Carrauntoohil.
What the heck is that?
The taxi driver said that we could take the Heavenly Gates Route if we wanted. "You know why they call it the Heavenly Gates? One slip -- bam! Done for!" he roared as we hurtled along misty roads into blackening morning clouds over the McGillycuddy Reeks. Gah, this had the potential to be hell. Just keep moving, layer up, you don't get too cold, right? But this was looking a little bit wet and/or cold for the brazilian behind me in blue jeans.
The rain fell hard as we set up Jack the rad Brit's camp for the next night in a rocky plot of land jealously guarded by fluffy sheep, staring quizzically at all the stuff we plopped on the mushy ground. Then quizzically at the Brazilian in blue jeans. Then back at us.
Three hours later we gained the summit ridge in ripping winds. The air cleared, and Jack the rad Brit and I looked out over a dusting of Irish peaks standing far above the ocean. My shoes were soaked from the scramble up the wet gully of a route. The sun poked through for a miraculous second, and we saw a gorgeous valley from the Ring of Kerry below. We turned up the mountain and in a half hour were standing on the icy rocks of the summit, with the impossible clarity of the county Kerry in view. Killarney sat at the edge of a distant lake, my treasured hostel tucked away safe in a downtown lane, pleasantly out of mind in the mindlessness of a summit. Beautiful. I pulled my several hoods up tighter against the frigid blasts of wind, we took the summit selfies, and took off before a pack of clouds engulfed the highest point in Ireland. Carrauntoohil.
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The Aran Islands.
I am amazed monks lived places like this. A little amazed people do now. Most folks here still speak Gaelic fluently, even.
We went to Inis Mor. It's seriously a barren, flat island constantly battered by the raging north pacific. Lucy-the-ridiculous-connection-back-to-Los-Angeles and I took a bumpy ferry over from Galway, and spent the luckiest sunny day meandering a few miles back from the end of the island over ancient stone forts (predating the Celts… thus 2000-2500 yrs ago) and absurd stone walls pixelating the countryside into innumerable enclosures.
I mean, how did they get out there, and get supplies to come in consistently? Our day, the ocean was angry. There were waves tossing water with the wind up sea cliffs at least 300 feet tall as we ran forward for pictures and ran back for fear of being tossed over by the wind. You don't just sail that stuff often. Good on 'em, and the five Romans buried near the churches. Romans, here on this rock on the end of Ireland. They even had to create soil by layering sand and seaweed until it became workable for small plants of potatoes, and grassy for cattle grazing.
One doesn't exactly have to be an intrepid monk to get out there these days, thankfully. Lucy and I took pictures and talked the day away, and didn't see a soul on the supposedly touristy island for hours. In the end, we hitched part of the way back to catch the only ferry out that day, thankful for the time amongst the rocks and sun and quiet island life. There's no life like island life, even here off western Ireland.
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I hope you're all doing well, friends and family. I think of you often, and am trying to do well myself. Adjusting to life on the road did not come as simply as I had thought, but the tires are turning smoother now -- especially if I caught them with my thumb between Cork and Limerick! The rhythm of this life of movement is developing, and I'm slowing down after years and years in school and work. Peace!
Riley
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