Man of the world.... but living in Cambridge. Maddening (rather than maddeningly well-read), and wit...
Man of the world.... but living in Cambridge. Maddening (rather than maddeningly well-read), and with a disgustingly low body-fat percentage. Nice guy too, allegedly. Liable to be reviewing films, music, books and places. 19/07/09 OOTBBLPD. TBBIEK. MP.
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Allow me to be all self-referential for a moment.
'The final part of my 'Places In Ireland' trilogy...unless and until I do the whole Douglas Adams 'Trilogy In Four/Five/Whatever Parts' routine.' - Me, 25th January 2008
Well, THAT resolution didn't last very long...
Brandon Mountain (3127ft) - (Cnoc Bhreandáin) Brendan's hill
In its utmost south-west, Ireland throws out four (if you're fussy, five) peninsulas, like a misshapen and gnarly hand attempting to claw defiantly at the sea. First there is Mizen, hilly rather than mountainous, and something of an hors d'oeuvre. Then, across Bantry Bay, is Beara, a land somehow splicing violently rocky peaks and jagged coastline with verdant gardens and gorgeous loughs. Next, crossing the Kenmare River, we come to Iveragh, scene of our previous visit to Carrauntuohill, spacious from a distance but inordinately complex upon closer examination. And finally there is one of the last true bastions of Irish language and tradition: Dingle.
From its junction with the main body of Ireland at Tralee (home of the Lovely Girls Competi...oops, I mean the Rose Of Tralee festival), Dingle points unerringly out to sea, towards America. This is rather symbolic, both in that Dingle ends at Slea Head, the most westerly point of Europe, and because this area was the home of St Brendan the Navigator, who may (but probably didn't, because the story is most likely an allegory rather than a true account) have discovered America about 900 years before Columbus. He's not very well served by the image presented by his statue at Fenit, near his birthplace, which displays him as Ian Paisley's even more demonstrative vagrant brother. Whatever. What cannot be denied is the capacity Dingle has for inspiring those with vision. From an absolute legion of poets, to David Lean (who almost killed large numbers of film professionals and locals whilst filming Ryan's Daughter here) and the bloke who went on Scott and Shackleton's polar expeditions who built the legendary South Pole Inn at Annascaul (highly recommended, as we're passing)...all who have drunk in the atmosphere of this place have felt somehow obligated to create, to build, to explore.
So let's explore a little.
The first thing one notices on driving around Dingle is the signposts: they're all in Irish Gaelic. This is the result of a contentious decision taken by the government in an attempt to protect Dingle as a Irish speaking area. A noble aspiration and a desirable goal to be sure, but not hugely popular with locals (of whom there are many) who depend upon tourist revenue to survive: how are those very tourists going to find you when they can't actually read the roadsigns? The most substantial settlement is Dingle (An Daingean) itself, a fishing port for which the expression 'bustling' was invented, and whose most famous inhabitant is Fungi(e) the dolphin (nobody has ever managed to get him to elaborate upon whether there's an 'e' in his name or not...personally I reckon there is, because he doesn't seem the pretentious type): if you are one of the 'I MUST swim with dolphins before I die!!' brigade, this might just be your Tír na nÓg.
(Rest assured I am not in their number, although I have duly noted the possibility of a Ciao review entitled 'So Long And Thanks For All The Fish'. Watch this space.)
As the Pilgrim's Path rounds the Faha Ridge, the full dimensions of its eastern defile come into view.
the aforementioned Annascaul (which has another pub called, I kid you not, The Randy Leprechaun, whose external colour scheme is probably visible from space: if you only firebomb one building in Ireland, make it this one), Camp, Derrymore, Lispole (Lios Póil), Inch and Ballyferriter (Baile an Fheirtéaraigh). But there are also the individual dwellings: buildings that tell of the vastness of Irish history. Pre-eminent amongst them would be the Gallarus Oratory, a 1300 year old church shaped like a capsized boat, and the Iron Age fort of Dún Beag, trying (and almost succeeding) to cling to the slopes of Mount Eagle as the Atlantic relentlessly sucks and surges and prises below.
But nothing is as timeless as the landscape, and in this respect Dingle is almost over-abundantly endowed. It has a plethora of stunning beaches (see 'Ryan's Daughter for the evidence), from majestic sweeping strands to steeply enclosed coves. There are plunging cliffs (in particular, Slea Head and Brandon Point). And there is a huge L-shaped crescent of mountains: starting south of Tralee with the Slieve Mish/Bautregaum group, crossing a low col to the west to the Benoskee / Stradbally tops, before finally bending north over the magnificent Conor (Conair) Pass to culminate in the fabulous massif of Brandon, in my humble opinion the finest mountain in the British Isles.
This is a big claim, but I'm far from alone in holding this view. Joss Lynam, the doyenne of Irish mountain writers, agrees, but then he's native and thus might be accused of bias. That's a charge that can't be levelled at Hamish Brown, Scottish mountain man extraordinaire (over 2000 ascents of Munros is the tip of the iceberg). But we all believe that this airy oratory in the far west is pre-eminent. Why?
I recommend you start by driving to Dingle. From there, you can set off north over the Conor Pass, the highest public road in Ireland. From this south side, it's relatively undramatic: grassy hills rise up smoothly and sleekly at either side, but please the eye rather than quicken the pulse. But soon you will arrive at the summit car park, where a brief stop should be taken, if only to appreciate the colossal chasm ahead, falling away to the valley of the Cloghane River. The road now plunges down, clinging frantically to the very precipitous mountainside, and after just under a mile, another parking place will be seen on the right. Stop here. I'm telling you. And get out of the car.
Walk up beside the stream, and in a few minutes you will arrive at Lough Doon, a picture perfect little mountain lake held fast by steep cliffs. Turn around to face the way you came, and the breathtaking scale of Brandon will become apparent: from this oblique viewing angle, the huge cliffs plunging from the ridge are almost shockingly arrayed. (Of course, there's the very real chance you'll be stood in the rain unable to see anything: the west end of Dingle is the dictionary definition of 'maritime climate'). But on a clear day, if you have eyes in your head, you will be unable to resist Brandon's brazen appeal. So, back to the car, carry on down the road (which is less airily sited from hereon in, some may be profoundly relieved to learn), bearing left for the village of Cloghane (An Clochán), from where signposts point you up a minor road to the tiny township of Faha. Park at the little car park at the end of the road, 'near Miss o'Connor's house' as Lynam so charmingly puts it.
Brandon Mountain via the Pilgrim's Path: 5 miles round trip, 2600ft ascent =================================================================== =======
I make no apologies for fixating on one of the many possible routes of ascent (although I'll mention others): the Faha Pilgrim's Path has the benefits of being comparatively short (considering you're climbing a 3000ft mountain), not that technically demanding (quite steep at times, though), and passes through some savagely beautiful scenery. I consider it well within the compass of a reasonably fit and well-shod person, although the timorous might feel nervous at times when the path traverses rugged mountainsides above sharp drops. The way is very well marked (possibly too much so) with metal posts and arrows on rocks, and certainly the author managed to follow it in awful weather despite being totally unfamiliar with the mountain, but he still would advise the inexperienced to stay away if the cloud is down: there are a lot of places on Brandon where a splattery death lies worryingly close to the path, and it's a path you can easily stumble on. (Mind you, it's Ireland: God will probably save you).
A signposted path creeps discreetely around the back of the house, before bearing right up the hill to a conspicuous grotto dedicated to Our Lady Of The Mountains...as if you needed reminding where you are. If you come here in summer, chances are that many of the Pilgrims won't be going any further than this little walled enclosure. Anyway, too early to rest (and if you're tired already, turn round, find a shop, buy yourself an ice cream and spend the day on the beach). The path bends back left, and starts contouring the slopes of the Faha Ridge. All around you is green and pleasant, the view back to Brandon Bay is a very fair canvas indeed, and the uphill is sufficiently undemanding to lead you onwards in a most agreeable fashion. And yet...not a scintilla of the drama to come is apparent.
And so it goes for a while. The view gains perspective as the viewer gets higher, and the white posts will reassure the nervous (and slightly annoy the experienced...I cannot lie). On the skyline, two fine pyramidal peaks appear, and the path starts to round the shoulder of the Faha Ridge...and the adrenaline starts drip drip dripping. Lough Cruttia and the higher Lough Nalacken have appeared below you, their rock-bound settings hinting at what is to come. A narrow, ice-gouged valley leads upwards from the two lakes, and the path now takes a dramatic course hanging high above it. Each step brings this amazing schism more into view, and while only the tightest of jaws can fail to be slackened, the more forward thinking will be pondering the issue of 'how the hell does the path get out of here?' For you are gradually entering an amphitheatre that God evidently used for a game of petanque before throwing a hissy fit and wrecking all the garden furniture: everywhere are huge walls of bare rock, stone benches and vast fields of rubble.
As you progress the floor of the valley rises to meet the path, and you find yourself exploring a maze of boulders, rock pavements and tiny pools bound in their fastnesses: the kind of place where the author could quite happily spend all day indulging in some lazy bouldering but always forgets his rock climbing shoes. Always there are arrow marks to lead you on (too many of them, at the risk of sounding like a stuck record) and soon you are alongside the highest of the Paternoster Lakes, the string of tiny loughs that dapple the floor and ledges of this magnificent defile. Looking up, salvation suddenly presents itself in the form of a (comparatively, by local standards) green shelf (actually a glacial esk) sloping steeply upwards to the skyline.
The path starts to twist and turn, desperately trying to mitigate the steepness. Largely, it succeeds, but there are still moments where a spot of arm power might be needed for clambering, and wits should be kept about the person even if the situation is exciting rather than dangerous. But make sure you stop to look round...and you will. For looking back, you can see the Paternoster Lakes trailing downwards like rosary beads, bounded by the saw-like towered crest of the Faha Ridge on the left, and the titanic cliffs supporting Brandon Mountain and Brandon Peak on the right...a scene only rivalled in these isles by the Black Cuillin of Skye.
The path eventually contorts its way into daylight on arrival at the summit ridge, and the contrast is galvanic as the west slope of Brandon is a veritable ocean of grass easing its way down towards the sea at Ballydavid Head. There is a signpost to make sure you identify this descent point on your return ('Down - Amstieg'), and a turn left brings the final easy rise to the summit underfoot. Multiple parallel paths can take you there, but the brave will keep to the furthest left for the most arresting views down the cliffs. And soon is the top: this being Ireland, it is adorned by a metal cross, while other furniture includes a shelter (which can be MIGHTY handy, believe me), a trig point and the (barely discernable) remains of St Brendan's Oratory.
Any attempt to describe the view from Brandon is beset by a certain degree of futility: the chances are that you won't see it due to the weather, and if you do mere words may not quite be adequate. Taking a few steps (not too many!) down to the east allows you to see the ridge you've just ascended continuing north, the drama of the Faha Ridge falling from it, and the steepness of the esk from the uphill journey. Over the Faha Ridge the sands of Brandon Bay scythe away into the distance, and given decent visibility your eye will skim over Rough Point into Tralee Bay and the 'mainland' coast around Fenit and Ballyheige. Continuing to turn right, the spine of the Dingle mountains comes into view, eventually merging into the ridge leading south from your viewpoint, dominated by the aesthetic horn of Brandon Peak. Next is the lonely outpost of Mount Eagle, the final gesture of the peninsular, and finally the line of the Saint's Road rests your gaze on more glorious coastline, rocky coves and golden sand.
Whether St Brendan ever really sat on this summit in contemplation before resolving to set forth and discover the New World is dubious to say the least...but if you're ever lucky enough to be here on a clear day...well, let's just say that when given the choice between the truth and the myth, print the myth.
I climbed Brandon twice last year: in February as part of an elongated tour of the Emerald Isle, totally psyched and alone, I struggled upwards in heavy rain that gradually became sleet and then snow, stealing only the most fleeting glimpses of the awesome scenery, being borderline gripped in the mist and snow on the esk ('come on, this is a HILLWALKING route...pull yourself together you big eejit'), taking my photo under the summit cross hiding from the wind, before beating the hastiest of hasty retreats. Then in June I jumped off my plane and, being seduced by the clear weather, I legged it down the peninsular, straight out of the car, and straight up the mountain again, only to discover haze was reining the view in and there was a big lumpy cloud sitting just below the summit on the (invisible) west side anyway. Well, you have to have a reason to come back, don't you?
I hate advising return by the same route, but it should be obvious from the rock architecture gawped at on the way up that care is needed, and the inexperienced MUST go back by the route of ascent: and even with this familiarity, be careful on that esk. The views are better displayed in this direction, and the grotto conveniently situated just above the start for you to thank the Lord that he let you down in one piece.
Other Routes ============
The Faha Ridge is one of the most obviously aesthetic lines of approach to any mountain anywhere, both on the map and in the flesh. But any inspections from the side or above (as are possible on the previously described route) will lay bare the fun and games on offer, in particular an amazing knife-edge culminating in an improbable fang of rock. This section is 'avoided' (it's V Diff rated rock climbing, which is a long way beyond the abilities of most experienced hillwalkers, never mind the inexperienced) by an equally implausible traverse line on the north side, seemingly situated over an enormous drop. Suffice to say, if you can do this sort of route you don't need any advice from me, and if you can't, don't think 'I'll try and hope for the best'. Me? I haven't done it, and I covet it with a fervour that borders on lust. Deliciously scary. This year...
The other side of the mountain holds the Saint's Road, supposedly the route used by St Brendan. It's a little awkward to trace on the ground in places these days, and its immediate environs seem incredibly dull compared to the excitement of the Pilgrim's Path. A very easy descent on a clear day mind you...so long as it isn't landing you on the wrong side of the mountain!
The greedy might consider following the ridge northwards from the summit of the Conor Pass, and this is indeed a superb promenade. But not so fast hombre: the advantages of starting at around 1400ft are rather undone by the undulations of the ridge, so that by the time you reach the summit of Brandon Mountain, you'll have ascended around 3500ft and walked seven odd miles. A fine expedition for the stronger pedestrian, and the more experienced mountain person might choose to ascend via the Pilgrim's Path, before descending most of this route and turning east prior to Ballysitteragh, from where a long road walk regains the start.The provision of accommodation is practically a national sport in Ireland (well, more so than rugby these days anyway), so there will be something to suit all tastes and budgets, as the saying goes. Some of us have friends with beach houses willing to put them up (friends who, as it happens, got engaged next to the Paternoster Lakes on Brandon: it IS that kind of place): before that, I stayed at a B&B in Killarney with a landlady who really was called Mrs Doyle ('call me Greta. Please'. God, you can't make this stuff up can you? Only in Ireland). In terms of getting there, RyanAir fly directly to Kerry twice daily from Stansted. Personally, I would steer clear in high summer, when it's way too busy: these places are best enjoyed alone or in the company of people you'd choose to be with. So, autumn or spring: the winter's for people with no nerve endings, like me. And hillwalking with friends is one of the best bonding experiences I know of.
Especially when the weather's a bit tasty.
So, the far west of Ireland: a place drowning in magic, tradition, atmosphere, the finest of all the mountains in these islands. And randy leprechauns. Get to it.
Map: OSI Discovery Series Sheet 70 Website: http://www.dingle-peninsula.ie/
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