unironedman

The mountains are calling, and I must go…
John Muir, Scottish naturalist and mountaineer, 1838-1914

I hope John will forgive me for my impertinence. But that’s just the way my addled brain works. Gary Larson’s brain does similar things, without doubt, though he has found a far more successful outlet for his fantastically absurdist and hilarious way of looking at the world. But I am, as usual, getting ahead of myself, so I will backtrack and pick up where we left off last week.

Firstly, commiserations to the England football team. I know it’s all over now (did you have to say that? ed) and old news, but they lost their semi-final in a rather fractious match against Argentina, who themselves went on to lose in the final to Spain. Argentina’s game plan was blunt and brutal. Despite all their talent, they chose to be aggressive, abrasive and defensive. They committed 26 fouls and received four yellow cards, and only started playing football when they went a goal down. They did exactly the same against Spain (25 fouls, I gather, plus more cards, including a red) but the difference here was that Spain scored later in the game (in extra time) and had the nous to hold on to the lead. That said, the Argentinian team did again come out of their shells to play some football and created some good chances. So it begs the question; why not actually try and play football for the whole game? They did, after all, have one of the best footballers on the pitch in the form of Messi; a brilliant playmaker who set up both of their goals against England. He ambles about these days – officially the outfield player at the tournament who walked the most – but when he chose to get involved, he was the Messi of old. Sad then, to see his futile attempt to get a Spanish player sent off during the red card debacle in the final. Overall, I was pleased they lost. It was a horrible and negative style of football. Spain were worthy winners.

On a positive note for England, they didn’t lose on penalties, so no player has that millstone to wear for the rest of their career. And they produced a ten-goal thriller to beat France in the third-place playoff, for what was (on a technicality) their best performance since 1966. Bellingham was great throughout. Just a shame they didn’t go for broke after Gordon’s goal, but here we are. Few teams would have done that, in fairness. Who’d be an England manager…

Secondly, I owe Josh Kerr an apology. About a month ago, I highlighted his attempt to break the mile record. As it fell on the same day I would attempt my own record in the 5k, I predicted neither of us would succeed. Well, I tuned in to the Diamond League meet from London last Saturday and watched history being made as he ran a new time of 3:42.66. I was bouncing up and down on the couch and punching the air as he crossed the line. I can’t find any reaction from Hicham El Guerrouj online, but no doubt the great man has his thoughts. He still holds the 1,500m record. No doubt Kerr (or indeed a fit-again Ingebrigtsen) will fancy that now.

Gary sent me a text shortly after to suggest that this would give me inspiration for the 5k later that day. I suppose we had both called our shots early enough in the prep, but beyond that, there were no similarities. During the week, I had considered casting the whole thing into the lap of the weather gods, figuring that if the wind and rain were to return, I would sit it out. The sun continued to shine, and so I gathered my bits and bobs and trundled on down to Arklow, which is a good hour’s drive south from here.

I parked up and found the registration desk in the sports centre and with my bib number in hand, wandered out on to the gritty running track where I assumed the race would be held. Not so, it turned out. The course was a four-looped affair on the road, and this was a definite improvement. The track would have been chaos. On my way to the car to get ready, I popped in to use the loo. I met a few serious-looking runner types, and one in particular, as we exited the toilet block, stopped when he saw another tall athlete and said something like ‘oh, you’re here… well that’s the race gone, then!’. I saw this same rangy bloke warming up before the elite race at 7pm, and he was flying up and down the road at great speed. Picture a speedy Hozier, and you’re not far off. Sure enough, after one lap of the course, he was neck-and neck with this other guy I had met, and went on to win in style with a 15:09. Can’t argue with that! Well done, Eddie O’Connor. And kudos too for your ‘Saoirse don Phalaistín’ T shirt.

I also noticed Irish running legend Sean Hehir was pacing the 17 minute time. Sean is a serious marathon runner, having won the Dublin marathon in 2013 and has represented Ireland at international level. So I was a tad surprised when we lined up for the 7.30 race and he was standing in front of me. I asked was he running again, and he confirmed he was pacing 20 minutes, so if I was going to get near my goal, I couldn’t have asked for a better opportunity.

I hung on well for the first lap. Indeed, it was a bit hot, and the other pacer and Sean had a few conversations about the speed. I was simultaneously marveling at their ability to have chit-chat at that pace, but also worried that we were indeed traveling a little too quickly. Whilst the loops themselves would not be a kilometre each, the first k was recorded on my watch as 3:57, with the next at 3:56. The wheels began to come off on the third, and the pacers drifted away from me. A 4:04 was okay for the third, but I would have to pick it up in the fourth, which is the leg of a 5k where record attempts go to die…

Having a few seconds ‘in the bag’ might be okay for the pros, but for me, it was too much. The fourth slumped to a 4:21 which doomed all the previous good work. I managed to recover a bit for the final push with a 4:08. This meant an average of about 4:05, and a new PB of 20:19 (from 20:38). It’s a bittersweet moment. And I didn’t even have my phone with me as I wanted to get a selfie with Sean afterwards. I know. Dreadful fanboy behaviour really, but when will that ever happen again? So I did to my old PB what Josh did to the mile record, but I did not break the 20 minute barrier. Much more endurance and stamina work is required, and obviously, the ability to get back to the interval training without doing harm to the hamstrings.

(For the record, and I do mean record, Josh’s time represented a 0.211% improvement on the previous world record, whilst my time was a chunky 1.53%, so we can safely say that there are no depths I will not plumb or straws I will not clutch in order to salvage some pride from this episode.)

Gary posed the question: will you have another crack at it now, or will you switch to marathon training for Abingdon in October? I suspect, in typical unironedman fashion, the answer is I will try to do both. This is, in running parlance, a Very Bad Idea. Which is why I will probably try and do it.

And so, with a consolation prize in the bag, I headed in to a week-off from work. I have had a long-standing plan to build a canopy over the back door, and so I took my first day off to secure some serious oak beams from a hardware store and set to work planing them down and cutting the first of several mortise and tenon joints. My provisional plan for Monday had been an attempt on Lugnaquilla, but the weather looked better the following day, so I postponed.

On Monday evening, the extended family (which is to say, Dallan’s girlfriend, Aoife, plus the four of us) went to see The Odyssey. It’s about three hours long but rattles along at a decent pace, with numerous set pieces. Samantha Morton, for my money, steals the show. It has a 15A rating here, and no doubt the film-makers needed to balance things up to maximise revenue. Both Saoirse and I reckoned it could have done with a bit more grit. That said, more than enough here to shock and surprise. Go and see it on the biggest screen possible. It was all filmed with iMAX cameras (the first to be shot this way), so if you have that option, I guess that would be the way Christopher Nolan would recommend.

On Tuesday morning, I set off with an eye on the weather. I had planned the route in as much detail as I could glean from websites and maps. Prep had included buying the official 1:25,000 scale OS map of the region and a map compass. I had one somewhere, but rather than waste times trying to fish it out, I plumped for a new one. I also spent a little time learning how to actually use it as well. 🙂

The plan was to climb Lugnaquilla, the highest mountain in Leinster, and one of the four peaks. That is to say, each of the four provinces in Ireland has its own highest peak, and Leinster’s is Lugnaquilla (925m), from the Irish Log na Coille, meaning ‘hollow of the wood’. Where it sits on the list of highest peaks depends on your chosen nomenclature: 11th-highest peak in Ireland on the Arderin list and 13th-highest on the Vandeleur-Lynam list. Does it matter hugely? Not for me, though I appreciate the real mountain-folk put a lot of store into it. Indeed, real mountain folk would probably point out that nothing in Ireland constitutes a mountain…

As I tipped along the M50 motorway which skirts the base of the Dublin Mountains, I could see cloud covering what are relatively low peaks. If this didn’t change, then summiting Lug was going to be out of the question. The top of Lug, like many Wicklow peaks, is relatively rounded from millennia of erosion, but there are three large ‘bites’ out of the flanks, so if you lost your bearings in the clouds, you could come a cropper very quickly, and create an awful mess for the Mountain Recuse Team to collect.

I pushed on into Wicklow and turned off the motorway, heading into the mountains proper. It was a good hour and a half spin to get to Glenmalure Valley, and the weather seemed to be improving with every bend in the road. By the time I parked up at Barravore car park, the sun was out and the cloud base seemed to be rising with every minute.

The trailhead is at the Avonbeg River (which is Irish for Little River, from abhainn (pronounced ow-en), meaning river, and beag, meaning small. So in fact, it’s Little River River. My English cousins would be familiar with the River Avon, and again, avon is just an Anglicised version of the Gaelic word abhainn, meaning river. Toponymic tautology. This happens a lot. Check out this article if you have ever come across the whole Torpenhow Hill thing online. Just a bit of fun 😉

There were quite a few cars there already as I gathered my hydration pack, climbing poles and other stuff for the journey. Over the Avonbeg and on up a forest road which switched back towards Fraughan Rock Glen. Fraughans (or fraocháns) are wild Bilberries, and the word is generally pronounced as ‘frockens’. Despite this, I didn’t spy any as I made my upwards into the valley. The gentle rise from the valley floor came to an end as the path reached the head of the valley where the stream tumbled down amongst a boulder-strewn landscape.

In the pics above, there is a gnarly tree-stump which looks like some form of serious magical conjuring took place here in another lifetime…

There are no trail-markers on this route at any point, but the path is worn enough in most places to keep you honest. The climb was relentless and I was regretting my decision to wear hiking trousers rather than shorts, plus a long-sleeve top. I was sweating profusely by the time the path reached the top of this first leg-stretcher and the springy grass and blanket bog returned, dotted with peaty hags here and there. One or two large dragonflies were plying their trade around the small pools, though I couldn’t identify them.

I met a fellow traveller, and he confirmed that he had been to the top and that he was above the cloud cover at that point, and had not experienced any issues. He confirmed the route I should follow, and reckoned the hard work was already done.

The route swung up to the left to join a ridge line that would eventually lead me to the eastern flank of Lug. The going here was a steady climb, and the cloud cover seemed to come and go according to the wind, of which there was remarkably little. There were several sheep for company, and the occasional hiker. As I climbed, I could see that the peak was still a little obscured in cloud. I appeared to be following another hiker to the top, and he would appear and disappear in the mist as we neared the top.

The trig point came into view, and as a small reward, the clouds blew over and the full panoramic was revealed. The sun was out, and even on top of the world (if your world only includes Leinster), there was only a gentle breeze to cool you down. This contrasts with the time Gary and I climbed Tonelagee and Kippure and the wind was savage. Wasps seemed to have commandeered the rough cairn and trig point, so the wise thing was to find a slab of rock away from the nest to lean against and have your picnic.

As I ate my sandwich. I tried to work out what was making the steady thudding noise that sounded all the world like heavy gunfire. The penny dropped as I realised we were overlooking the Glen of Imaal which is the Irish Army’s official firing range. So it was indeed gunfire…

With the photos taken and a quick scan of the Peakfinder app on the phone to put some names to some of the peaks, I made my descent via a different flank from the top, heading east towards Cloghernagh. At 800m, it’s no slouch, but doesn’t have the prominence to make it as famous as its neighbour. It’s an easy drop down from the peak of Lug to this point, and grassy underfoot, mostly, but then it drops quite quickly into the valley below. The hiking poles were once again a useful addition. I was heading for a small corrie lake about halfway down. Arts Lough is named after Art O’Neill, an Irish chieftain who escaped from Dublin Castle in the winter of 1592 along with his brother Henry and Red Hugh O’Donnell. Art perished on their escape attempt, though why they chose to head to Ulster via the Wicklow Mountains is another tale. Their valiant efforts are remembered each year in the Art O’Neill Challenge which sees runners attempt the 62 km route in darkness in the middle of January. A run I hope to do one day.

The lake is small and shallow, and I figured after weeks of sunshine that it would be a pleasant swim. So it proved to be. The bed is fine granite, coated with even finer peat. It’s a glorious mix of golds and browns. I waded in far enough to take the plunge and breast-stroked out towards the middle. I suspect you could walk the full length of it, but that experiment can wait for another day. Once out, I found a huge boulder to lean against and waited for the sun and gentle breeze to do its work.

Back into the hiking gear again, and I followed an old fence line down to the final plunge into the side of Fraughan Glen I had viewed on my way up. I found some Bilberries and a patch of Bog Asphodel. You ford the brook that flows down Fraughan Glen once you reach the valley floor, and rejoin the trail you used for the ascent. A small detour offered itself – a narrow zig-zag path amongst the pine trees – and I took it and the welcome shelter from the belting sunshine. The car park appeared after you cross the Avonbeg once more, and all told, a round trip of about 14.5 km in about three and a three-quarter hours (not including picnic stop and wild swim).

I drove home via Laragh, Glenmacnass and Sally Gap; an altogether more scenic route than the M50, though a little slower. And as I reached the outer suburbs of Dublin and heavy traffic, I was reminded again that I am on holidays, but the rest of the country is still working. To celebrate my adventure, S and I had dinner in the Salmon Leap Inn, and a few pints of Birra Moretti went down a treat.

We’ve booked a night in a hotel in Sligo tomorrow night, so the Irish holiday continues.