The Beara Way (2016)
A hidden gem in Ireland

In southern Ireland, where Lamb’s head disappears in the Atlantic Ocean, lies the Beara Peninsula. A peninsula with hills, sundew and black cliffs. There’s also a trail, a large 206 km loop: the Beara Way. Not fairly well known and therefore relatively quiet. But nice and challenging too, the kind of trail that makes my hiking heart beat just a little faster.

Day 1: Glengarriff – Adrigole, 18 km
Past a hat shop and a cemetery curling around some huge rocks I leave Glengarriff. Parallel to the road a wide stream lazily flows. The Caha Mountains on the edge of my field of vision are shrouded in grey skirts today. The clouds release a fine drizzle that whirls rather than falls to the ground. Fortunately the stretch alongside the busy road is brief, before long I sway toward a side road which meanders calmly towards the State Forest. I turn right at Lady Bantry’s Outlook, downwards towards the woods. A bit further on a Beara Way signpost provides me with three options: Glengarriff, Kenmare and Adrigole. To choose Kenmare means hiking the Beara Way counter clockwise and I point my feet towards Adrigole. The trees deny me a view of the mountains, but they do shelter me from the rain a bit. The path undulates p and down and returns to the tarmac. The route follows the hard top longer than I would like, although the trees eventually recede and the surrounding landscape becomes pleasantly rough. On both sides of the road I am spoilt by green encrusted rock, their tops still hidden in white. Somewhere in the deep a stream gurgles, but the waterfalls I hear are shielded from my curious eyes by dense shrubs. An Asian couple approach me and ask me if I came directly from Glengarriff or did I take the longer route? A voice in the back of my head pipes up. Longer route? Did I miss out on something? Me wanna! I mentally smack the voice shut and confirm that I did indeed take the shortest trail out of Glengarriff. The couple is relieved. They still  have to get to Bantry and the view on the pass was less than 10 meters. I look forward to the climb, even with that limited view.  But first I have to endure the tarmac a bit longer, until finally I reach a vale with two lonely farms near a small lake. There I am finally allowed to leave the road and crossing the stream on a sturdy looking stone bridge. A few meters ahead a blaze points to an impressively high stile across the barbed wire of a sheep meadow. It’s a luxurious, iron thing with grooved steps and a hefty handrail, the top 20 cm of which has been painted yellow for better visibility. There’s even an user manual just in case. I take the first stile and then a second, chasing the few sheep seeking shelter behind a stone wall back into the rain. En then the fun starts. Climbing! It trail is not hard, other than it’s steepness. Gravel and rocks, but quite hikeable. It zigzags upwards and zigs and zags some more. Now and again the gravel stops and I have to genuinely ramble, carefully picking my way across bouncing peat and past puddles my trekking poles test for depth. The waymarking is abundant, the poles with a yellow head are so close together you could play domino with them. Getting lost is impossible. The Beara Way has been spruced up a few years ago and it is clearly noticeable.  Still I wonder how much damage the soil can endure when the trail gets busier. Already I am seeing the footsteps of many hikers who went before me, upturned peat, a single tile in the really bad spots. No, let this remain the hidden gem of Ireland, reserved for the gourmets among the hikers.

When the clouds lift their skirts for a moment, in a deep hollow I discover a lake across which fine  wisps of cloud drift silently as ghosts. Ten minutes and a hill later I cannot locate the water anywhere.  Somewhere around noon I decide it’s time for a lunch break. I deposit my rear end on a rock, my back turned to a cloud-filled valley. When I turn slightly to spread my breadcrumbs for the birds, my mouth just about drops and my eyebrows jump towards my scalp. The clouds have collectively decided to up and go towards a neighboring valley and I have a magnificent view of grass and woods and the waters of Bantry Bay in the very distance. Even Garinish Island, aka Ilnaculin, is visible, where a wealthy couple had a tropical garden created in the 19^th century, now the highlight of a visit to Glengarriff. What a treat all of a sudden. I enjoy myself intensely, but then decide to follow the yellow poles uphill, entering the clouds once again until the top at about 500 meters. It’s a challenge where to plant my feet, the gravel road appears on occasion but disappears regularly and then there’s only grass and unreliable peat, in which you can sink quite deeply if you don’t pay attention. Even at this height there are sheep, who flee bleating from the sound of my trekking poles scraping the bare rock. All of a sudden I discover the rippling waters of a lake on my right-hand side.  I cannot see the other bank, but is appears to be a large body of water. The blazes guide me across the banks, but the size of the lake remains a mystery. Not long after that the first sign of civilization: a sheep fence. At another one of those huge stiles there’s a signpost, one hand points towards the usual route to Adrigole and another to an emergency exit, a road some 1600 meters below. This is the first time I have ever seen an emergency exit on a trail, how extraordinary. I ascend the stile and follow the barbed wire that hesitantly descends  towards Adrigole. The trail runs parallel to the fence more or less, but that doesn’t mean it gets any easier. Quite near the fence a bit of turf has been hiked into oblivion. And then the inevitable happens. Although my trekking poles grip firm ground , my right leg disappears in the soggy turf right up to the knee. I feel the peat sucking at leg, but by falling backwards my foot is returned to me, although thickly covered in peat. A bit later I dare to cross a puddle via a piece of wood, but it turns out to be more slippery than I thought and I end up on my knees in the mud. Ah well, my pants where dirty already and it can’t get any worse than this. Up till now visibility was less than 100 meters, but then the clouds gather themselves up and leave, revealing the coast: a patchwork of straight, colorful fields, little dollhouses and deep blue water. The ridge of a next mountain dips into the Atlantic ocean. I want that one too! But first downwards, while weather and visibility improve. Carefully I descend until I reach tarmac again and this time I do not object. I encounter houses now too and the first one with an open door ejects a dog, who hurries to be petted. I thought nature would be done now, but that turns out to be a mistake. Where the road turns left sharply a grassy path stretches out before me. I would have passed it by if not for the way marker flat on the ground. After I have propped it up against a rock I let the grass brush my shoes somewhat clean. The grassy path leads me to a river singing loudly across some rocks. The iron bridge bounces underneath my feet. On the other side again one of those mega-stiles and I end up in the first of two meadows filled with tall grass. Carefully I pick my way past puddles and cow manure. Across from a school the final stile and this time the tarmac brings me all the way to the end of this leg at Peg’s Shop. I can’t help myself and walk a bit further to the bay, where the tide is low. A plain filled with orange seaweed stretches towards the Atlantic Ocean, a seal rests on a rock in the distance. And Hungry Hill towers above me, with 685 meters the highest peak in the Caha Mountains. But that one I am saving for tomorrow.

Day 2: Adrigole – Castletown Beare, 22 km
From Peg’s Shop on I risk my life by walking along the road to the bay. Although there are speed limits, the Irish apparently they are listed in miles instead of kilometers. Fortunately I soon reach the bay, where near the quay wall there’s room to walk safely. This time the tide is high and the orange seaweed  pleasantly floats on the lazy waves. A single rock protrudes from the ocean still. I hike on to a bridge and swap out the race track for an calm dirt road where only a few locals are up and about. Immediately after turning right I am looking at a high mountainside, from which an impressive waterfall plummets into the deep. It’s the Mare’s Tail, Ireland’s highest waterfall. With it’s individual strands which weave back and forth it truly does look like a ponytail. When I come closer in a field I see my fist Celtic monument, a standing stone. Most stones are thousands of years old and have a religious meaning or where part of a tomb. I have no clue as to the heathen meaning of this smooth rock, but am still glad to have seen it. A few meters on there’s one of those typical Irish stiles. The rambling commences! Across Gortnarea’s flanks I climb up. Pretty challenging with a 13 kg backpack. Yesterday I was fortunate enough that my host had an errand in Adrigole and brought my backpack, so I could manage with a daypack. Today it’s all on me and that takes some getting used to. With my two trekking poles I hoist myself up though a meadow filled with streams carrying yesterday’s rain to the ocean. I start sweating, especially when the sun peeks through the clouds. I park my backpack on a stone to stow away my thin jacket and continue in T-shirt. Higher and higher I climb, till the rocks are plentiful and the sheep scarce. Up until now I have not encountered much wildlife and with surprise I watch an earthworm toting a leech. Yuck. Not much later a more pleasant surprise: sundew. In the Netherlands the flesh eating plant is rare, but the swamps of Ireland are it’s perfect habitat. On an iron grid above a puddle even the Irish found too much to traverse by foot I kneel to photograph the little plant. A bit further there’s even a whole bunch, the ground turns red because of it. Imagine there being enough insects at this altitude for the plant to survive, amazing. Carefully I pick my way around the plants, although I almost can’t help squashing a few plants underneath my ungainly boots when jumping the numerous streams. When I finally reach Gortnarea’s top, shaded by the even lager Hungry Hill, Bantry Bay stretches out before me, the tip of Bere Island clearly visible in the bright morning. I make an outing to a rock that is quite far off the trail to photograph the island lengthwise with the surrounding mountains. After that I follow the graveled road the trail has deposited me on. This makes for fine hiking, keeping a steady pace. Bantry Bay remains alluring, the circles of mussel growers in the water and a teeny tiny island, Roancarrigmore, supporting a gorgeous white lighthouse. The road descends again and that is less fortunate, as I have to climb every meter I am first going down. And that moment comes rather fast. An blaze points up. Fine, will do. But…eh… how? The route builders leave it up to the hikers themselves to explore, because the way markers are far apart and it’s a puzzle where exactly the want the hikers to go. I scour the ground for the clues left behind by the hikers before me, discolored grass, a footprint in the mud. Thus I slowly ascend until I glimpse the next way marker, on a plateau of big, flat rocks. This way marker carries an additional sign ‘Caution: slippery when wet’. Until now I walked carefree across the rocks and even where they were wet, my soles found solid grip. But after this admonition I instantly become insecure and careful. And that is a good thing too, because a bit further on brown black moss has settled on the rock, making it deceptively slippery. Diligently I find a path across bits of dry rock and clumps of grass. Where I cannot help but walk on the wet rock, I seek a place where the rock is grooved, so both my trekking poles and soles will find enough grip. Still it’s a relieve to reach the moist grass on the other side. I follow the path further into the mountains and jump across a steep waterfall. On the other side I bushwhack through a field of low ferns.  And then there’s a sheep fence without the now familiar stile. Now what? Following the fence downwards is not an option, that is surely wrong. But what then? I have to get back and find a way to the top of the waterfall. I follow the zigzags and the worn out footsteps upwards, until I am back on the right trail. No detour, good job me. I descend, following an English couple in pink shirts. For the moment I don’t have to worry about the soil, because there’s only hard grass and rocks here. Wonderful. Park Lough is in de deep below me, a rounded lake filled with white lilies and wool grass around the edges. When I reach a graveled road and walk past it, I see dragonflies, but no birds. Slowly the track bends towards the next valley, Comnagapple Glen. And here I have to stop to admire. Where other valleys consist of grass, sprinkled with rocks, this is a valley of rocks, with a few strips of grass in between.  Grew stone dominates from wall to wall and nobody is crazy enough to let sheep graze here. A grey cottage hardly stands out in all this natural beauty, I only notice it because my eye is drawn by the waterfall next to it. The road climbs and turns to grass. At a roaring stream the trail turns back and immediately I am tickled by a soft breeze, that I didn’t feel when it was to my back. I follow the trail and way markers, which frequent enough not to cast any doubt on the direction. I continue to ramble, pick my way through the low grass and puddles. Sundew is everywhere. I hardly dare to take a step, but have to press on. Each step causes a little fountain, the droplets that reach my pant legs are deliciously cool. In the bay Bere Island becomes more distinct, throwing the peninsula Rerrin outward like a lifebuoy towards the mainland. A new graveled road presents itself and I follow it quite awhile round the flanks of Maulin. Just as the road turns towards Castletownbere and I can almost distinguish the rooftops, the trail turns it’s back on the houses. Again into the hills I go, the tops of which are slowly getting vague in the descending clouds. A bit more grass and peat, why not? This repeats itself some more and I am less amused. I am up for a cold sugary drink. According to the map somewhere here are megalithic tombs, but finding one rock formation amongst a field of rocks is not easy. As long as there’s no signpost saying ‘this is a tomb’ I suspect I would pass the most extraordinary monuments by without blinking. I do look about me and eventually I see something I suspect may be a tomb. Just to be sure I take a picture. Finally I reach the last graveled road which takes me to Castletownbere. Slowly the road descends and the first sign of civilization become apparent. Two sheep pens where sheep where shorn not long ago, tufts of wool still on the concrete floor. A farm where a border collie runs loose. When I move to pet him, he jumps into the brush as if I have hit him hard. Poor animal. A bit further on again a dog, locked in the wreckage of a car with the window cracked open. With food and water, but as a dog pen this gets a fail. Eventually there’s a tarmac road, which I have to follow for a surprisingly long time before I reach a creek, the Krista, which flows into the Castletownbere bay after hopping alongside me for awhile.  It’s done for today. Where’s my ice-cold soft drink?

Day 3: Bere Island,  31 km
The ferry to Bere Island is a rusty barge, bereft of frills. Via a small staircase I end up in near the helm and from there I step onto the green upper deck, where rope and two car batteries surround my feet. The paint on the life buoys has peeled so much the name of the vessel is illegible. The engine still works though and eight minutes later I step onto the shore of Bere Island. I follow the road to a junction, where the Beara Way turns both left and right. I start the circuit toward the right. The road passes a  few houses and ends at a stile, but when I try the gate, it opens normally. At the next gate I am less fortunate and have to climb after all. I follow a graveled path past the bunkers and pillbox of Fort Point. In 1796 a French invasion of Ireland failed because of bad weather. During a severe storm the ships remained in Bantry Bay and the 14.000 soldiers never set foot on shore. After that the British did recognize Bere Island’s strategic importance and built four Martellotowers and a signal tower amongst other things. The pillbox dates back to 1905. Much rather than this concrete violence I enjoy looking towards the coast, because both across the water and on the island there are impressive cliffs pounded by the waves. After yet another stile I end up at a green dike trimmed with flat rocks. Where the grassy path curls upwards to the left, I see a small path to the right that I have to explore. I follow it downwards an am richly rewarded for my curiosity. Beautiful rocks invisible from the path dominate the water. This is the place where Piper’s Point on the mainland and Naglas Point on the island almost touch. The narrow strait in Bantry Bay looks appealing. After a moment of enjoyment I follow the path back to the grassy dike, which quickly leads me to the lighthouse at Ardnakinna Point. The white tower is not very high, but steadfast guards over fishing vessels returning to port with filled holds. Here the dike ends and I can once again look forward towards mountains, but only for a short while. The fog I saw from across the water descends upon the island and visibility becomes ever poorer. When passing a lake, I can barely see the wool grass on the water’s edge. It’s eerily quiet, even the distant surf is drowned out by the sound of my breathing. Apart from a single sea gull’s cry, I cannot even hear any birds. On and off it drizzles, but it’s the innocent  Irish three-minutes-showers I have gotten used to. I don’t even bother putting on a coat and hike on in T-shirt. The trail sways up a hill, past rock and blooming heath. At 240 meters I reach the ruin of a signal tower. With a flag pole messages were relayed to similar towers at Sheeps Head and Blackballs Head. Only on days without fog, I assume. In 1959 the tower was struck by lightning and a severe storm in 1964 delivered the final blow. Only a few brick walls are still standing, but I would not have guessed it used to be a tower. The path dances on and ends up at a grassy dike, which unexpectedly ascends a bit before descending to a road I reach by a stile. Opposite should be the Gallán in a field, a standing stone from the Bronze Age, possibly marking the centre of the island. Dimly I can make out the rock, a dark grey shape in light grey fog. According to my map the trail should be easy from here on out, road walking to Rerrin peninsula. But the route builders have a few surprises in store for me still. It starts at un unexpected stile which puts me on a path to another Martellotower, which I reach a bit later. The stubby, tapering tower looks like a fat windmill without it’s blades. According to a sign one can climb the tower and there should be a lovely view from above. That view is not an available today, but when I look to explore the interior I find that the only entrance is on the first floor. Of the staircase there surely once was only a few pieces remain. It’s ironic the British stole this design from the French, after a small French garrison with three canons managed to hold off the Britons with their 106 canons for quite a long time on Corsica in the 18^th century. I press on, guessing a bit on the direction. Fortunately my guesses are usually accurate and I end up at a narrow path between two meadow, filled with tall, wet grass and colorful flowers. As best as possible I find my way towards a dark line of large shrubs. In the Netherlands that would signal a road, but here it leads me to a next meadow where the grass is at least as high. The next stile does have tarmac on the other side and this time I do not mind much. But again the blazes differ from what my map promised. The tarmac turns to gravel, which ends at the wreckage of a car near the shore. At a concrete dock a huge rusty brown turbine has been left behind. I hike a few meters to the stile which again leads me to a rugged meadow. This time it’s only a short stretch, soon I end up at the beach full of brown seaweed, short strands draped over the rock like a bad wig. From a drainage tub till the surf moss grows, almost fluorescent in it’s brightness. In the distance a blonde cow with two calves and of course I have to pass them by. She runs ahead of me, short bursts only, until she turns right and I am directed to the left. Left? Where exactly? I only see seaweed underneath a cliff. In the very distance I glimpse a way marker. I decide to climb and find a trail, or what has to pass for one at least. While the trials up to now where challenging, the next trail borders the impossible. After a meadow with short grass en well trodden soil there’s a serious wilderness with awkward prickly plants which sting me right through my trousers. Ferns reach my midsection, so close together I can hardly see my feet. And of course I step into a drainage ditch and my right foot is soaked immediately. One way marker is overgrown completely, others are hardly visible in this jungle. More by feeling and the hint of a path than actual markers I follow the coastline of Lawrence’s Cove. Each step is a struggle to move forward, with my trekking poles I try to keep the plants away from me that keep pulling on me. Whoever thought of this should think twice. Apparently other hikers were more sensible than me and chose the road, because there’s not well trodden path in between the green, no bent grass as a clue of many hikers. For a moment it’s no longer fun. Then the way markers become more numerous and the path a bit more easy. The worst is over, but it’s too long by far before I reach the comfort of the road again and can breathe easy. My socks are soaking wet in my shoes, which have not been dry for one second this week. Now however I can take the road for real towards Rerrin, the peninsula with the village of the same name. Should the way markers lead me into another meadow, I am not sure I would be willing to go there. Fortunately the tarmac directs me swiftly and surely to Rerrin, where a small loop walk around Lonehart Battery starts, an old fortress. On the way there I pass by a few grey barracks, still in use occasionally during drills. The fortress is fenced off and surrounded by a deep moat filled with trees. A few rusty cannons point inland. I am more interested in the land surrounding it. The view has improved somewhat and in the distance I can make out Roancarrigmore, the islet with the lighthouse. The coastline with its cliffs and rocks too is beautiful. With a wide arc I hike around the fortress, looking more towards the sea than the grey concrete. Once back on tarmac I follow a different road back to the village. It’s starts to rain and only when I am already soaked I realize this shower will not pass after three or even ten minutes. Too late to done rain pants now. Liquid sunshine the Irish call it and with that cheery thought I press on. Alongside the road there’s a wedge  tomb made with big, flat rocks. They are in a jumble now, like a failed domino-project. I am no longer in a mood to linger, however special it may be. Along the road I walk back, but at an intersection the way markers are missing. I decide to follow the Beara Way cycle route to the ferry. That road too climbs cheerily and after the rain has stopped my mood takes a similar turn upwards. Suddenly I am back at Gállan, the standing stone, still hardy visible in the dense fog. From here the Beara Way is waymarked for hikers again, all the way to the ferry. By the time to ship comes for me, I am dry again. Apart from my boots that is.

Day 4: Castletownbere – Allihies, 15 + 5 km
The palm at the quay cannot conceal that the harbor of Castletownbere is one for working people. No slender yachts, but fishing vessels and a lifeboat. Rainbow colored oil floats on the water in between plastic bottles and pieces of Styrofoam. I get the feeling tourists are tolerated here, it sure isn’t a warm welcome. The route runs through main street, which leads to a large square. That is graced by a large Celtic Cross in honor of the men and women of the Berehaven Battalion who fought for the Irish Republic from 1916 till 1923. I know of the IRA only as an terrorist organization, carrying out bombings in Northern Ireland, but then again, I am not well versed in Irish history. Sinn Féin, the political party where the IRA originated from, existed already and in 1918 they won the election by a landslide. That is a hundred years ago. No wonder the declaration of independence is proudly displayed behind windows of houses and pubs and is for sale at souvenir shops. On 21 January 1919 Sinn Féin formed a government and declared Ireland independent. A long and bloody war later 26 counties where united under the name Irish Freestate on 6 December 1922. Learned something again.
Past MacCarthy’s, chosen as the best pub of 2016, I exit the village. The hills are misty, the tiniest sliver of Bere Island is visible. This time I do not dread a bit of tarmac, there’s a reward. Some kilometer outside Castletownbere in a pasture with cows there’s a circle of twelve large stones, Derreenataggart Stone Circle. Three of the twelve stones have fallen over, nine are still standing. The stone circle, some three thousand years old, was used in ceremonies and rituals. The line of the entrance, flanked by the high stones to the lowest, central stone right across from it, corresponds with certain bright stars and special sun and moon positions. It’s sobering to think that a place which was once a living centre of a community, a sacred place, is now a field filled with cow pies. But times change and even modern churches are being converted into apartments.

Just beyond the stone circle I have to turn right according to my map, to cross the shoulder of Miskish Mountain. Unfortunately this part of the Beara Way is closed off due to forest works. It’s Saturday, surely there’s no work going on today? Still choosing the tarmac is not hard at all. The heavy machinery will have ground the forest paths to a pulp and visibility is non-existent. The views I hoped for yesterday are just not there. That’s why I follow the detour across the tarmac, where I will rejoin the Beara Way in three kilometers time. There’s a consolation prize too, now I will pass by Teernahillane, an old fortress. While hiking I am looking out for it, but once I am there, I hardly recognize the circular elevation that rises from a shorn lawn as a fortress. In barely three minutes I have circled it completely. With wooden palisades the place would have been defensible, but it seems too small to offfer more than one family a refuge. I hike on and shortly after I have rejoined the Beara Way I pass an immense stack of trees. They haven’t exaggerated with their forest works. The small part of my surroundings I can actually see becomes more rugged. Large rocks and stones appear and I lament the fog.  Not much later forest appears and I deeply  inhale the scent of trees. Wonderful. Everywhere along the path I hear water flowing, but the shrubs are too dense to see the streams. Finally I leave the tarmac, a graveled road leads me to Allihies. With trees on both sides of the road I feel at home here, even though the rain starts again in earnest. On my way up I pass a side road where wood has been harvested recently, it’s a battlefield of braches and tree trunks, mud and pits. Now I understand why they closed off the loop to Miskish Mountain. After the first bump the road flexes its muscles and starts to climb steeply. My legs feel like jelly, I hardly make any headway. Now and again I stop to catch my breath, but the road climbs on relentlessly. After every rise there’s another one and only after forty-five minutes I reach the top. Then the route bends downwards just as steeply and all of a sudden something in my left knee has had enough. Something that should bend doesn’t and I am feeling every step. This is new and not a welcome feeling. Fortunately the knee shuts up again after a short break. A brave father took his three sons out and comes towards me. Alongside the road sheep appear and a lone house too. Then I discover a strange, square tower in a field. It turns out to be the pump housing of the Koalog copper mine, which pumped water out of the mine shaft, four hundred meters below. The sand that remained after the ore ware removed and was pumped up too caused the Allihies’ coast to have a little beach. For some reason I find the thousand year old stone circles more interesting than an 1842 mine and I walk on quickly, following the road downwards between two hedges. From the driveway of a house a small  barking dog runs out and follows me to Allihies. When it runs it used three little legs, but when walking it uses all four. Even when I reach the main road and turn my back on the village to continue the Beara Way towards Dursey the dog sticks with me. Sometimes it disappears for a bit underneath a hedge of it investigates a house which hasn’t closed of the driveway with a gate, but every time I look, the doggy is there, in front, behind or next to me. Several drivers have to evade the little animal and even though it is not mine, I still feel a tad guilty. Fortunately I reach my B&B shortly after and while I stuff my boots with old newspapers, the dog starts the long trek home.

Towards the end of the afternoon the weather clears and I decide to hike the part of the Beara Way that runs along the coast to Allihies. Most likely I will take the same path on my way back from Dursey Island, but while the peninsula left of the B&B is still shrouded in dense fog, Allihies Point on my right is completely clear and I am grateful for it. The little loop starts at the edge of the beach, where waves crash on the rocks. Very different compared to the calm surf of the Netherlands, but not very spectacular just yet. That changes rapidly. The further I hike, the higher cliffs and the more impressive the view. Perhaps because in the Netherlands we have no cliffs at all I am fascinated. The rocks are beautiful with their jagged edges, the surf white with all the air bubbles when it churns and turns, squeezes in between narrow gullies and works itself up along the rocks. Both my camera and me are very happy. The path meanders on the grass at the edge of the cliffs. Not too close to the edge, although I can’t help getting a bit closer to the edge than might be sensible. At one very scenic inlet I want to take a picture from a low vantage point and lying down in the grass is easiest. This is not a place where I want to lose my balance. According to the signpost at the start of this trail it takes two hours, but far too soon I reach its end. On the road I hike to Allihies, where I meet the little dog again at a pub. It turn out he comes here often and always finds his way home.