unironedman

After the deluge that was Lock up the Year, 2025 began with some fine, frosty weather, as was predicted. The polar air mass that gave us this clear and sharp few days then bumped into a warm air mass moving up from the south-west, and all hell broke loose… well, from a meteorological viewpoint, anyway. The southern half of the country was covered in snow, while the top half was left relatively unscathed. As some wag put it, viewed from above, the country looked like it had pulled the duvet halfway up the bed.

Here in sunny Leixlip, we were in the empty space between covers and pillows. Not much by way of snow for us, alas; just lots of rain and cold. The only sighting was last Sunday evening, when Tamsyn needed a lift from her boyfriend’s house, which is about 10 kms towards Dublin. It was snowing here as I set off, and settling, albeit it was on the sleety end, but eastwards it was still raining. But again, those few miles back east made the difference, and by the end of the night, we had about half an inch of very soft snow which was all but gone the following day. And that was to be our lot.

The met office had issued orange level warnings for a ‘multi-weather event’, and indeed counties down south including Kerry, Cork and Limerick were absolutely blitzed. So much so that as I write, some isolated villages are still cut off, and many lost power and water for days. Yesterday evening, farmers were literally digging their sheep out from drifts of snow that were at least 2 metres deep in the Galtee Mountains, which straddles Limerick and Tipperary. I am not one to criticise the met office, as they do a great job on the whole. And there were more than enough whingers on social media (mostly from Dublin, it must be said), who poo-pooed the ‘event’ as one large and very soggy damp squib. But these folk were not buried in snow like some poor feckers down in Limerick, so they were told to get back in their boxes.

That said, I don’t think labelling anything as a ‘multi-weather event’ is wise. Weather is already a ‘plural’, as such, or, if we’re being picky, it just IS what it IS. So if it’s snowing out, well, it’s snowing. If it’s also windy, well, we have a word for that too. And so on. It just became a bit confusing for some poor souls. They truth was that one half of the country was going to get whacked, and the other half not so much. And therein lay the problem for the met folk. How to pitch it.

I was rather sad not to have at least a few inches of the stuff to faff about in. I had a short run in the sharp frosty weather on the 2nd, and a longer 11k on the 4th, and then another 11k with James in the evening of the 7th, a torch-lit saunter through the park and along back by the lake, the highlight of which was a large owl that took off over our heads at one point. I’d like to think it was a Barn Owl, but it could have been a Long-eared. They definitely nest in the park as I have heard their chicks (they sound like a squeaky gate!). It was too dark to see.

A couple of evenings later, I set off on my tod back into the park for another cold and frosty run, and worth noting the enormous privilege it is to be able to do so. Not just having the legs to get around, but to be able to throw on some warm running gear and head out alone into a dark and cold woods without at any point stopping to worry if I was going to get waylaid on the trails. It’s a male privilege, of course, and one I take for granted at times, although I am reminded of it often, once I get out there into the gloom.

And of course, each day requires a dog-walking session, and these are usually into the same park. Indeed, one of the days this week I managed three sojourns into the park: firstly at dawn with the camera to take some photos (which reminds me; I must download them onto the computer), secondly with the dogs, and the third outing was a run. It is a blessing to have it on our doorstep.

I like to take the hounds to the dog park after hours. Most patrons, especially those with dogs, drive to St. Catherine’s and therefore must vacate by closing time or get locked in for the night. So if I leave it ’til after 5pm (winter hours) then we usually have the place to ourselves. Then they get to run around off-lead and have a good mooch, which is all hounds want really; to mooch, stop, sniff, wee and then repeat. A dog lead is really quite a nuisance for everyone concerned. And the dog park is on the top of a rise, and each time I take the path up to it, a panoramic of the Dublin Mountains pops into view. And this last week has been an awful tease: snow-capped peaks abound! Of course, the evening news leads with idiots getting stuck and abandoning their cars up in the Dublin and Wicklow Mountains, and I have no wish to feature on the telly in such a fashion, or add to the load of the mountain rescue teams. Oh the shame!

But I was getting twitchy, I admit. On Friday, as I returned home with the hounds from yet another walk in the park and a view of the unobtainable snow, I pondered the possibility of a visit. I checked a few websites. Ticknock car park was back open, it seemed. And that is really only a half-hour’s drive from here, and very close to the motorway. So Mark agreed to join me on this great adventure, and we set off about half-eight this morning and found a parking spot in the same place as the last time I was here with Gary about two months ago (and again before that, for the Scattering). The folks in charge of the area had done a great job clearing the roads, and we had very quickly gone from no snow on the edges of the capital at Marlay Park and Dundrum, to quite a lot a few hundred metres higher.

We donned our jackets and headed up towards Three Rock. Each step brought us into more snow. There was a cold wind, but not chilly; clearly the thaw has set in. As we cleared the woods and rounded the bend towards Three Rock itself, the weather was clear enough to afford a decent view over south Dublin and out into the Irish Sea. Not clear enough, alas, as the previous few days of stone cold when you could see the snow-capped mountains of Snowdonia and Yr Eifl in Wales. The latter range has been Anglicised to The Rivals, which you can see happening, in fairness, though in Welsh, it possibly means ‘the forks’. But no views today. Today we were lucky with the weather because my forecast from the aforementioned met office said rain for most of the morning. And so far, it had not rained. Hush now!

We pushed on around the tors of Three Rock and into the woods. Here the snow all but petered out. A pair of deer scampered away in front of us. The woods ended and we were back out onto a quite extensive snow field, and here we turned right and headed up for Fairy Castle.

Ordinarily, this climb is ‘runnable’. It is a bit of a scramble over rocks and heather. There is a well-worn path, but this morning, it was pot luck. Here you really needed nimble elf-feet. But we possessed none, and at times the crust would hold and you would proceed forward, whilst other times you would plunge up to your knee in snow. It was a lottery, but a fun one, as long as you moved steadily to avoid catching your foot in a gully and doing some damage.

As we reached the top of the hill, the weather closed in quite suddenly. If like me you are an infrequent visitor to the mountains, it’s only then that you are reminded of the importance of knowledge, sense of direction, and the vital part visibility plays in knowing not just where you are, but where you are going. Everything is easy when you can see for miles in every direction, and when landmarks are clear and obvious. Throw a foot and half of snow over everything, and a blanket of icy fog, and things change. Quickly.

I was reasonably confident that I knew where we where and where we needed to go. Mark was less sure. But then, I have been up here before a few times. And I knew that off to my left was the Wicklow Way, and before us cutting across our path, was the Dublin Mountain Way. And that if we played our cards right, we would shortly be at the intersection of these two, well-travelled routes.

We met a few other hardy explorers as we finally reached Fairy Castle, and we began our slow descent for home. The weather cleared as quickly as it had come down, and the sun peeped out briefly for a few magic moments, and everyone on the mountain whipped out their cameras.

As we dropped down below the treeline again, the snow became more manageable, and more and more folk were getting out and about to enjoy the last of this wonderful spectacle.

We left the Wicklow Way and turned right back towards the car park, and soon we had made it back to the car unscathed, and were heading northbound on the M50 towards home. But Mark and I will take any opportunity to stop off at Insomnia, so we filled up with hot chocolate before I dropped him back to his house. I was pleased we had gone out. It would have been so easy to stay in bed this morning, and just get in a run in the park. But I would have missed a magical escape to the mountains.

One should never pass on the opportunity to get in to the mountains. Especially if there’s snow!

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In other news, my brother’s third of four came over last weekend for a brief visit. In time-honoured tradition, we adjourned to the Salmon Leap. We had an excuse; the Arsenal game was on, and we don’t shell out for Sky Sports around these parts, no sirree! More fun to skull pints of Guinness. Possibly breaks even over the course of the year, financially, but who’s counting? Certainly not I!

Saul currently lives and works in Belgium (I mean, someone has to, right?), and he recently penned a nice letter to the Irish Times. This has been known colloquially as the ‘paper of record’. It’s the establishment paper, as such. I used to get a kick out of getting the odd letter published back in the day (when it was fashionable for a gent to do such things), and my Dad, bless him, spent many a year trying to get his name in the letters page. I don’t think he ever managed, but it was a common thing to find him standing in my office during the day with a hastily scrawled note in his hand which I would then type up and email off to the editor. It was one of the reasons why I insisted we published his death notice in the Irish Times. I think he would have appreciated the joke.

Anyway, that’s Saul’s letter, in light of the ongoing lurch of the world to the right. Or as right-wing arseholes would prefer to term it, a rebalancing of the natural order after all that horrible wokeness and snowflakery. Or whatever. I don’t speak Arsehole, so I am not familiar with all the subtleties and nuances of the language.

And to finish with, some random things, including dogs and poor jokes, as per the norm. You know the drill!