Islay to Cork - Day 15 - The Dingle Way

On Friday, September 20, we woke to promising sunshine. After breakfast I jumped ship and walked to the Oifig Failte, the tourist welcome center. I was hoping to have a cab take me out to Slea Head, ten miles to the west, then walk the Dingle Way back to town. The friendly attendant at the tourist office called a cab for me and, while waiting for its arrival, I was joined by six others also wanting a cab. Fifteen minutes later a large, black, unmarked van showed up, and we all squeezed inside - sounds a bit like the beginning of a murder mystery . . .  they were never seen again . . .

The van sped out of town along the highway to Slea Head. Four of the passengers were dropped at Ventry to walk the Dingle Way west to Dunquin, the opposite direction I would be going. Fifteen minutes later we came to a stop next to a large tour bus surrounded by people. Gulp... This was my stop: the west end of the Glen Fahan beehive cell cluster. Turns out it's a regular stop for tour buses; the people piling out for a chance to see a beehive cell, pet a lamb, and use the toilet.

I waited in line to pay the three-euro fee, and then along with two dozen others walked up to the first cell. Only fifty feet from the road, it was one of the most complete and exquisite cells in existence. It was swarming with people, so there was no way to get a good photo. I thought I'd wait for them to leave, as they had only been given fifteen minutes to look around. But this group had no sooner started to depart than guess what - three more buses arrived - disgorging over a 100 people; the owner of the property eagerly collecting three euros from each one. In the thirty minutes I was there he must have collected 400 euros.

Fortunately there were many more beehives well out of range of the bus-bound tourists. The Dingle Way traversed the hillside 600 feet above the road, but before climbing up to the path I managed to get a fairly good photo of the road-side beehive. But I have to admit I photoshopped out one tourist who was determined to linger to the last minute.

As I climbed the hillside I passed another beautiful example of the beehive-builders art. This one with an encircling kerb that once supported a turf covering.

One of the Fahan Beehives - The Dingle Way can be seen at upper right

I found the path and started walking back towards Dingle - the route following a grassy swath through heather and spiky gorse. A sheep dog suddenly bounded up and started leading the way. Ignoring my attempts to chase him off, he would accompany me for the first mile. Along the way we passed several examples of massive multi-chambered cells, their domes long since collapsed.

My guide leads the way

That first mile included an astounding number of beehives dotting the hillside on both sides of the Glen Fahan River.

At the river ford I heard a whistle and a shout. The dog's ears perked up, and he dashed back the way we'd come. I saw a man on a quad bike far below - the dog's owner - I'd lost my guide.

Crossing the Glen Fahan River

Twenty miles to the south, hidden in the haze, was the island of Skellig Michael (see these posts). There is some thought that the beehives of Glen Fahan were used to shelter pilgrims who'd come to make the pilgrimages to Skellig Michael and Mount Brandon. On Skellig are the well-preserved ruins of a monastic settlement dating to the 6th century, and it was a pilgrimage site well into the 18th century. You can read more on the subject of the use of beehive cells as pilgrim accommodations in Peter Harbison's excellent Pilgrimage in Ireland. If the subject of Skellig Michael appeals, there are two books I highly recommend: Geoffrey Moorhouse's Sun Dancing; and The Forgotten Hermitage of Skellig Michael by Horn, Marshall and York. (You can find an on-line version of the latter here.)

Looking south from Glen Fahan - Skellig hidden in the sea haze

Great Blasket in the distance (right)

Leaving the beehives behind I traversed the flanks of Mount Eagle as I carried on east. It was beautiful terrain, and it felt so good to be afoot for a long walk after so much sea travel. Two miles into the walk the path made a steep descent to the highway, where a sign indicated I had no choice but to follow the busy road. It was an unpleasant walk of fifteen minutes, buses and cars zipping by, before a sign indicated the route left the highway to follow a grassy path into farmland.

The Dingle Way continues to the east

As I walked the next section of the Dingle Way I once again appreciated Scotland and its right to roam. Many of the fields the trail passed had no-trespassing signs of some sort. Several signs proclaimed This is Not a Playground! The only warning symbol missing from these signs was one indicating radioactive waste was present. I'd not be taking any shortcuts on this walk.

One landowner had gone as far as hiring a big beefy security guard.

The path led to a quiet county lane that ended at the white sands of Ventry Strand: the name Ventry a corruption of the Gaelic Fionn Traigh (white beach). The wind had been strong all day, and a kite surfer was making the most of it.

In the time it took to walk the strand, a mile of gentle sand, the kite surfer had made four transits. The strong wind occasionally flinging him twenty feet into the air. The town of Ventry lay at the head of the strand. In the mood for some refreshment I stopped at the Ventry Inn for a pint.

The rest of the Dingle Way was a three-mile walk on quiet country lanes. But the walk got a bit noisy when the route came to the highway on the western outskirts of Dingle. From here on the route followed busy roads. As I crossed the bridge over the Milltown River I encountered our guide Chris on the lookout for wildlife.

I was tempted here to take a look at the nearby Dingle Distillery, housed in an old sawmill on the banks of the river. But after four hours afoot my legs were shot, and I decided to find a restaurant where I could rest up and enjoy a pint and some fish and chips.

I did find some fish and chips, but they were ghastly - the skin-on variety. I am firmly on the skin-off side when it comes to the great fish and chips debate. On the plus side, the local stout I had was fantastic.

On the way back to the marina I passed this statue of Fungie the dolphin.

Dingle tourism has lived off Fungie for decades. He was first seen in 1983, so the dolphin was at least twenty years old when I saw him here in 2003. Bottlenose dolphins generally live for about twenty-five years. So if Fungie is still alive he must have very good genes, as he'd be nearly forty years old.

Another pub-crawl followed dinner. It was Friday night, and the town was filled with tourists seeking out live music. Many of the fifteen pubs in town had performers, and a group of us from Hjalmar Bjorge managed to get a table in one of them. Dingle malt whiskey was on offer, but at 18 Euros a dram I gave it a pass.

Overcast cold skies loomed overhead as we left the marina the following morning. Cork, our final destination, was 150 miles away, and with the coming storm we needed to be there in two days. As we motored out of Dingle we had no idea where we'd be spending the night, just that we had to cover about eighty miles before dropping the hook. More adventures lay ahead.

Leaving Dingle