Well, well, well. It’s been a little while, hasn’t it? This is not the place to go into great detail, but my aspirations to travel South Asia for a few months did not pan out as planned. I returned home, spent a couple months in stability, support, and love, and built myself up to undertake a new journey. What unfolded was as filling as it was surprising; it was as joyful as it was unplanned and unresearched. As I grew cramped and stifled from my geographically idle time at home, my gaze wandered abroad. In a moment of reflection on my goals in travel, it occurred to me that I have and will continue to get in touch with my Italian roots while leaving my Irish blood rather neglected. One cheap flight and some minor research later, I was going to Ireland. 

I should preface this account with a few comments. Firstly, as I type, almost a whole month has passed since I arrived in Ireland. My memory is foggy, and this recollection will be informed by my camera roll and GPS files in equal measure with the contents of my actual mind. Secondly, and I’m not sure how this will show up in the following writing, but I did type up a rather rich, if I do say so myself, blog of the first five or so days, which I failed to save. This is a familiar territory, one riddled with sighs and cracked knuckles. Thirdly, and potentially most evident in the following, I have been reading two books by Tony Hawks, a funny British misadventurer responsible for transporting a fridge around the circumference of Ireland via hitchhiking and defeating the starting 11 of the Moldovan national soccer team at tennis. Forgive any waxing British in my humor. With that worrisome housekeeping out of the way, let’s dive in.

I arrived in Dublin. I got off the bus in the city center on the banks of the River Liffey. A rough red eye left me in sorry shape, but I had shit to get done. You see, I was not simply visiting Ireland for a simple sightseeing tour, taking busses and trains around Erinn’s Isle. No, no, no. I was here to walk. And not just a stroll, a trek— my longest trek to date. My mission was a to complete the Irish section of the E8. The complete E8 is a trail that stretches across Ireland, the UK, and from the Netherlands all the way to Istanbul, stretching 2920 miles in total. Next to that, the 400 miles I was setting out to walk seemed manageable, piddly even. It wouldn’t be easy, no. This brings me back to the shit I had to get done. I couldn’t bring the trekking poles, tent stakes, and poop shovel in my carry on bag, and I would need each of these to succeed. Food, too, I guess. And toilet paper. And a lovely Irish knit sweater. And probably some other stuff. This is exactly what goes on in my head when I’m running errands, just for anyone wondering. Jetlagged on a Friday night but kitted to the teeth, I took an early night in the hostel. My roommates were confused about my mission, and more pessimistic than I. 

The walk out of Dublin was charming, the city fading from the rolling boil of the tourist playground in Temple Bar to quaint suburbs. I hopped on the hiker mega-highway of the Wicklow Way, which begins in Marlay Park at the southern outskirts of Dublin. Here was where I saw my first little yellow man, accompanied by his trusty yellow arrow, the ubiquitous trail direction indicator that I found at nearly every junction of paths, roads, and trails on the entire journey. The Wicklow Way is one of Ireland’s premier hiking trails, and I was able to enjoy it alongside a large number of geared-up weekend warriors, hardcore trail-runners, and fellow trekkers. Being easily accessible from Dublin and a Saturday made for crowded trails, though I didn’t mind. I had a hunch that the time would come when I was longing for a bit of human contact. And contact I had, in a few especially memorable doses. A trio of older gents in matching windbreakers were thrilled for me to be taking on the task ahead. One of their number had walked the route himself a few years ago, and told me that I was much better off for having a tent. His attempt had hinged on stringing together BnB’s and, not having a tent to fall back on, he had been forced to weather the elements for a few nights. 

Paul and Theresa, a kindly older couple were out for a walk when I met them. Incredibly generous people, they insisted I take a rather large portion of their dried fruits and nut bars, even though I had plenty of my own food. They told me a bit of local history and about their son who was in the midst of fundraising for people in Gaza by diving in the ocean in each of Ireland’s 17 coastal counties! “We’re an Irish speaking family”, said Paul, as he showed me the marvelous flyer on his phone. When Theresa asked if I wanted to take Paul’s number in case I had any need, he and I looked at each other awkwardly. He was a hiker of some esteem himself, and I think we both understood the foolish masculine aversion to accepting support when attempting a feat. I mumbled something about having some plans moving forward. As I left, Paul gave me some advice— don’t walk too fast. I nodded, smiling, and bade them a warm farewell, thanking them for the food and counsel.

I didn’t have the heart to tell Paul that I really had no choice other than to walk fast. You see, to my utter delight, one of my best friends from growing up, Luke, was to meet me in Killarney, 13 days after I set out from Dublin, about 325 miles into the walk. We would finish the final 75 miles together, triumphantly. This provided me with two points of excellent motivation. Firstly, I was excited to get to Killarney and see my friend! We share somewhat of a mischief bone, one which has driven us to conspire wildly about a grand adventure. Inspired by the likes of GeoWizard and any number of YouTube explorers and (mis)adventurers, This adventure was to be the fulfillment of nearly a decade of abstract scheming, how-sick-would-it-be’s, and fantasy trips to mysterious lands. After many miles of plodding on in solitude, his company was something I looked forward to. I’m not much of a mathematician, but I can tell you that 325 miles over 13 days averages just about 25 miles a day. This is the other piece of Luke’s rendezvous that kept me motivated. If I wanted to make our intercept, I had to keep up a pretty blistering pace, almost a marathon a day for almost two weeks. No walking slow for me, sorry Paul. 

On day one, the tasks ahead of me seemed gargantuan. Was I crazy? Were the doubtful bunk-mates in my hostel right? Maybe! For now, I was camped in a lovely little wooded area at the top of the Powerscourt Waterfall. The Wicklow Way had transitioned gently from suburbs to sparse country, full of family farms and homesteads, through rolling hills, old graveyards, and stripped facades of centuries-old churches. I was pleased to realize that sheep had begun to outnumber people, and by quite a bit. The path turned off of the narrow, mossy lanes I had been enjoying for a few hours and transformed into earnest hiking. I set up my setup just a few hundred feet short of my daily distance goal, with a large chunk of elevation laying proudly behind (and beneath) me. Fresh feet pay the bills! I anticipated that I would get in pretty good walking shape by the end of the trip, and that right at the start I would feel fresh and quick. The uncertain part was on the doorstep, days 2-5, where I was stuck inbetween recovering from the previous day’s beating and taking the incipient day’s blows. I was hoping to travel 25 miles overland each day, but the days varied somewhat greatly in elevation. In a fun shake out, the two biggest days of elevation were days one and two! My feet aches let up just enough to let me fall asleep through the pain as I drifted into sleep, mildly dreading the following day. 

It began well enough, once I had my pack situated on my bruised hips and iron-tight shoulders. I trekked up to the highest point in the trip, one mountain called Djouce. I felt like getting a strong start to the day and neglected the two minute exercise of applying the proper layers. The wind ran at me like a bull and I bore the burnt of it without my raincoat. It had the electrifying effect of a cold plunge, shaking me out of my early morning weariness and early trip soreness and into an alert wakefulness. From atop Djouce, a crown in the Wicklow Mountains, I surveyed the region, making out Dublin in the far distance to the North, distinguishable merely by a lack of hills and some air pollution. The descent was lovely, passing by a number of amazing alpine lakes that drew groups of tourists. Some afternoon rain and some all day bodily pain drive me to cut day two short and seek refuge at an Inn. I was able to dry my damp possessions and self at the Glenmalure Inn, who also had a lovely lamb stew. I had conflicted feelings, having so recently made acquaintance with so many lambs, but I suppose not conflicted enough to not finish the bowl. 

Day three on the Wicklow Way was motivated by The Dying Cow, described to me by an old hiker fellow as “a pub in the middle of nowhere with a lovely barman. Everyone doing the Wicklow Way has to stop there”. The fellow was quite right: I did (I convinced myself) have to stop there, lovely the barman was, and indeed situated in a small little intersection of country lanes tucked between a few hills, far from any main road was the pub. I arrived there around 9pm after another long day of devastatingly charming views and trails. I wanted to push a bit to get there, both to make up some distance I’d sacrificed for my dry bed the previous day and to have the common decency to visit the pub in evening hours, not morning. My plan was to have a pint or two of the black stuff and then bugger off into some nearby woods, pitching my tent in the dark. A minor inconcienvence, but worth the landmark stop. I dropped my big smelly bag outside the door, applied a thick layer of deodorant, and went in. The cramped stone room was covered with old pictures, newspaper clippings, and art, almost entirely relating to The Dying Cow or its owner and barman. From the artifacts on the walls, you had the interesting experience of watching a man’s progression from young and handsome to old and stoic, all  through pictures taken at the various landmarks in his own life. The man himself, Amon, was a chap beyond kind. When I told him where I’d come from and where I was heading, he gave me a, “Oh, good job yourself”, a phrase which I was becoming quite fond of. He asked where I was sleeping and I responded with a phrase which had become a regular in my own vocabulary: “Oh, ya know, I’ll sleep up in the hills”. Amon shook his head and told me that he had a shed up behind the bar that I could just sleep in, no charge! I was moved by his generous hospitality, especially when he started fussing with himself about how to rig up the electricity for the shed that night. I insisted he not put himself out, and gratefully took shelter in the lovely shed, buzzing warm with a healthy dose of both Irish beer and reception. 

The fourth day was hard, the climax, I think, of bodily soreness in a body not yet adjusted to the strain of what was being asked of it. I remember gritting my teeth, putting my head down, and just going. I was weary, a weary traveler, and I felt it. You see, the E8 is sort of a single trail, but it really follows a chain of shorter trails that more or less share start/end points and borrows sections of other trails. The Wicklow Way, The South Leinster Way, the East Munster Way, the Avondhu, the Dunhallow Way, a brief section off-leash to Killarney, then hopping back on the waymarked Kerry Way,  In the village of Clonegal, I finished the first of these sections around 3pm on my fourth day.  I felt a sense of accomplishment having finished the first of these smaller sections, more or less on my intended pace, and daunted looking at the rest of the trip ahead of me. Now that I had taken a decent bite out of the walk, I had a better idea of what it would take to complete the rest. Cue feeling like a weary traveller. The trail terminated at the town green at the heart of Clonegal. Feeling like I had earned a bit of melodrama, I leaned into the whole weary traveler schtick; I asked the man mowing the green, “Is there anywhere in town I can find a hot meals?” I felt a sort of kinship with ancient foot messengers, bedraggled by days of walking, dusy-covered, sweat-stained, noble in exhaustion, proud in pain, in touch with a way of life long gone. This feeling crashed down rather abruptly when the man said, “No, but the Chinese takeaway opens at 4, I think”, and started up the loud mower. It was still 2025, not 1025. Alas! I felt I owed it to myself not to patronize the Chinese takeaway, and I didn’t much feel like waiting most of an hour, so I settled for my second option— good old gas station dinner. Chips, bread, sliced deli ham, a Snickers, and a tin of sardines that I didn’t have the tools to open. Spirits in flux, body in anguish, I left Clonegal, starting out on the second chapter of the trail. 

I ended day four camped at the edge of a forest on the slope of Mount Leinster, which I was intended to summit in the morning. I awoke to the very unexpected condition of snow on the ground. My tent, an unshakable companion of the trip and a worthwhile (though large) investment, was ultralight (720g), easy to set up, and designed for three seasons. Small piles of slush had consolidated around the edge of the tent, and thick flakes were falling with languid elegance all around, quickly turning the browns and greens to a blurry gray, then pale gray. As I packed up my camp, the snowfall intensified. The road that crossed Mount Leinster was covered in a thin layer of snow. Whether I was walking into the heart of the storm or there had simply been more time for snow to accumulate, the fact remained that soon I was walking through ankle deep snow. Gaining elevation, I realized that I was in a bit of a spot of bother— the storm had abandoned its cute pretense and unleashed its full force and before long I was in whiteout conditions, barely able to see fifty feet of road in front of me, winds nearing 40mph blasting me from the left where the mountain sloped downward. I had donned every layer I had, but the only thing that kept me warm was keeping a stern pace. The whiteness all around was blinding, and my sunglasses became wet and fogged up whenever I looked ahead, so I bent my neck and watched my feet taking step after step, crossing the mountain through snow that came increasingly often in the shape of drifts a foot high, squinting my eyes from exertion and brightness. 

Eventually, the slope became more gradual, and the summit came and went unceremoniously, with no hint of a view to speak of. The road continued down the mountain, and I felt the storm abate as I descended out of the winter hell that Mount Leinster seemed to harbor. The snow on the ground became thinner, the wind weaker, the walking easier. To my utter surprise, I saw a car ahead of me, a small compact beast spinning its wheels in the slush. “Am I mad or are you?” came from the driver’s window as I approached. I laughed, “Both of us probably”, wondering how beaten up I looked. To myself, I thought that no matter how silly it was to have just walked through that, the madness competition was easily won by the fellow who decided that it would be a good idea, or even remotely possible, to drive over the mountain in those conditions. I walked on after a couple niceties, continuing down the hill. It wasn’t long until, to my bemusement, another car floundered in the road before me. They, at least, seemed to realize their obstacle and were attempting to (bravely) reverse down the mountain. We chatted briefly and I carried on, easily outpacing their ginger inching down the slope, musing to myself about how strange the circumstances of these two interactions had been. As I neared Borris (the next town’s name, not a Slavic guy), the snow storm abruptly turned to rain, the white landscape surrendering to its usual green, making for a strikingly visible gradient along the hillside when looking back. It felt just like a Minecraft biome boundary. In no time, my surroundings were completely green, and I decided that it may not have been so mad to look around and decide that a little drive seemed appropriate. 

When I reached Borris, I treated myself to a nice big hot lunch. The desire to not dawdle in the blizzard had kept me at an honest pace and I had made unusually good pace. Who should I find in the grocery, but the driver of the first car(!) who had made it back safe and sound. We joked, each glad that the other had survived the harrowing and uncharacteristic April morning. To my further surprise and pleasure, the back room of the store was occupied by none other than the occupants of the second car, all also safely delivered back to safety! I ate a large lunch of Taco Chips and Wings while they told me about the orienteering guide test they were hoping to train for, but couldn’t. As outdoors people, they got a kick out of my journey, and I felt equally filled up by talking shop with some fellow hiker trash and the hot greasy meal.  

When I set out from Borris, I set a task for myself: figuring out how to pronounce the name of the next town, which was spelled sadistically, “Graiguenamanagh”. Cue shivers down the spine. The task was made no easier by the fact that I was beginning what may have been one of the most enjoyable and tranquil sections of the entire journey. I was on a section of the Barrow Way, a path that runs alongside the Barrow river for many miles. The flat grass track (the absolute best of the best when it comes to walking surfaces (when trekking I always compulsively make a hierarchical taxonomy of the best surfaces to walk on)) traced the path of the river as it flowed through gorgeous fields, anciently creepy forests, and medieval feeling lochs. It was in this section that an overwhelming sense of presence and gratitude crashed over me, the beauty of my surroundings filling me with a bright, warm air as I practically danced along the path, giggling at the absurdity of my day so far. All too soon, I reached the town which shall not be named, at least not out loud. After a nice hot meal and a little small-town sightseeing (a growing proficiency at this point), I retreated from proper society once again. 

The snow that once covered me had devolved into mere water, leaving me long soaked. I’d shed some of it while walking, but I was still rather saturated. Desperate for a night spent in shelter. I had the whole route mapped out on Gaia, an offline GPS navigation app, and I had marked waypoints indicating the day-by-day goals, each about 25 miles beyond the last. I did some quick calculations and saw that, if I really pushed, I could make it to the village of Inistigoe, about 13 miles and 1k of vert away. It was about 4pm, and I was already pretty drained. It would be a stretch to arrive by 9, the time when a very serviceable looking B&B on Google maps closed. I called ahead to see if they would have a vacant room, should I happen to make it. The incredibly kind woman who answered the phone told me that, unfortunately, they had just changed locations and were not hosting anyone at all. I said that it was no problem, and I had been planning on camping anyways. This was my error, as she immediately told me that she couldn’t let me just sleep out in the rain, and insisted that they could make a special accommodation for me, opening up a room  before they were even open. I tried to refuse, but she was persistent, citing recent rain and a wet forecast. Gratefully, I told her that I would be there by nine. I now had about five hours to get there, with feet shouting with every step, about a half marathon to walk, and a strict deadline to meet. The thrill of not letting this incredible generosity go to waste fueled me for a manic few hours, and I felt like I had a good chance of making it there. Then, at around 7pm, I checked the map. I was nowhere close. I sighed, called the inn, and told them I would actually not be making it, and thanked them for the great kindness of their offer, which I regrettable would have to spurn. Day five, rife with near-peril, social connection, shoulder-dropping beauty, generosity, cute towns, and some unusual carrot/stick motivation drew to a close on the side of a farm lane, trusty tent pitched feet from a pasture inhabited by two gorgeous plow horses well lit by a lazy and prolonged sunset. 

On day six, I did reach Inistioge, a gorgeous hamlet nestled on a river overflowing with scenic mist when I crossed it’s stony bridge. Everything was closed, save for a small public rest room (God bless) and the local botanical gardens, through which my path took me. As the day progressed, a hot sun swelled in the sky. I felt strong of body, but a strange weakness was coming over me. My constitution slowly diminished throughout the day, which passed both slowly and rapidly, and I was trudging at an agonizingly slow pace when I reached the small highway-side town of Mullinavat for an early dinner around 4pm. It was here that I realized my malady was not simply dehydration and malnourishment as I had suspected. These factors were surely not helping my state, but I came to realize, after a few rounds of vomiting and other activities that leaned heavily on the Irish plumbing system, that the real culprit was more likely to be my breakfast: two ham sandwiches constructed with deli meat that I had bought some 20 miles prior in Borris, left unrefrigerated and sitting next to a pile of horse manure overnight. Hoisted by my own petard!

I spent my sixth evening and seventh day in bed, indulging in activities which I had been unable to do the previous week while walking. These included, but were not limited to, shivering, vomiting, consuming only crackers and biscuits (McVitties Digestives and Jammy Dodgers; their discovery was the best thing to come out of this illness), sitting, laying down, and of course, watching YouTube. The despair brought on by physical dimension of the ailment was considerable, but nothing compared to the logistical predicament that my sickness posed. My meeting with Luke in Killarney on time had hinged on being able to keep a pace of about 25 miles a day for 13 days, with no rest. With a day totaling just about 0 miles under my belt, I was in a bit of a pickle. I could either divide up the 25 miles I’d missed between the next 6 days, averaging about 27mi per day, or I could just try my best to continue west and just hitchhike to Killarney when I was due to meet Luke. These plans being pretty much identical, both resulting, more or less, in just walking, more or less, a lot, I abandoned much serious internal debate. I’d get there when I’d get there. I checked the calendar and Luke’s flight details one more time and received a shock… I had miscalculated my time frame completely! Luke, landing in the late morning of my day 14 (!) would not be able to meet up with me until the evening of his arrival, as he would have to travel from Dublin Airport to Heuston Station and traverse across Ireland, taking most of the day. I had illogically decided that I had to arrive in Killarney the night prior to his arrival, on my day 13, when really I had almost all of day 14 to walk while Luke traveled west to our intercept by train (the lazy bum! Joking). This  all afforded me the great relief of realizing that I would likely not have to hitchhike at all, preserving the aesthetic and plot-like satisfaction of a walk-only trip. Phew! That was, as long as I was able to pull myself out of the sordid state I was in and get back on the horse the next day, continuing the now-normal pace of 25 miles daily. 

Back on the horse I got, with a hearty “giddyup!”, no less. From Mullinavat, the South Leinster Way led through Pilltown and to Carrick-on-Suir, a once-bustling shipping city situated on (shocker) the Suir River, about halfway between the larger cities of Waterford and Clonmel. It was here that the South Leinster chapter of the E8 terminated, only to be immediately relieved by the East Munster Way. It was also here that I met none other than Neil Grace, a very friendly older fellow who gave me a fascinating history lesson about the town’s history and its decline after river transport diminished and its larger neighbours drew much of its economic activity away. Neil told me about his lifelong fitness, including a stint on the Irish Olympic running team and many impressive marathons. His years of 80-mile weeks were behind him, but he told me he walked plenty, and he kept me company for about a mile of my walk out of Carrick. A pristine paved walking path called the Blue way laid beside the Suir, from Carrick all the way to Clonmel, my destination for the evening. Dusk was falling as I arrived at the Inn I had selected, and I crashed hard, wincing at my barking feet, but pleased that had covered nearly 30 miles on pavement my eighth day. 

Day nine happened to be none other than Easter Sunday! I woke up and began to appreciate my surroundings. I had been particularly excited to find that my route was passing through Clonmel. A staple of my and my brother’s childhood had been the Ranger’s Apprentice series, the eighth installment of which is titled The Kings of Clonmel. In it, our Ranger heroes spend time in Clonmel, consorting with evil assassins, cultists, and the local King. The city was not exactly how the book described, though to be fair, it is set in medieval times. In reality, Clonmel was a beautiful little city with all the old stone walls, battlements, and castle remnants you could ask for, alongside a wide array of commerce and businesses. It felt nice to re-submerge in a place where conveniences of city living were accessible, though it being Easter Sunday, none of them were particularly accessible to me. I’d slept straight through my alarm for the Easter Dawn Mass (can you blame me?) It was okay, I told myself, I probably needed the rest, still bouncing back from my body’s temporary rejection of all things nutrient. In truth, I was disappointed. An Easter mass had been high on my to-do list, and though I was able to poke into a few churches that morning, I failed to really immerse in the Holy Day. The whole day, pangs of loneliness struck as I passed by families celebrating together. The solitude was starting to weigh on me, not yet as heavily as my pack, but still present, and especially pronounced in contrast to communal celebrations all around. 

As refreshing as Clonmel was, it was equally nice to get back on the trail and crank out some miles. Now well into the East Munster Way, I began to notice that this section was much more poorly signed that with Wicklow and South Leinster Ways. More and more, I had to take out my phone and check the GPX file. I had become accustomed to simply following the ubiquitous little yellow arrow beneath the little yellow walker, and I started to get lost and take more and more wrong turns. At one dead end I bumped into a character quite cool, one Frenchman named Luciano. He had a real rucksack, a canvas bag hanging from the end of a stick slung over one shoulder. From Lyon, he had just moved to Ireland for work he was starting a week later, a job very very cool and, to my muddled mind, confusingly incongruous with our situation: animator for season 9 of Rick and Morty! We troubleshot our lostness and discovered that we were headed in roughly the same direction. We set out, chatting amiably, trading hiking stories, talking about our homes and career arcs. His hardcore camping setup made mine look like a palace, as it consisted of a single tarp(!). Though I didn’t mind feeling like a little bit of a boob when he told me that he’d just gotten hypothermia and was now staying in Clonmel on the couch of the incredibly kind EMT who had picked him up. A few extra pounds on the back had never seemed like a more worthwhile investment.

Luciano and I parted ways when he reached his destination, the ruins of an old Abbey, and I continued on the Munster Way. Having gained and lost such good company had both bolstered my spirits and made me a more pronounced loneliness. on the holiday. However, there was much to bolster my spirits! I felt strong, making good pace and overshooting my campsite goal for the first time of the trip(!), doing more than 25 miles. I was excited about this ratcheting of pace, fantasizing about getting to Killarney early in the day of Luke’s arrival and having myself a semi-rest day. On my way out of Clonmel, I completed mile 180, marking this as my longest ever continuous walk! I passed another milestone in the evening: mile 200, the halfway point of the whole walk! When I realized that I was already halfway done with the journey, I was sad. I felt like very little time had passed since I set out. I was feeling stronger and stronger, more accustomed to this unusual lifestyle, and the notion that I had so little left to go was a little deflating. At the same time, I took the occasion to celebrate with some (odd) Irish candies and a FaceTime call with the annual Easter brunch at home. As I drifted to sleep, I reflected on the journey so far. Already such a rich library of little moments had accrued, brief interactions, small moments of taking in a view or a particularly striking setting, moments of overwhelming gratitude or hilarious absurdity or consuming pain. Now that I was on the back half, I began to look more and more forward to meeting with Luke. Not only was I looking forward to my solitude being relieved, but more than anything I just wanted to share this all with someone. The heartache of witnessing beauty alone is a mysterious dimension of solitary adventure that I have not yet unraveled. 

Day 10 marked the beginning of the back half of the entire journey. I was halfway through the entire walk, but well past the midpoint of my time of solo walking. I only had four more days of walking to Killarney. And I was feeling good! The workout of 200 miles was paying dividends in major ways, and I was able to cruise consistently and comfortably. Early in the morning I bade the East Munster Way farewell and made acquaintance with the Avondhu, which began in a small town called Clogheen. I spent the morning gaining lots of elevation, traversing the wide open slope of a mountain that seemed to consist entirely of mud. My shoes had not been their original cream color in quite some time, but they quickly became fully black. I emerged from this section of wild into more settled countryside, weaving through farms and homesteads. In preparing, I had found one track that marked the entirety of the E8 and shorter files for each of the section trails. The two files almost always overlapped exactly, but I had reached one of the rare points of divergence. Naturally, I took the shorter of the two paths, even though it  was in the opposite direction of a small yellow arrow. This decision, made against my better judgement and driven by blind desire to cover ground, led to a very definitive dead end at the terminus of a cattle road on the side of a steep valley. My choices were simple: backtrack and take the other route, fully admitting defeat and my stupidity, or I could trespass through a potentially fully inhabited cow pasture, descend into the wooded valley and back up to the road opposite (my final goal), after passing through yet more fields. 

The choose was simple. The first cow pasture was thankfully devoid of cows. Almost every time I had walked by a pasture, the herd of bovines crowded towards me. I figured that they mistook me for their herder. When there is so little foot traffic to teach them that other people do, on occasion, walk by, I can’t blame them. Still, it was always jarring to see a herd of massive animals galloping towards me, staring and mooing like they wanted something from me. I preferred the skittish difference of sheep by a mile, though their strangely shaped pupils and disposition to fixated staring gave me the heebeejeebees over and over again, especially when confronted with a herd in a gnarled forests or a desolate misty bog. I digress. the pattern of crowding cows and a few statistics I’d read about cow tramplings made me a bit nervous to enter their territory, which was always marked by fence, hedgerow, or electrified wire. Beyond the first pasture were some woods on the valley’s slope. I descended the steep bank some hundred feet and waded the surprisingly wide stream at its base before ascending again. I had been able to scope out the uninhabited pastures from across the valley, so I was pretty sure that I would not get trampled, but I was now worried about farmers. The second and third pastures were in full view of the road, as well as the smattering of homes along it. I donned my most camouflage clothes and crouched as I jogged through the grass, bent almost double. It might have been a bit dramatic, but I was able to re-join the proper Avondhu with only a skinned knee and scraped wrist as souvenirs for my fence-hopping trespass and shoddy decision-making. 

Day 10 ended on the side of a logging road after a dinner of soggy Curry Chips with Sausage I’d carried as leftovers from a chippy lunch in a town called Newcastle the day before ( a digestive roll of the dice, I know). I had again overshot my planned campsite, but had actually lost a little of the lead I had gained on the planned pace the day before. Altogether, the route consisted of a pretty solid balance of proper hiking trails, beautiful country lanes, and logging roads. The later was my least favorite, as they usually didn’t lend themselves to views of anything other than cultivated pine forests in creepy grids and also had the uncomfortable underfoot composition of large, coarse gravel which provided neither cushion nor traction, only a good dosage of sharp pokes. However, these roads were full of viable campsites, with pullouts and clearings every quarter mile or so, each relatively private, flat, and protected from wind. It might have been more than half of the nights that I camped in settings like these. It didn’t matter that they were the least beautiful and charming spots, since I would usually get to camp right around 8pm, set up, and be asleep by 9pm, and then wake up right at 7 to get on the road after packing back up. 

On Day 11, I was a man possessed. I was low on food and water, which meant that I was both motivated to get to town and that I had a lighter than normal pack. A long downhill section undid the climb I did out of Clogheen and spat me out in Fermoy, a large town on the Blackwater River where I got a huge lunch before carrying right on. I had gotten a taste for overshooting my planned campsites, and the image of drying my belongings for a full half day in Killarney while I waited for Luke was becoming something of an obsession. The day was gray and soft (an Irish term I learned for the aggressive and suffocating sort of mist that leaves you soaked without ever having felt a drop fall on you), and I simply cranked. The dreary weather combined with one of the most uninteresting sections of scenery of the trip, and I was left with little to do besides walk hard. I hit another milestone, my first 30 mile day of the trip(!), well overshooting the planned campsite and inching closer to some rest. Pleased, exhausted, and drained from my longest day yet, I slept in a wooded park a few miles outside the small city of Mallow. 

On the morning of day 12, I felt like a dog wanting nothing more than to chase the squirrel it barks at, held back only by the collar of breaking down my camp. I felt fit, and I wanted to show it. This feeling was quickly interrupted by my stomach, which growled violently. In my haste the day before, I had neglected to pick up any groceries. Looking ahead, I would not be passing through a town large enough to have groceries for another 45 miles… I was feeling strong, but not that strong. My only option was to take a detour into Mallow to pick up sustenance, adding about 7 miles to my day. It was a mistake, especially when I could have stocked up easily in Fermoy, and I paid for it. When I looked at the map, I giggled to myself. It was early evening when I arrived at the subject of my amusement. The Avondhu transitioned into the Dunhallow Way in a town named Bweeng. Imagine that! Bweeng. I love it. I took a selfie with the  “Welcome to Bweeng” sign and was crushed to pass another sign indicating that the annual Bweeng 5k was just two days after I was leaving the country. What a pity. Spirits raised considerably after my forced detour, I trekked out of Bweeng, setting out on the Dunhallow Way. 

Besides having by far the coolest name of any trial I’ve ever heard of, the Dunhallow way was a treat for a few reasons. It was the final section of trail before Killarney, a momentus feeling. It also consisted of some of the coolest terrain since the Wicklows. Right outside of Bweeng I was treated to winding woody paths and elevated walkways that careened through fens and bogs that I’m sure would never have let me escape should I have stepped off the trail. The thrilling change of scenery fueled a huge evening push and, practically jogging, I wrapped another 30-mile day in a small bogside clearing.

I awoke on day 13 with the nervous excitement of Christmas Eve. This was my last full solo day— the next day I would arrive in Killarney(!) and meet up with Luke!! Filled with excitement and jubilation at the thought of being joined by my friend so soon, I set off like a rocket! While my ultimate goal of the trip, my north star, was Dursey Island, Killarney had always been my immediate focus. In my mind, I was really doing two hikes, one solo to get to Killarney, and one with Luke, to finish off. The idea that the first trip was ending was overwhelming. As I continued west, the terrain got more rugged, more rough. The trail grew tired of country lanes around mid-day and, after satisfying lunch in the quaint town of Millstreet, it turned wild. My solo portion of the trek seemed to be reaching an appropriate climax, and soon I was on razor thin trails on the side of steep hillsides, passing through herds of sheep and giant mud piles. The rain came, and the wind, accompanied by a chill in the air. My feet had given up any hope of dryness, giving into their fate, and stepped in puddles without a second thought. The hillside graduated into rough mountain, and the trail wove in and out of the ravines between the peaks, crossing the rivers that built their divisions. The footing was soggy and slippery, and I was coated with mud, my rain pants having split in half a few days prior when clambering over a fence. Freezing, soaked, and tired—it was miserable. It was perfect.

As I was descending into a little ravine between two of the most magnificent mountains on this section of the Dunhallow way, I was startled to see another hiker. He wore a poncho over his body and pack and we waved to each other. When we met, the only natural greeting seemed to be to laugh, which we both did, thrilled and confused that each of us was subjecting outselves to this. His name was Sam, an amazingly cool and kind Czech fellow who was hiking the E8 sections at a time after having lived in Ireland for a number of years. We swapped stories about the road in the direction we had come from, where the other was heading. I got some very helpful tips about the Beara peninsula, Dursey Island, and the area surrounding Killarney, all useful information without too much of a spoiler. He told me that most of the Beara way was “miserable bog”, much like where we were, and I told him that this was my favorite sort of condition. We could have talked all day, about running and hiking and masochism, but the only true protection from the frigid rain was to keep moving, and we parted ways after exchanging emails. If you’re reading this, Hi Sam!

The sun was setting behind the cloudy sky and darkness was swelling. I  pitched my tent in a ridiculously scenic spot, taking a somewhat early night, but then realized that A) sitting outside and enjoying the view inolved sitting in cold rain and that B) sitting inside my tent involved staring at a pretty unfascinating green piece of tarp, so I broke it down and carried on walking. A few miles later, I re-set up my camp in a copse of trees just off the trail that I hoped would dampen the howling wind. I snuggled into my sleeping back after a very respectable 25 mile day and realized a couple unpleasant details. Firstly, my sleeping bag was soaked, likely from a moment of innattention during my first pitch and breakdown. Second, my portable chargers were dead. It had been five days since I slept at the Inn in Clonmel, the last place I had access to electricity.  My phone was somewhat mission critical, as it was necessary for navigation, telling my family that I was alive, and somewhat less critically, audiobooking. The whole trip, I had carried three separate portable battery packs with me, and I hadn’t come close to draining even one of them. I repeatedly cursed my over-packing, especially because the batteries were about a quarter of my pack’s total weight. I admit it, I had portable battery hubris. The night before I had not even taken the precaution of tucking the batteries in my sleeping bag to prevent the night’s cold from draining them. Now, I paid. 

You see, the whole trip I had been recording my activity on Strava, an athletics-tracking social media app. I had a vision of a single activity spanning the entirety of Ireland, all 400 miles in a single record of my work, shareable with great detail, proof that I had actually done it. It was silly, and not the real point of the trip, but it had become important to me, especially as I had about 305 miles logged so far. If my phone, now at around 15% died, the activity would go down the drain with it. I could cut the activity short and have two or three separate recordings, or I could try to get somewhere with electricity that night, before my phone died, I could even hitchhike all the way to Killarney and find a place to sleep inside. This idea was especially alluring, given the soaked sleeping bag sticking to my sweaty, mud-crusted legs as I deliberated. 

I packed up my tent in the pouring rain, getting everything wetter than it already was. I was going to get back on the road. It was getting dark and I was exhausted, stressed, and emotionally confused about this minor fiasco happening on what I had planned on being a triumphant, simple final night and day (only 20 miles left!). To be honest, I don’t know that I really decided on a plan at all. I rejoined the trail (after getting a frightful surprise from a couple electric fences) and speed-walked on the roadside, turning my phone onto airplane mode to conserve battery. The rain continued, following my lead in picking up the pace. Soon it was full dark and I turned on my headlamp. I walked for a couple hours, losing any hope that I would be able to hitch a ride to Killarney that night— a single maintenance van passed me. I passed by a church that was open and unlocked, and I was sorely tempted to sleep there, setting an alarm for early in the morning and clearing out before any angry priest could put a spell on me or something. Instead, I gave up walking around 11pm. The pitch black sky was dumping rain on me as I set up my tent for a third time in what was essentially a disused backyard of a very inhabited house. I’m not sure I could have gotten more wet. I set up my tent on an awfully slanted piece of prickly brambles, unfurled my setup, set an alarm for 5am, and drifted into an uncomfortable sufferfest of rest after what had become my third 30-mile day in a row. My phone was at 2% when I went to bed, and I ended the Strava activity. If my vision of a single record was not to be realized, at least I would not lose the record I had.

I’m not sure that I awoke so much as I just got up on day 14. The little rest I had gotten was unsatisfying. Throughout the whole trip I had been amazed at the restorative power of a full night’s sleep. I tried to get at least 9 hours, usually 10 (9p-7a), and it is truly a testament to the capabilities of the human body that I arose each morning feeling fresh on my feet, just as I had the morning before, with only a few creaks and groans to speak of. That morning, I felt the impact of sleep’s absence. My nighttime walking had positioned me closer to Killarney than I had even hoped for, about 13 miles, but it was some of the hardest walking yet. As I set out in the morning darkness, my unmended legs groaned with each step and my mind was befuddled by exhaustion. My pack felt heavier than ever and it probably was, seeing as everything I carried was soaked to the core. My phone being dead, I was deprived of my navigational abilities. Unsurprisingly, I immediately made a wrong turn and arrived in the town of Barraduff, right around dawn. For a few minutes I tried to hitchhike along the main road that sported signage advertising the tantalizing proximity of Killarney (12km!!). I am very grateful to say that I was unsuccessful. Hitching would have felt cheap after I had come so far by foot. In a bit of a sour mood, I gave it up as a bad job. I strolled down the road and into a gas station that had opened while I was thumbing, hoping to find a little breakfast while I mulled over my options. The completely unintelligible clerk had the strongest accent I’ve ever heard, but, to my delight we were able to communicate about my predicament enough that I could charge my phone for a few minutes. What a savoir!

Connection to satellites restored, I realized that I was quite far from my intended route. Sighing, I traced out the way back to the trail and began out again. The day passed in a blur, the sides of roads all blending together in my sore, soggy state. Around 11a, when I had already been walking for six hours, I reached the borders of Killarney National Park, only a couple miles from my destination. It was here that the weight of my accomplishment hit me. On the small beaches of Loch Leanne I admired the Kerry Mountains. I choked up and cried a little. I had done it.

My emotional release was minorly premature, and I had another hour of sidewalk filled with hotels and tourist services before reaching the hostel Luke and I had picked out. In all the hecticness of the last 24 hours, I was pleased to refocus my excitement of meeting my friend. In poor hostel ettiquite, I hung all my belongings to dry all over the room, treated myself to a huge hot meal (“I hope you’re hungry”, said the server, probably pegging me as a wasteful American and placing my order on the table. The large porridge, full Irish breakfast, side of toast, and pint of Guiness were gone without a trace in about 10 minutes) and a shower before heading off to the train station. 

Luke and I have been talking about an adventure for a decade. Sure, we’ve done plenty of hikes and whatnot, but we meant an adventure. A motorcycle trip across Morocco, hopping on the iron ore train in Mauritania, horseback riding through Mongolia. Fence-hopping, blister-popping, lost-getting, farmer-fleeing, ditch-sleeping adventure. And here it was. I’ll never forget when he left the station, and our (first) adventure finally began. 

He regained me of his journey from Boston to Dublin to Killarney. It had been his first international solo-travel, and I was thrilled to hear that he’d had an amazing time of it so far. I’m loathe to tell his stories, but suffice to say that he’d had a good time. In a daze, he jetlagged and I pooped beyond reason, we wandered around the town. It was the biggest city I’d been in since Dublin, bigger than Clonmel and less to my liking. It’s situated right outside Killarney National Park and is the crown city of the Kerry Peninsula, widely acclaimed as some of the most beautiful nature in Ireland, and at the top of most “must-do hikes” I came across. Fittingly, the town was almost entirely oriented to serve the hordes of tourists that flock to the area. I came to see a pattern in many of the towns and villages that I got to pass through. Most seemed completely genuine— authentic communities that were largely self-sufficient, almost a closed system economically. All of the businesses in these towns serve only to meet the needs of everyone else, and my mind conjured images of the same money just being passed around, everyone depending on each other and everyone providing a needed service for the town. Other places, like Killarney, seemed to depend on being open systems, their economy almost entirely stimulated by money coming in from outside sources, namely tourists. These places have a feel of being a caricature of Irish life, all of the romantic elements being cartoonishly exaggerated to please the expectations of the masses. Don’t get me wrong, I swooned at these sights myself, probably with an overpriced pint in my hand. 

As fun as it was to sightsee with Luke (as well as get a number of points. One bar we went to was occupied and entertained by an absolutely amazing men’s choir), it was a great feeling to hit the road the next morning on day 15. The relief I felt to share the task of walking with Luke was amazing. I realized immediately how much calmer my mind was, how much less spinning and analyzing I was doing, how stabilizing the company was. And of course, it was just awesome to do this together. Luke analogized the situation well. I was like a B-52 bomber coming back from war, beaten up, dented, smoking, one engine gone out, and he was the F-15 fighter jet come to escort me back to British Airspace, the honor guard supporting the weary veteran to a safe landing. Though I was hesitant in comparing ourselves with anything related to the British Army while in Ireland, I loved the metaphor. 

The thrill of walking with Luke was further augmented by our insane surroundings. We retraced the three miles of sidewalk and hotel I’d done the morning before treading new ground on the Kerry Way, the penultimate chapter of trails of the entire trip. The path took us through the National Park, along the lake shore and past an amazing old manor. Before long we found ourselves in true wilderness. Big tawny mountains covered with jagged rocky outcroppings and sinister gnarled trees stretched in every direction. Water flowed through the landscape in confusing ways, with streams and waterfalls flowing down the smallest of hills. It seemed like the land had been there forever, but the water had just arrived, making odd and unlikely paths. We could have been a hundred miles from civilization, not an hour away from a huge parking lot. Our first landmark of the day was Moll’s Gap, a pass in the southern Kerry mountains. The landscape felt incredibly like that from Lord of the Rings, and we were certainly a fellowship on a long and harrowing quest. “We make for the Gap of Moll!”, “Make haste, the Orcs approach!”, and other such things of that ilk became the basis of our conversation for a time. At one point we put on some of the LOTR soundtrack and, looking back at the ground we had covered, completely freaked out and lost our minds at how awesome this was. 

We snacked at the Gap of Moll, celebrating our conquer of the day’s biggest elevation and descended to Kenmare, a small city on our path, for a proper lunch. It was on the outskirts of Kenmare that I got my first sighting of the Atlantic ocean. I suppose I had seen it plenty of times from the peaks of the Wicklow mountains, but this felt difference. The scent of seaweed and the crawing of gulls had never felt so victorious. The finish line was far yet, but I had hiked Ireland coast-to-coast. From Kenmare we arrived to the Beara Way, the final chapter of the trek. Soon after, we saw the first sign for Dursey Island! It was surreal, that these landmarks I had devoted my time and body to so thoroughly were not only at hand, but coming to pass as well. 

We spent the evening endeavoring into what Sam, the kind Czech man from earlier, had aptly described as “miserable bog”. Yep. We left the coastline quickly and climbed into the throes of the Beara Mountains, grappling slippery mud as we went up and down. The rain began, and as the miles racked up, I had the twisted pleasure of sharing with Luke the suffering to which I had grown so accustomed. As navigator, the suffer-fest of the bog was bolstered by my chipper, misinformed optimism that the trail would soon be leaving the mountains and following the coast, where we would have to contend with little elevation and simply enjoy quaint Irish ocean-side villages and a sea breeze. That’s certainly what I was expecting for the following day, as we set up camp in a grove of pines a ways off of the muddy trail. We found shelter in the little wood, which was well worth the quarter mile plod off-trail through knee deep tussock grass and hopping two little fences (harmlessly). 

My hopes for day 16 were completely unsupported, and we spent almost the entire day on slopes up and down. The scenery was amazing. My (feeble) research had given me high hopes for the beauty of the final stretch, and I was not let down. Mountains covered in grass, huge waterfalls, many small stone circles preserved from ancient and pagan traditions, alpine lakes, and our fair share of tiny fishing villages. We would later learn that due to the popularity of the Kerry Way and Kerry Peninsula just north of the Beara, the area we walked through was left relatively neglected and free of crowds. It’s a shame that this stunning landscape is ignored, but we did not mind the complete lack of crowds. In the few towns we did pass through, we stuck out like sore thumbs, clearly the only non-locals. We were all the more enriched for it, getting so many glimpses into real Irish lives and communities. 

Our goal for the day was to make it to Ardgroom for dinner, a town whose name we had a great deal of fun saying wrong and eventually perfecting. We entered the sole inn in town and saw what looked like the town’s whole population (20 people or so) fixedly watching a hurling match on the one small TV. The match must have been important or good, because we only got a brief glance from the crowd before they turned back to it. We shuffled to the bar, sporting our bulky packs, and quietly asked if they were serving dinner. The barmaid said no, just drinks, pointing to the television in a form of explanation. As much as it would have been a treat to watch the game with that crowd and have a couple pints, we were about 20 miles deep into the day and were desperate for some food. We left the pub, buzzing with the authentic gruffness of the inn’s tableaux, and settled for a classic (surprisingly satisfying) gas station supper. 

Well satisfied, we left our lovely Ardgroom and entered what may have been the most miserable bog yet. The day was getting away from us and, exhausted by the day’s elevation, we set up camp in a windy, godforsaken patch of tussock that had the redeeming quality of being the only flat and moderately dry area we could find. We compared toe wrinkles while we let our feet air-dry in the wind. It was the last night, Dusrey Eve, if all things went to plan. 

The final day was soon upon us. Within the first hour of walking, we had left the bog and passed a handful of viable campsites, each dry and sheltered from the wind. My tent had made quite a ruckus, flapping with every gust, and I’d resorted to the old trick of blasting white noise in my earbuds all night, which usually does the trick for me. Alas, as they say. As we left the bog, the trail finally did reach the coast, where we walked for most of our morning, soaking in the sea breeze and enjoying the flat ground while we could. All too soon we were thrust back up into the heavens, climbing over an old mining road, passing by the old abandoned mine itself before reaching Allihies, a lovely little town where we had lunch and bought our celebratory beverage. Luke and I had the bright idea of buying a bottle of Proper Irish Whiskey to share when we reached the tip of Dursey Island, called Dursey Head. It just had a great ring to it. Sadly the grocery in Allihies didn’t sell hard liquor, so we go a four-pack of Guiness. Immediately, we both confessed our distaste for Whiskey. If we had gotten the brown stuff, we probably would have forced ourselves to muscle it down and have gotten shitfaced. As funny as that would have been, we were glad that that particular plan had not worked out. 

From Allihies we continued west, and back over a mountain. When the going got tough, we both put in music for a little extra oomph. At the top of one pass, as I was listening to the incredibly cinematic tune of Solitude by M83, I burst into tears. There it was, Dursey Island. I got my first glimpse of my ultimate goal, my obsession for the past two weeks. It was here, I was there, and the end was near. Luke joined me and put an arm around my shoulder. Onwards. 

How does one get to Dursey Island, you might ask? Well, a boat, of course. *buzzer sound* Wrong! It’s a cable car, obviously. The Dursey Island Cable Car, terrifyingly advertising “Built in 1964” on its side, is the only cable car in Ireland, and facilitates access to Dursey itself, making the island the furthest you can get in Ireland from Dublin without taking a boat. Having bought a 10 euro round trip ticket, we boarded the car. Fixed to the wall opposite the door was a printed out hymn for protection and a bottle of holy water. I couldn’t help but understand, as we pitched and swayed over the 150 feet of air between us and the roiling Atlantic. I felt queasily anxious and exuberantly excited in equal measure as the car crept slowly across its cable. It was the first ground I’d covered that was not by foot in the two weeks since Dublin and, if I do say so myself, it was quite a stylish way to break the streak. 

Alighting on Dursey Island was electrifying. Just a handful of miles laid before my ultimate goal— Dursey Head. Simply making it to the Island was great, but of course we had to get to the very tip of it. The island itself is classically Irish in its beauty, consisting of a single ridge of tall rolling hills splattered with old stone walls, sheep pastures, and a few houses and homesteads. Where the island is not so typical is that on every side of these friendly hills are not-so-friendly massive black stone sheer cliffs, dropping a hundred feet straight into the Atlantic without a hint of guardrail or fence. The sea breeze we had so recently enjoyed had transformed into angry, relentless, unceasing gales whipping up the southern side of the island. It is a truly desolate, godforsaken place. Looking east, one sees the charming, warm-looking, and tranquil countryside we had just abandoned. Looking west, there is only ocean. Dusrey Island, population 3. 

We planned to camp on the island. It seemed very fitting, and we are suckers for a good plot point like that. We were nervous that we would have a repeat of the previous night, being abused by the wind for hours. An escape from wind seemed unlikely in this place. While we walked, Luke and I talked about how fucking cool this was. We fantasized about there being the ruins of an old lighthouse at the end where we could find shelter, where we could drink our canned Guinesses and enjoy the last rays of sun in Ireland. We knew this was never going to happen and that we’d probably be stuck settling for some marginally more comfortable site, but it was still fun to talk about. 

The final push was frantic. I was possessed by a manic energy, practically jogging up the series of hills. We hiked along the spine of the island, at the top of which was a tall old watch tower. Two hills later, it came into sight— Dursey Head, the finish. At end of the trail was a signpost marking Dursey Head, adorned with a little yellow hiker and an arrow not pointing ahead, but in a u-turn. A wave of emotion washed through me. Triumph, pride, grief, relief, gratitude. I fell to my knees and sobbed. I couldn’t believe it was over. 

As if as a reward for having walked there so far, our wish had been granted. There were, unbelievably, the ruins of an old watchtower right at the end of the Island. Luke joined me in celebrating our magnificent accomplishment. It was both of our longest walks ever!!!! We had done it in style and were being treated to an insane, unimaginable experience. Never has cracking a beer felt so good. We had our little cold dinner of pastries and relaxed while we watched the sun set over the Atlantic, white to gold to pink. We were giddy to be camping in such an insanely cool place, not to mention being protected from the wind. More than anything, I think we were just so tickled to have been able to do something so ambitious, so pointless, and so fulfilling on pretty much a complete whim, and to do it together. The alchemy of a ridiculous quantity of luck and a healthy dose of hard work had delivered me to one of the best moments of my life, and I felt extra lucky to share it with a friend I’ve had since the first day of Kindergarten. 

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When undertaking a pilgrimage or long trek of any manner, people often have a reason. Running from something, marking a life transition, grieving, finding ones self. Though it well could have been, my walk was not intended to be a healing endeavor, some sort of exercise therapy. A handful of times when I described the journey to Irish people, they asked, “Is it for charity?”. My sheepish reply was, eloquently, “uhh… no”. This was the first time I’ve done any international travel and not posted at all about it on social media (besides here and Strava, of course). I talked with my friend Jack afterwards, and he told me about a reddit post he saw of a father who walked 150 or so miles across England to raise money for his son’s medical treatment. Commenters (justifiably!) lauded him for the amazing feat and the tragically noble cause, but Jack and I had a chuckle that I had done a considerably longer walk, all for essentially no real reason other than a vague notion that it would probably be pretty awesome and the dumbfounding privilege of simply being able to.

I feel drawn to these treks (this is the fourth one I have done) largely by their athletic dimension, the daunting challenge, the intimidating feat. Now don’t get me wrong, I would never do this sort of thing on a treadmill, just for a workout; I do find immense joy in the sightseeing, cultural exchange, social interactions, and all of the charms that travel bears. But there is more to these. The push, the endurance, the commitment, continuing when my feet hurt, when I’m out of food, when I’m wet and cold and know that my sleeping bag and tent are no drier or warmer, there’s no service to call my family or friends, there’s nobody to help me but barely willing self. Those are the moments that are simplest, and even easiest in a way. There is only one choice, one option. It might be masochistic in some ways, sure, but when there is only one thing to do, which is to keep going no matter what, the pain seems to become less important. Not easier to bear or less painful, but just less of a problem. As Luke and I came to say, part satirically poking fun at the David Gogginses of the world and part in desperate need for motivation, “morale will improve when the beatings continue”. That’s how the saying goes, right?

When I tell people about the allure of trekking for me, some people say that they get it, and that it must be so meditative. Yes and no. At least for me, my mind was never calm, quiet, content. I brought some baggage with me to Ireland, and I returned home with it. Mentally, I had so much time to think that I became, if anything, less pensive, less mentally together. A few times when telling people about my trip, they asked how I killed the time. “I’ve got a few audiobooks downloaded”, I told a man I met over lunch in Borris. “Good thing, too. I’d go mad if I had to spend that much time alone with my thoughts”, he said. Quite! I do find trekking  meditative, though, in a different way. It is meditative in purpose. To wake up and have only one thing to do all day, day after day. To have a single point of ambition— Dursey Island— and to devote my entire being to its realization. Simple, unquestioning devotion is in many ways a relief, a surrendering of responsibility. I use all my energy in divining the best way to fulfill my goal while never wavering from the goal itself. It is, in a way, a sort of faith, a doubtless following of a higher order. This, for me, is the ultimate appeal of walking. 

This has turned into probably my longest blog, taking me several multi-hour sessions to write. It is, as per usual, completely unedited and unproofed, and I probably won’t read it for a long time. When I do read my own writing, even a day or so later, I often thing “god, what was that guy thinking”. So, if that’s what you’re thinking, know you’re not alone. If you have read this far, thank you. If you have read this far, you also probably know me well enough to have supported me in some way during this trip or in the months surrounding it, for which I am eternally grateful. My trip was the result of a collection of amazing people and their kindness and generosity. And, lets be honest, I was kind of just a beast.