn’t been severe enough, and a crack of lightning hit the fence to my right and the simultaneous thunder didn’t rumble so much as explode. By my reckoning, I was a couple of yards away from getting cooked.

Without warning, the rain came down in torrents. I ducked under a tree, and Gary arrived in the car and I dived in, already rather wet.

Nothing for it but to wait it out. And hope that this might be the worst of the weather for the journey.

After a few false dawns, as the cloud briefly broke to reveal a tiny patch of blue (‘enough for a sailor’s suit’, as my Dad liked to say), the rain eventually eased and petered out, and I set off again on the steaming tarmac.

Soon I was back into the second climb, but not before I had taken out the emergency rain poncho. Not a bad piece of kit, for what is essentially a foil blanket with a hood and arms. But the storm had headed off to find other victims, and left us with a gentle enough misty drizzle as I climbed up a rather steep path towards Aghowle Upper. 358m this time. I was glad of our previous recce, as there are a few junctions along the fire roads here, and the waymarking has seen better days. This would be a feature of the journey; marker posts that were installed possibly decades ago that have been swallowed up by bracken and gorse and scrub, whilst the roads themselves have subtly shifted like a stream bed over time. Without doubt, the Way could do with an overhaul and some new signage, and some old marker posts replaced.

The second climb negotiated, it was back out on the roads again. But in fairness, they were remarkably quiet and devoid of traffic, even for a Saturday afternoon.

There are a few more climbs as you skirt north around Cronelea Hill before plunging down into the valley between this and Muskeagh Hill where you will find The Dying Cow. This is a little gem of a pub, but you will have to make a sterling effort to get there, as it is one of those places that is not really on a main thoroughfare. Not counting the Wicklow Way, of course, and doubtless it brings in some business. But as Gary and I settled down to tea and biscuits, it was already busy with locals and more were arriving by taxi. It looked like it was going to be a good night’s craic, but alas, we would have to leave it all behind.

This may or may not come as news to Gary at this point, but I was feeling rather awful. I’m not sure what the issue was, as we were only 26k into the run. My stomach was off, and I was feeling seedy. The thought of carrying on for another hundred kilometres was not helping, not least given that we would be travelling through the night. But it was far too soon into the day to call a halt to proceedings. So I hoped this planned break and some sustenance would help.

The next leg of the journey was uncharted territory for me, at least. As I plodded along, the rain decided to stay away. Somewhere along this road, I found a sodden fiver which I stuffed into some pocket of my hydration vest. It is still there. I must fish it out.

The route dives off the roads and here perhaps is the first stretch that feels like a ‘way’ should feel. Off-road, clearly, but also not a fire road, and no Sitka plantations. Instead, as I enjoyed this more rugged experience (a fox darted across my path at one point), I was reminded, as I rounded the bend of this sunken path, why Irish roads are called bóthar…

(It derives from bó, meaning cow, and essentially a bóthar is a cattle track. The diminuative in Irish adds ín to the end of a word, so a small cattle track was a bóithrín. This exists today, but you will find it written as boreen. If you are on one, you will generally know it; it may be arm’s-width wide, and there will be grass growing down the middle. There are other basic rules that define it as a boreen, such as Rule #23: You must meet a tractor on your journey, necessitating a five minute reverse as you pray for a lay-by, and Rule #34: if you haven’t stepped in cow shit yet, you will. I can post you the full list of rules if you send me twenty quid in an SAE…)

…As I was saying, there in my path was a large cow. Not a bull, at least, but neither was she for moving. I clambered up the side of the hill and made my way around her. As I dropped down onto the path and rounded the next bend, there were more cattle and calves. One needs to be a little careful when youngsters are involved, and there were a few shaky moments until I passed over a gate and found more solid ground again.

Somewhere near Cross Bridge, I managed to slip past Gary due to a short cut. In my defense, it was waymarked as the Wicklow Way, and apparently it takes out a short section of road, which is never a bad thing. Unless your SAG wagon is awaiting for you on that road, of course…

The next few sections took me back upland again, and there were some proper little trails. As I recall, there was one particular stretch that seemed to consist of nothing but gates. Jog for a hundred yards, climb over a gate. Rinse. Repeat. Another stretch played hide and seek amongst thick bracken. But it was a pleasant way to while away the evening. I could hear a pair of Ravens calling to each other as the light slowly leaked out of the day.

If I recall correctly, we had a stop here somewhere near a stream, and I changed into some trail runners and brought the trekking poles with me.

The darkness descended along with a gentle mist, and to complete the picture, I was encircled in a thick forest of spruce as I circled around Garryhoe Hill. The head torch would pick out a pair of eyes under the layers of pine. Fox? Badger? Deer? Most likely deer, but I generally pushed on and left them to their nocturnal activities.

Our first serious stopping point was at Iron Bridge over the River Ow. It was fully dark, but Gary had everything laid out nicely, and the pot was on to boil. I wasn’t sure what to have, and Gary suggested a quick pot of instant mash and onions which was agreeable enough. The remainder of the water provided a cup of tea, and then I slipped away as Gary mentioned the next check-in point before Glenmalure. It was only about 7k away but this relatively short leg turned into the most trying part of the journey.

As with most problems on these trips, things start to go wrong when you miss your turn. I ploughed on up the road, waiting for the familiar signpost which never materialised. I stopped and checked the phone. No signal. I reached a fire road, which by my reckoning could have been the left turn I needed… I dithered.

I decided to try the fire road. Surely there would be some signage eventually. Alas no, and the road came to a dead end in the middle of a forest plantation. Retrace my steps. Check my phone. Still no signal. No friendly little blue dot overlaid on a blue line to comfort and reassure. Just a slightly soggy map booklet, sworn to silence, giving me few clues to the error of my ways.

I reached the road again, and went left. At some point, I came to a stop, clearly knowing that I was wrong. And with the realisation that I would soon reach and pass the point in time where Gary would be expecting me. But with no way to contact him, for now, I could do no more than at least try and find the right path and hope it would also take me out of this black spot in terms of communications. Our ‘tether’ was a shared location on WhatsApp; fine when there is a good signal. Without it, Gary would be in the dark as to my location. The only chance of finding me would be to start from the last known location and work on from there. But that assumes that the person you are looking for has not strayed from the path. And with the Way, there are numerous opportunities to stray, as I found out.

It was three in the morning.

There was nothing for it but to retrace my steps back to Iron Bridge. With about a hundred yards to go to the spot where all had been an oasis of warmth, mash and tea, I spied the brown sign in a thicket of bracken and gorse. A few steps later, there was the path, rather buried into the hillside. At least one half of the problem was solved; I was back on track. Now I had to wait for a signal to warn Gary not call out the search party.

[I had a look at the route in the aftermath, and reckon I did at least 5k extra…]

As I climbed up out and away from my first mishap, the phone started to ping as numerous messages from Gary started to arrive.

The climb took me past the first of three comfort huts. I wouldn’t call them bothies, as they tend to be actual cottages with some comforts. These are steel sheds, open on to the pathway. That said, ideal for a group of hikers who fancy stopping and maybe frying up a few sausages. But tonight there would be no stopping. Another day, perhaps.

There is a stiff climb away from Mucklagh Hut before the path drops down out of the woods and below I could see a torch which could only be Gary coming up to meet me on the fire road. It was a relief to be back in touch once more, though he did warn me that the next turn off was equally tricky to find. We agreed that the next decent stop would be Glenmalure – the halfway point along the Way.

There was a short stretch of road, and then a waymarker seemed to randomly point off to the left into a wide expanse of heather. A closer look revealed a narrow path. Odd. But Google Maps concurred. It ran parallel to the road for a while, then darted off to join a forest road which wound upwards past Slieve Maan. 518m on the elevation chart.

I am back on a classic fire road. There has been a lot of clear-felling here, and the results (though I cannot see much in the gloom) make for an equally gloomy spectacle. A few shattered stumps remain, and the odd, bizarre bare and blasted slender trunk of a pine stands as a lonely sentinel amongst the carnage. Yes, I get this is forestry. It’s planted for a reason, and you cannot get timber without cutting down some trees. But I can’t help feeling there isn’t a better way to do this business. Certainly a more mixed woodland would help, and a different programme of felling and planting. But that is an argument for another day, and so I climb on.

Over to the right, beyond the valley, lies Fananierin Ridge, under a layer of cloud. Everything is soft and dark and there is no clarity. But the darkness is gradually lifting. The path winds around to the left and suddenly the twinkling lights of Glenmalure Lodge are revealed below in the river valley.

But the route is tortuous and twisting and reminds me of the siren song of Roundstone during the latter stages of the Connemara 100. Like a mirage in a desert, each step just seems to move the oasis one step further away…

I feel like a pilot, low on fuel, circling the runway, awaiting permission to land.

Gary has parked up near the bridge over the Glenmalure River. I slump down onto the cooler box that doubles as a seat and have some porridge. The Lodge, despite its many lights, seems to be slumbering. But the local midge population have learned of my arrival and are out in force to greet me. I spray on plenty of repellent but it only seems to encourage them. Wicklow midges are made of sterner stuff.

Gary cheerfully points out that the next stage is the longest spell without a meeting point, and as it nears Mullacor, will top out on the Way at about 570m – the second-highest point. Indeed, the climb up out of Glenmalure is a stiff one, and unrelenting. I pass another hut, and the climbing continues. The poles are a godsend and I am glad to have them.

I climb above the treeline and the Way darts to the right up a final steep ascent to the left of Mullacor peak before dropping back onto fire roads which twist and turn as we head towards Glendalough. There is no glorious sunrise, and as the morning continues, it reveals expanses of clear-felled Sitka Spruce. The smell is magnificent, but the sight is horrendous. I know what is up ahead as I have been along the Spinc route a couple of times recently, and I keep thinking I will recognise a view as I round a bend. But each twist just reveals more shattered tree stumps and more fire road. Once more, I find that a little knowledge can be frustrating.

The day is well and truly upon us. The birds have woken up and are getting on with their business. I plod on and finally I see a sign for Poulanass Waterfall and I know where I am. This is a path I normally ascend, but today I am dropping down towards Glendalough. I reach the main tarmac pathway from the visitor centre to the lakes, and there is Gary; fair play to him – he has decided to give the legs a good stretch, and I appreciate the company as we make it back to the car.

I am feeling fairly shattered, and whilst it may be tempting to think we were in striking distance from home, the truth is that we have covered 85k (including diversions) and still have a long trek to get to the finish. We have another stop and some sustenance, and I suggest to Gary that I take a 15 minute break in the car. A sudden shower of rain makes the decision for us, and Gary sets an alarm to make sure I don’t overdo it. I get about a quarter of an hour of disturbed rest; somewhere between fitful daydreaming and not-quite-sleep.

It seems to do the trick. Whilst the first few minutes away from the car are rather groggy, the body appreciates the brief stopover, and responds well, despite the climb up out of the valley floor.

And the Way itself responds in kind by offering one of the more appealing sections. There is a thick cover of old-growth trees here, along the slopes, and the shade underneath has provided the perfect ecosystem for moss. The understorey is thick with the stuff, and the cool and shade are welcome. There is a short climb before a drop back down towards Laragh village, and then the Way crosses the Glenmacnass River. I managed to miss another turn here, but my mishap was relatively short and quickly corrected.

The last of the three huts (Brusher Gap Hut) come and go as I climb out of the valley towards Oldbridge. We pass through a field and I meet another intrepid traveller who seems to be seven parts madder than me, which is always encouraging. Signs of civilisation are appearing. Some campers. A few trail runners. More houses dotted along the Way. I cannot see Lough Dan, though I know it’s there somewhere. But I can spot a large gathering of folk off in the distance to the right. It must be some sort of festival. Sure enough, we have caught the tail-end of Beyond the Pale. As with a lot of festivals these days, I scan the line-up the following week, and I am lucky if I recognise one out of twenty acts…

The road rises and falls and in truth I find it more hardship than a decent climb. But we potter on. Soon, Gary appears as an outrider from his carefully laid-out command post at Oldbridge. I strip off my shoes and socks to reveal rather raw-looking feet, but the coolness underfoot is welcome. I think the Saucony Peregrines have done the most damage by way of blistering. I add a few blister patches and change into a different pair of trail runners to see if that will help.

Now begins what is the longest continuous climb towards the highest part of the Way. The trails give way to road and another stiff hike. There is some disparity here between the maps, and I haven’t quite got to the bottom of the confusion here, other than to say it would appear that there a few variations possible at this point. To the right is Ballinastoe Woods, and off to the left, wide and expansive views over Luggala Estate and beyond. I climb and climb and climb some more. I have only ever done this route before by car, and it somehow seems so much easier when you are strapped to an internal combustion engine.

Before we reach the famous viewing point over Lough Tay (the location for Kattegat in the Vikings TV series), the Way heads off to the right, and again, I find myself slightly off-course. This fools Gary, who is patiently waiting for me at the right location, but undeterred, he tracks me down. We agree not to tarry here; the sun is up, the day is getting busy, and we are on one of the most popular stretches of the Wicklow Way. The route passes over a flat stretch of featureless blanket bog using the dual railway sleeper method. There are quite a lot of walkers out and about, so one must step off the trackway frequently.

Djouce is shrouded in cloud today, so it’s no harm that the official route skirts this mountain peak at 725m. Still, we get to about 626m, according to the watch, and the path here is rugged and challenging, with great views off to the right. I can’t recall if this is the first time I have glimpsed the sea, but the geography sits about right in my head.

The route starts to drop towards Powerscourt, and I have done this leg before, so I find it a comfort, knowing where things are.

The Way drops once more into the River Dargle valley, but I know what’s coming; a short but savage climb back out of this very scenic spot. The Way is busier than ever know, as walkers enjoy the fine weather; many are probably heading for Djouce. I hope it clears for them.

I’m sweating heavily as I reach the top, and to my surprise, Gary is there, and we join forces to take the path overlooking Powerscourt Waterfall – always a popular destination for tourists.

We stop to take a few obligatory shots of the panorama below, and then head on down to the car park. Once again, as it was with Glendalough, I find that perhaps a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, as I keep expecting the car park to materialise around the next bend, and when it doesn’t, I silently curse my poor memory. I suppose, in my defence, I only did this route once before, and today, my mind is rather addled. But in the end, the Crone Wood car park finally shows itself through the trees, and while Gary gets out a few things, I hobble down to the mobile coffee van and treat myself to a hot chocolate.

I picked at a few bits of food and finished my drink, and then I am back on the trail again. I also recced this section with Jarlath and Gary earlier in the year, specifically for this task, so once again, I am happy that at least I shouldn’t get lost. There is a short stretch of road before the Way drops down to the Glencree River.

The day is hot, and I would love nothing more than to strip off and submerge myself in one of its deeper pools. But we need to press on; my greatest fear on this outing was not to travel through the night once, but to have to possibly do it a second time. I really needed to avoid that, not just for me, but for Gary and my family, some of whom were hoping to meet me at the end.

There is a rather strenuous climb out of the valley, followed by some fire road, and then another more pleasing (at least to the eye) climb through the woods to find yet another fire road. The next location I will be familiar with is Curtlestown Wood car park. Beyond that, there is another stretch I have not covered. That will be Prince William’s Seat. From a cursory glance at the history of this place, it’s possible the name is a corruption of Fitzwilliam, a wealthy family who owned the lands in the 1700s. There is a granite tor at the top of the peak which is known as the seat, and although the Way does not pass it by, I can see from pictures that it looks identical to the ones found at Three Rock.

But before I can experience any of this 470m climb, I must actually do the work. This will be the last serious climb of the Way, even though there is a higher peak awaiting at Two Rock and Fairy Castle. From the river at Glencree to the seat, there is a good 370 metres of elevation to tackle; over 100 metres more than what the last climb will entail.

The Prince William’s Seat climb starts on fire roads amongst some handsome Scots Pine, before taking on some rocky paths. It looks to all the world like someone took huge slabs of worn granite and made a hasty staircase through the trees. I suspect this isn’t what happened, but you’ll have to visit yourself and make up your own mind.

At the summit, you pass from Wicklow into Dublin. In truth, perhaps summit is not the right word, as nearly all of the peaks in this range, bar the Sugarloaf, are well-worn and rounded granite that was formed over 400 million years ago. For many of Wicklow’s ‘peaks’, you reach the top without realising it, and then you start to head back down again…

There is a long drop down into the next valley and the Glencullen River where Gary awaits for our last rendezvous point.

I am tempted more than ever to strip off and lie down in the river bed and let the water wash over me. I know it would lift my spirits, and maybe only add another ten minutes to the journey, and in reality, nobody is really watching the clock anymore. But it would be a huge indulgence at this late stage, nor, I suspect, would Gary be interested in the spectacle.

I promise to meet him at the end, and push on up the hill towards the rather busy road to Glencullen. It may only be about 2 kilometres of tar to contend with, but there is no footpath, and it’s rather unpleasant – fast cars, speedy bikes, blazing sun – and I am pleased when I can finally get off the road once more, even though I know this means the beginning of our final climb.

I have the Way to myself for now, and after a trek up the side of Two Rock, the Way splits: left is the Wicklow Way, and right, the Dublin Mountains Way. This is where the Way and I part company, and I head on up towards the cairn known as Fairy Castle. Somewhere along this path, the phone rings. It’s Gary. I have some bad news, he says. For some reason, I do not feel too despondent. Go ahead, what’s the problem? 

It turns out Marlay Park is closed for a gig. Damn. We hadn’t thought of that. It is a popular Summer open air concert venue. So it was looking like our big finish through the famous granite stile at the Dublin trailhead would not now happen.

But Gary also let me know that Tamsyn and Saoirse had arrived, and that Saoirse was trying to work her magic.

I hung up and kept moving. The path down from Two Rock is tricky enough to manage, so I went steady. The trail drops down towards Three Rock, which I could see peeking through the gaps in the trees and various telecom structures. I won’t be visiting today but salute it from a distance as I turn for Ticknock Forest and the last drop on the journey.

I take the tarred road, and for some reason, I cannot find the route Gary and I took when we did our recce some months back. I pass a woman and ask her if this road will lead me to the car park. Indeed it will, she cheerfully replies, and I push on. I am back running now, and the end is in sight (in a metaphorical sense). Worst case scenario, I think to myself, is that we can all meet at the house on Ticknock Road. That would be fitting enough.

It turns out the end was also near for my watch. The trusty Garmin Forerunner 55 which had been running dutifully away on my left wrist since 4pm the previous evening gave a last beep and promptly died. I wondered if it had saved? No time to worry about that now (no time? really? ed)

I fired up the old Garmin 910XT and for shits and giggles, also started up Smart Runner on the iPhone. Once both were up and running, so was I, and soon the car park came into view, and with it, Ticknock Road.

I paused outside Dad’s old homestead and had a few words, and then it was time to take it on home, so to speak. Gary appeared one last time at the end of Ticknock Road, and we walked the last kilometre or so towards Marlay Park.

The corner gate we had taken the previous time was open to the public, so we slipped into the grounds without any trouble. As we made our way back on the official Way one last time, we started to see the various crowd barriers that were part of the concert.

With about a hundred metres to go, the way was barred, but there were Tamsyn and Saoirse, and so too was an old friend, Carl Geoghagan. Carl is an all-round super bloke, and he also has the most wonderful beard. I first met Carl when I was doing Viking re-enactments about 25 years ago, and we ended up working on a film set together (along with, it must be said, just about every other half-decent Irish re-enactor in the country…). The film was King Arthur, and I have written a little bit about that experience here. Long story short, one of the assistant directors was looking for a really decent beard amongst us Anglo-Saxon types. Many lads were wearing fake ones from hair and makeup, Luckily, I had grown my own, but Carl’s was far superior. What did they need it for? Well, just a fight scene where Keira Knightly has to fall down on the corpse of a Saxon warrior, albeit for about two seconds. But as you know, two seconds of film can take a long time to put together, especially when it’s stunt work. So Carl spent the afternoon with Keira lying on top of him in various positions. And he got paid too. Nice work, if you can get it.

Carl was grinning from ear to ear. I gave him a big hug. He pointed to the stile, and I made one last run.

Watches were stopped. Pictures were taken. A security guy came by with a bottle of water. Nice touch. Saoirse had clearly sent her incantations into the wind, and Carl was the answer. To top it off, Carl had his energetic collie dog with him, who just wanted you to throw things so he could fetch them. I sense he would do this all day if you had the time. Would that I had an ounce of his energy!

Stopping now could only mean one thing; the body was seizing up. But the atmosphere was great. We had made it all the way, despite a few wrong turns (all my fault). Gary had been fantastic and kept me going with effortless good cheer and meticulous preparation. (Gary added a note here to say …’maybe not so meticulous but we’ll get it right next time?’ Next time? Hello?!).

So home, then, and the boxes were unceremoniously dumped in the hall for later attention. The bath is calling, and I must away…

Gary’s Tale

I asked Gary if he would like to add his comments, feedback and general thoughts about the journey. He threaded his replies to my blog draft, and I have compiled them here:

Re: Saoirse’s enthusiasm for me to go running in the hills…

Smart arse comment: I’m sure Saoirse was very enthusiastic, sure what wife doesn’t like to get the husband from out under their feet… that said getting out and trying something new is one thing, leaping to running the entire Wicklow Way in under 6 months is quite another.

Re: the original recce plan…

I had devised an entire plan in which we would recce the entire route over several weeks, preparing us both nicely for the run, getting to know the route, the meet up points and places we could get supplies if necessary. Enthusiasm was there early on as we covered two of the stretches (the first and last) but alas the 95km in between never got a look in unfortunately. 

Re: delaying the start by a day…

I laboured over my reply back to you pushing the start back to Saturday. The logical side of my brain knew straight away that pushing it back made a lot more sense but there was an eagerness in me just to get going on the Friday. Thankfully logic won out on this one, which is so rarely the case and the result for me was I managed to get an extra decent night of sleep, attend and run Griffeen parkrun’s 10th birthday event, better prepare my own supplies and study the OS Discovery series maps of Wicklow. All round I was in a better position for the Saturday start. I even had the time to get GPS coordinates for all my planned rest stops and share them with Declan. Had we gone on the Friday I would have been doing a lot more of this off the cuff. 

Re: all that gear…

Never underestimate how much stuff crew can carry for themselves. I had a large yellow cooler box full of snacks and drinks, a small bag of techie equipment including head torches, powerbanks, charger cables, a decently equipped first aid kit as well as a running gear bag of my own in case I got the opportunity to go for a run. This was on top of everything that Declan already has and even made provision for stuff he may need himself even though I knew he too was carrying more than both of us would need. The convenience of having a SAG wagon is you can fill it to the brim and hopefully never find yourself short. 

Re: the start…

The start of any solo endeavour like this is always a bit surreal to me. Many of us have stood at the start of a big city marathon where there is always a nervous energy hanging in the air, whereas on a day like today it was just a matter of counting down the seconds and then saying to the runner “off you pop”, I’ll see you down the road. I took a few moments back at the car to make sure I had everything and then headed down the road Declan was running, beeped the horn as I passed and headed for my first planned aid station.

Re: that thunderstorm…

Part of the fun of crewing an event like this is finding a place to park and stay out of the way. The other bit of fun is seeing how far off the runners route you may have to drive to get to the next point where both road and way meet. It can vary as to who can have the more direct route. The first aid station was at a trail head 10km from where we started with plenty of room to park up. I could hear the thunder rolling in but with no rain I had some time to open the boot and back doors of the car and sort through all the well labelled boxes. I mixed an energy source drink for Declan as I munched my way through a ploughmans sandwich. With that done I took a short wander back up the way and met Declan coming down the trail in good spirits. It was a quick turn-around at the car, a swap of drinks bottles and off he went with no idea what lay in store in the next few minutes. 

With Declan headed off down the road and the next stop only a few km down the road I wasn’t in a hurry packing up the car until the sky opened up in a flash. I knew that if Declan was out long in that it would have long term implications so I jumped in the car knowing I could at least provide some shelter until this passed. I accelerated away from where I was parked but within seconds was back down to a crawl, I couldn’t see outside the windscreen even with the wiper blades going full tilt, I had no idea where Declan may have dived for cover so my concern suddenly became that I could actually hit him. I missed the lightning strike that hit very close as I drove past him under a tree and slammed on the breaks so he could run over and jump in. 

I doubt Declan was out in the rain for more than 90 seconds but he was soaked through. Thankfully I was able to offer him the comfort of heated seats to help dry off while we waited out the worst of the storm. 

Re: our second pit stop…

As I saw Declan approach our second rest stop in his orange poncho all I could think of was that he was only missing his sash and bowler cap. Again this was just a quick bottle swap as I sat in a local’s driveway and off he set, the weather improving and Declan’s mood seeming upbeat. 

Re: The Dying Cow…

Given the 35 minute break where rain stopped play after the first aid station it was nearly 8pm when Declan reached me at the Dying Cow. The pub was lively for a place in the middle of nowhere and I was eyed with curiosity as I ordered a pot of tea and 2 bags of crisps. When I mentioned I had a runner on the way, the locals turned back to their pints, I would guess that they are used to crazed travellers passing through these parts. When Declan arrived the pot was ready and while he tucked into a biscuit I did note that he had no interest in the salty bag of crisps. My experience of ultra-running is that it is an eating contest with intervals of running. Even as a crew member I had already taken on more calories up to this point than Declan had. Of course the tea made sense for me, I was driving, but if I thought I could have gotten a pint of Guinness into Declan I would have. Subconsciously I knew things weren’t rosey in the garden but as far as I could see Declan was taking on fluids, the energy source has plenty of carbs, so to voice any concern would only be to acknowledge an issue which as travellers with many miles to go we both knew was best ignored, at least for now. 

Re: Carb-loading for Gary, and our first decent pit stop…

Now here is a point where I must make a confession. After Declan left the Dying Cow I took a spin into the village of Tinahely where I stopped in a Chinese takeaway and pick up two 3in1’s, a carb loading delight of chips, fried rice and curry sauce. Not fully sure of how Declan’s stomach was doing on energy source alone I thought a warm solid meal might be more attractive than the salty crisps. I then proceeded out the R747 main road and parked up where I presumed he would be passing. I tucked in and savoured my 3in1 but as the time passed on and Declan didn’t appear I felt something wasn’t 100%. Thankfully Chinese food trays tend to retain their heat. I waited a few more minutes and decided to drive a little way up the road. I had only turned the corner 100m from where I was parked to see a very clear way marker for the Wicklow Way. Without a doubt Declan took that turn and was already well on his way to the next meeting point. As Declan had now left the accessible roads there was no point me trying to catch him so I just text to say I had missed him and would meet him at the next scheduled point. I drove around some small windy country lanes getting to the next spot but when I got there, there was a nice lane by a stream to park up and largely unpack a variety of supplies ready for when he arrived. As I waited I went back to the maps to find that I was entirely in the wrong. Both on the GPS route we were following and on the OS maps, the Wicklow Way always took that earlier turn and didn’t drop down as far as where I had parked. Mea culpa as they say. It served as a reminder to more diligent, especially as we were now heading into the night and undoubtedly some level of fatigue was setting in for us both. Before long Declan descended from the hills to the little lane by the stream and we swapped out gear for the night shift. It was just coming up to 10pm and the light was starting to fade. 

Re: Iron Bridge, and that Wrong Turn…

I managed to fit in about 30 minutes sleep after parking up at Iron Bridge and woke with a much needed second wind. I cheated slightly when it came to putting the water on the boil, I had stopped in a garage a few hours previously and managed to fill a thermos flask with boiling water so it only needed a quick top up on the gas burner. As always we discovered we didn’t have a luxury that would have been handy, a small camping chair, so Declan had to make do with my cooler box as his seat. Unfortunately Declan didn’t have any interest with a now cold Chinese dinner so I managed to entice him with an instapot I had picked up on Friday which had no appeal to me now (for I had eaten the second 3in1 tray). It was good to take a small break here and knowing that the next aid station was only 5k up the road, I would have a good eye on Declan’s progress through the night. 

…

It was 3 in the morning and we had yet to reach half way. I had left Declan an hour ago at Iron Bridge with a distance of 5k to travel, a distance at this stage Declan should be covering in 45 minutes even allowing for hills and darkness. I was growing increasingly uneasy and also rather frustrated with technology. For all the equipment, watches, phones, trackers we had with us, all were rendered useless with the absence of phone signal. The car was parked in off the road so I grabbed a small bit of kit and hiked in the way I would expect Declan to come. I checked regularly to see if his location updated on the location app but alas nothing and I had no way of knowing if my messages had reached him. As the time reached 90 minutes I pondered the possibility that he had advanced beyond the meeting point before I got there and may well be half way to Glenmalure at this stage, the drive from Iron Bridge to where I was parked did seem to take an age. I walked up and back the darkened track along where I expected to meet Declan several times. I contemplated moving on to Glenmalure in hope of more consistent phone signal at least knowing that Declan would be able to communicate with me at some point rather than staying in the black hole of where I was. I knew Declan had his wits about him, I was unaware of any major potential hazard in the area that was likely to endanger him, all the same it is hard not to be concerned when you don’t know where your ward is and have no means to communicate. I would give it 15 more minutes and then make a move to Glenmalure for better comms. 

At last two text messages delivered in quick succession “Sorry. Went wrong. Back on track now.” “All good” and a screenshot of his current location less than 3k away from where I was. I turned on my heels and headed back up the track. It didn’t take long before I saw a head torch coming my way. Communications had been re-established. Had we recced the full route in daytime as I had planned, we might have avoided this slightly stressful adventure in the night but lesson learned, another memorable tale to tell, we were back on track and moving on to Glenmalure again.  

Re: Glenmalure pit stop…

It didn’t take long for me to get to Glenmalue and find a small gateway to park in and get the gas burner on again. Dawn was slowly approaching and I knew that here was probably the best point to swap out the night gear again and give Declan the option of some porridge to sustain him for the climb towards Glendalough. When Declan arrived he misjudged where the cooler box was to sit and first sat into one of his own gear boxes. It was a sign of a fatigued mind, but it also showed the body was in good shape as he had no issue in getting back out of the box. Food and tea on board, a new bottle of energy source in hand, Declan was ready to set off for the longest stretch without support.

Re: Glendalough…

It didn’t take long for me to make it into Glendalough and I reckoned I had about 2 hours before Declan would reach me so I parked up right on the Wicklow Way right in a spot that you couldn’t pass the car without seeing it and chanced a nap. I had 90 minutes of solid sleep in the blissful ignorance of Declan’s progress. My wife would have even less pity later reminding me that this was his idea in the first place. Well rested and bright outside again and with sufficient phone reception that I could follow the blue dot moving towards my location I took the opportunity to take a wander by the lower lake. 

Back at the car and sure that Declan must be tired of energy source and water, I offer him an isotonic non-alcoholic Erdinger beer. It’s 7 in the morning and in fairness to him, he drank about half the bottle before the rain starts falling and the comfort of the car and 40 winks calls. 

Re: Oldbridge…

After many hours of not really knowing where I was, I am back in familiar territory. I am parked at the bottom of a steep him, well known for punishing anyone who dares take on the Lap of the Gap marathon each year. The steep climb out of Oldbridge comes at mile 22 of the marathon and often coincides with hitting the wall. Zombie like revellers are emerging from the wood around me reminiscent of the marathon runners and yet when I meet Declan he was bouncing down the hill. What I thought was a new found energy was more likely the hot spots of blisters we soon discovered. 

Re: Lough Tay…

Once again I am reminded of a pint of Guinness as I sit in a car park overlooking Lough Tay, which apart from its own connections with the Guinness family, can resemble a pint of Guinness with its white strand at the top end of the dark waters. I had plenty of time to appreciate the views, enjoy a few nibbles and talk with a few travellers while repacking the supplies. As we neared civilisation my ability to track Declan vastly improved so I knew exactly where and when to place myself as Declan passed off on his way towards the highest point on the way. 

Re: Powerscourt and Crone Woods…

My next stop was Crone Woods car park. Up to this point I was mindful not to stray too far from the car given all the gear packed inside. However Crone Woods is a busy car park with a small coffee vendor so I thought this was the perfect chance for me to actually get out and do something. I grabbed my gear bag, put on my shorts and made my way back along the trail towards Powerscourt Waterfall. I had never been up this way before so it was a bit of a thrill to get out and run/hike a bit of the way. I managed to make it up to the waterfall before Declan appeared and we descended back down to the car park together. 

Re: Danté and that damned inferno…

At the next car park I could really feel the heat even with the air conditioning blowing full fury in the car. Declan was still taking plenty of fluids at each stop even if solid food had seemed long forgotten. Several times in the last few hours I was very impressed at the progress Declan was making but it was around this point that I became more mindful that the distance was really taking its toll. For me, we were nearing the end of this Homeric journey with an eagerness and giddiness to finish. In reality though Declan was actually descending down through Danté’s Inferno; a hot hell stretching on for an eternity. He was slowing but there was little I could do to assist. 

Re: the swim that didn’t happen…

Just to clarify I would have been more than happy for Declan to jump down to the river for a dip at this point, however the river was 20ft down the other side of a wall so whatever consideration there would be of getting him down there, I had no plan of getting him back out. 

Re: Marlay Park and the finish line…

I had skipped on to the finish at Marlay Park and as I pulled into the car park I was blatantly unaware of all the hoardings around the car park. I stepped out of the car looking towards the finish stile in the park and it became apparent that we may not get to finish where we planned. I had been messaging Tamsyn on and off throughout the day updating her of our progress and I knew she and Saoirse had already arrived. In my own head I had thought I would suggest to them that we should move to the park gate closest to the Ticknock Road thinking we would have to call it a day there. I found them in the courtyard casually conversing with a family friend who I was introduced to. In the haze of trying to think of how to proceed, I completely missed that Saoirse and this family friend were already ahead of the game. As I slowly became more aware of who this individual was, the haze lifted and we had found our silver lining. I was to make contact with Declan, let him know that things weren’t straight forward but that a plan was in the making. Saoirse did ask me though to save a little surprise of the assistance of an old friend.

I had worked out our route through the park to get us through the finish and I had time to kill. I had considered on moving up towards Ticknock to meet Declan on his descent down however I knew from our recce several months earlier that there are multiples ways he could come down so I settled on meeting him at the base of Ticknock Road and share the home stretch with him into the park. 

It was at this point I think Declan was questioning was I leading him astray. The last time we came into the park we had a straight line down for to the finish. It was a cruel and unusual punishment that I had to guide him first towards the central line of the park adding those extra few metres. 

A Brief Reflection

I have been fortunate enough to share many miles and several adventures with Declan, since our first outing during his Right Royal Triathalon. I would count his unironedman a kindred spirit to my Royal Canal Runner. While many would often consider us a little crazed for doing what we do, there is a lot to be said for putting ourselves a little out of our comfort zone at least once a year and appreciate the value in having experiences and creating memories, in enjoying the magnificence of the world around us and the joy of sharing the anxiety of getting lost and out of touch at 2 o’clock of a midsummer’s morning in the mountains. 

This trip had an added significance though and while it wasn’t necessarily discussed, it didn’t need to be, we both felt the poignancy of what we were doing. Not all sons have a bond to their father and for those that don’t, it is a true tragedy. It is important for a son to honour his father. For me, I count myself extremely lucky that last year my father and I took a trip together by running the Dublin Marathon together, a privilege that I am sure is almost uniquely my own. That privilege was foremost in my mind as Declan honoured, celebrated and remembered his recently passed father with this run. 

Not to descend into the spiritual but looking back at the Wicklow Way run, it wasn’t that failure wasn’t an option, rather than it wasn’t a reality. In whatever form you wish to believe in, be it in the mind’s eye of Declan’s memory to a soaring Raven flying above us, Niall was certainly present with us and it’s not without a guiding hand that we dodged lightning, found our way again in the middle of the night or randomly bumped into an old friend that ensured the journey could be completed as it should. 

Do the mad stuff, it’s what gives life meaning. 

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A few things I’ve learned from the Wicklow Way run:

It’s not a run. It’s a hike with a lot of walking, some running and occasional stumbling
It’s a long way. Further than I thought
Hiking poles are essential, unless you are super fit
Most of the Way is blighted with Sitka Spruce plantation, and fire roads (forestry access roads)
Definitely bring an official map
Download the GPX file to your phone, but expect to lose coverage at the most critical moments
It may be wise to invest in a proper GPS tracker for this kind of adventure. Relying on phone technology isn’t going to cut the mustard when the shit hits the fan
My super-duper Garmin did actually save the run! Huzzah!
The Arctic Monkeys cancelled their Dublin show in Marlay Park after all that fuss. Gobshites

And, finally, if you decide to do this madness, make sure to hire Gary to ride shotgun. No better man.

One final word of thanks to wonder hill-runner Graham Bushe. I found Graham in my pre-run online recce work (where I try and track down someone who has already done the madness I’m about to do), and Graham was wonderfully generous in his help and encouragement. Read this report for a bit of proof of the man’s tenacity! If you are one of those curmudgeonly TL:DR people, it describes how Graham took on the Wicklow Way as a race (which is tough enough), did it in a great time, and then changed his gear, had a snack, and ran back home again on the same route. Howzat!

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I won’t apologise for my writing style, other than to warn you that I occasionally and without warning veer from ‘I’ to ‘we’ with no logical reasoning behind the decision, other than it makes sense in my head. It’s a sort-of ‘royal we’.

This also applies to my other quirk, which is to shift from the past tense to the present, and then back again. Once more, I can only suggest that there is an underlying logic at play. It adds to the, eh… tension!

I also took some recordings on the GoPro, and a few more on the phone. Coupled with some that Gary took as well, and padded out with some footage from training runs earlier in the year, there will be, at some stage, a short film of the experience. If you suffered through the Declan’s Way production, then you know what to expect. There is no fancy drone footage, there is no camera crew. There’s mostly just me, pointing a small box in various directions and making shit up as I go along. Pretty much everything is done on the first take. This also explains why there are very few pictures of the journey, in comparison to what I would normally take on these travels. Most of what you can see on this blog post are courtesy of Gary.

Disclaimer: get a healthcheck before you embark on ultras. Your GP can give you some advice. But as an important addendum to this disclaimer, I should add that you are only getting a heath check-up… you may also need to consider your mental reserves for these adventures, and on that score, I can’t really offer any advice, other than to say being a little bit mad probably helps. A little! And having a mad mate like Gary. That helps too!

I won’t get too maudlin’ at this point. On Sunday just gone, I took Tamsyn up to Three Rock, and I think we’ve found a nice spot for Dad’s ashes. There’s no plan to do this as of yet, but there’s no rush. We’ll get there in the end.