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

Islay to Cork - Day 14 - Voyage to Dingle

After leaving Inishbofin on September 19th - see the last post - we motored five hours south to the Aran Isles. It was dark by the time we arrived at Kilronan, the main harbour on Inishmore. It had been 25 years since I'd last been here and, in the dark, things looked a lot different. A large pier had been built. It was lit with massive bright lights that made Kilronan look like a container port. Not very appealing. But in the morning things were different. It was still the beautiful Inishmore of my memories. On the hillside I could see the imposing 11th century Chapel of St Bennan. I would have loved to hike up there once again as I'd done in 1994, but time was short. There'd be no shore leave - we needed to make it 100 miles to Dingle by the end of the day.

A young visitor at St Bennan's Chapel in 1994

It would turn out to be well more than 100 miles to Dingle, as we'd end up circumnavigating Inishtooskert, one of the Blasket islands, on the lookout for cetaceans. The route we took is shown below.

The weather was amazing, and on the way to the Blaskets were were joined by dozens of joyful dolphins taking turns riding the bow wave. The most impressive sight was when a large blue shark jetted past, effortlessly zig-zagging on the surface of the sea like a hot knife through butter. It was moving fast. By the time I got out the camera it had vanished.

The island of Inishtooskert soon appeared on the horizon. At first glance I thought it was Skellig Michael, but the Skelligs lie another 25 miles to the south. Inishtooskert is home to one of the largest Storm Petrel populations in Ireland. It is also home to the ruins of a 6th century monastery of St Brendan.

Inishtooskert

As we circumnavigated Inishtookert all my fellow passengers were on the lookout for cetaceans, as this was about as far out in the ocean as we were going to get. Several minkies make an appearance, along with dozens of dolphins in a feeding frenzy - soaring gulls happy to munch on floating leftovers. On the horizon we also saw several 'blows', probably fin whales. But after lingering for an hour we had no further cetacean close encounters.

I have to admit that my attention was not on seeing whales, but on Inishtooskert itself, yet another elusive island that I've wanted to set foot on for years - one that would have to remain untrod for the time being. As we neared the island I tried to see if I could spot the monastery, but its location atop the island makes it difficult to spot from the sea. (See this page for a photo of one of the cells.)

Inishtooskert

As we rounded the south tip of Inishtooskert a small pyramid appeared in the haze to the south: Skellig Micheal. If we had more time we'd go take a look. But it, too, was not to be.

Skellig on the horizon

Leaving Inishtooskert behind we threaded our way through Blasket Sound, the narrow channel between Great Blasket and the mainland.

Great Blasket

We only had fifteen miles to go. The weather was holding, and along the way several day-boats zipped by on their way back to Dingle. Phantom pains hit my back as I watched the boats bouncing hard across the sea. I was vicariously reliving my trips on such high-speed RIBs. I used to enjoy them, but the repeated spine-crunching jolts when they crash back down are too much for me these days.

As we rounded Slea Head I could see the large white cross and shrine on the headland. A well-known landmark for anyone who's driven the Dingle coast road.

Continuing east we passed Glen Fahan, a mile-long stretch of hillside that contains over a hundred beehive cells. (The original Airbnbs - more on that in the next post.) I did not know it at the time, but on the following day I would walk through that area.

Beehive cell cluster west of Glen Fahan

Beehive cell cluster east of Glen Fahan

The entry to Dingle Harbour is dramatic. Marked by an unusual cast-iron lighthouse built in 1885, the entrance is an almost hidden channel, 600 feet wide, that leads to a large sheltered harbor nearly a mile across.

No anchoring needed here. A spot at the marina had been booked. At 7 pm, under a cloudless but windy sky, we tied up to an outer berth on the pontoons. After two days of sea-travel a long walk was in order. So I was glad to hear that, due to the strong winds, we'd be spending two nights in Dingle. The forecast was for more sunshine; and as for what to do with a whole sunny day in Dingle, the answer was an easy one: I'd walk a section of the Dingle Way - a 100-mile trail that begins and ends in Tralee. The section I wanted to do is the 10-mile stretch between Slea Head and Dingle. In the morning I would see if I could get a taxi out to Slea Head, and then walk the trail back to town; visiting along the way the beehive cell clusters of Glen Fahan and the white sands of Ventry Bay (and hopefully a pub or two along the way).

Our meal that Thursday night was an excellent venison stew, followed by a pub crawl, where we enjoyed live music and pints galore. Lots was going on in town that night. I'd tell you more but, as they say: What happens in Dingle, stays in Dingle.

As I ambled back to the marina that night I came to its locked security gate, meant to keep riff-raff like me away. After punching in the code nothing happened. I began to look for a way to climb around the pointy spikes protruding around the gate. As I did, I wondered how many drunken sailors, having forgotten the code, have tried to climb around the gate and fallen into the water. But I tried the code one more time and the gate magically swung open (power assist gates - such luxury). From there I managed to navigate in the dark across the maze of pontoons to find Hjalmar Bjorge, warm and welcoming. After a dram of Talisker I hopped up into my berth, looking forward to what the next day would bring.