My second walk was on the magical island of Cape Clear, Ireland’s most southerly island and the ‘last stop’ before North America. I’d been here before, just once and only for a few hours. Reading Paddy Dillon’s coastal walks I saw that somehow he’d managed to eek out 12 miles of walking on this small island. This seemed the perfect spot for walk number two.
There is something wonderful about the atmosphere here. You can almost feel the strains and stresses of life just flowing away; the forty five minute crossing probably has something to do with it.
Cape Clear — or Orlean Chléirein Irish — is only three miles long and one and a half miles wide, but it makes the most of it. A permanent population of only 120 live here, making the most of the climate which is milder here than on the mainland. It is a favourite for bird watchers and casual visitors of all kinds. The Cape Clear community is famous for being one who’s main language is Irish.
My first visit coincided with the annual Cape Clear Story Telling Festival and I was fascinated by this. A small but happy band of people were taking over the island. If you can imagine a Glastonbury atmosphere but without the mud, music and throngs of people you might get some feel for the atmosphere. Rather weirdly from my point of view I got to the ferry this year to find that it was the same day as last time, the Friday on which people were arriving for the festival. Sadly, I thought that the timing of the walk would not really allow me to explore much of the festival.
Paddy has managed to squeeze twelve miles walking into Cape Clear, something he achieves by a rather ingenious figure of eight route. This being September the ferry timetable had already begun to reduce and I reckoned I would only just have 6 hours in which to do the walk, and the book quoted six hours. Should I do the whole thing? Or should I allow myself time to wander, relax and take in the view?
From the little north harbour I climbed up a tiny lane to drop down to the south harbour. Here there were signs of the festival gathering. The small but friendly campsite featured two teepees and two Mongolian Yurts laid on to give the festival feeling. But I was off to the ‘hills’, or rather the rugged ridge that runs the length of the eastern part of the island.
The wonderful karma of the trip was broken the minute I stepped off the road and onto the footpath. Was this fence that I was crossing an electric fence. There was no sign. Ouch, a shock confirmed this was electrified. Pulling myself together I set out onto the path. I knew that the land would be waterlogged and so it proved, What I hadn’t counted for was the rest of the natural hazards.
Paddy’s walk runs out to the cliffs, faffs about a bit and then comes back inland a little to follow the crest of the ridge and a stone wall. What could be simpler? Except there was this gorse and brambles and brambles blackberries. The brambles were vicious and within no time at all my legs were hacked to pieces. The narrow paths were often so waterlogged that there was no option but to try and stomp over some of the brambles. Heavy boots and thick gaitors might have helped _ but this was summer!
I found the wall and clambered up to it — a not insignificantly painful experience. The odd small path ran on and I jumped on to it. Within a metre of two the path simply dropped me in the middle of a huge expanse of water. I climbed around the edge, over thistles. regaining the path I soon found myself faced by more water. Should I carry on? Of course I should. I took another faint path and this time found myself walking back to the coast. I slogged up to some high ground, over more thistles. I spied what looked like a path in the distance. I clambered over more thorns to reach it. Yes it was a path but guess what? It soon disappeared into more bog.
The going was incredibly slow. Was I really enjoying it? I suddenly realised that despite the slog the path hadn’t really taken me anywhere. I found myself gazing at the very cows that I’d walked past on the other side of the wall half an hour before.
Enough was enough. I had no idea how Paddy had managed all of this but knowing him now I was a little suspicious, for Paddy seems not to have the same idea of pleasure and pain that the rest of us do. Curious about all of this I turned to the inside cover of the book. It was first published in 1999 which I guess meant that it was researched in 97 or 98. I suppose Paddy wasn’t walking the path at the height of the summer — with all of the undergrowth at its most vicious. Perhaps, over ten years or so the paths and the foilage had changed. I have no idea how — or even why — he wanted to carry on with this walk!
Just in case you have found this page from Google — and are thinking of walking the walk — well, this is for you. From the road slip under the electrified fence (no sign). Follow the path out to the cliffs. The guidebook suggests you retrace your steps to find a path that follows the line of the wall. The wall is easy to see and you will have crossed it. But the path is no more. From the cliffs the path you will have walked on continues as if to go inland and to follow the ridge. It comes and goes this path but eventually goes back out to the cliffs again, so it doesn’t really follow the line wall. Maybe it does eventually but I wasn’t hanging around to find out. The Martello Towers are easy to make out but the wind turbine is no more, although it still stands.
I gave up. I slipped back under the electric fence and onto tarmac. If I had happened to chance on Paddy there and then I’d have throttled the bugger. Maybe, it would be more diplomatic to suggest to Cicerone that it was time to revise the book!
I’d walked less than a mile. My trousers were caked n mud, my feet soaked through and my legs torn to bits. Sod this. It was time to go back to north harbour, find some lunch and a drink and find out what this festival was all about.
Back at the harbour there’s a lovely café. I sat outside in the sun and eat a wonderful crab salad. There I got talking to a London guy and his Northern Irish relative. They’d discovered this festival by accident, loved it and had come back five years on the trot.
The festival seems to be quality experience but it is small, and all the more interesting for that. I think the programme featured four or five top class storytellers who were doing ‘gigs’. Apparently the audience is about 200. I was sat and chatted the place began to come alive. On the next ferry a large throng (well relatively) emerged as if they were off to Glastonbury. There were flowery wellies, lots of hippie type clothes and other adornments. In that rather strange way that you see in the UK hippies seem to be getting both older and younger. Some of these folks were only just out of their teens. The first session had begun, an exchange session for story tellers. The rest of the programme featured: a session on Fathoms and Metres from the Hebrides with Hebridean story teller Ian Stephen; Meandering Minstrels: songs and takes from Ireland with Clare Murphy and Jimmy Crowley; World Wondering Tales with Lyn Ford and Clare Murpy and much more. The main story tellers came from the US, Ireland, Scotland and Scandanavia.
The atmosphere of the place was great and the people lovely. You tell from their happy demeanours that this was one great — if tiny — festival. I’ve added it to my list of things to do. One year I’m going to stay for the festival, campin that delightful campsite and drink in the local pub
But it was time to go and soon as I was back on the ferry, riding the swell back past the Fastnet lighthouse and into Baltimore.
Despite the walk I’d had a wonderful day. What a great place and what lovely people — both the visitors and the locals. To stay here for a few days would be an experience that I reckon would relax even the most stressed on city dwellers.
It was my last day before moving on to Dublin. In the evening I met with family and friends for a fine seafood meal in the village in which I was staying. Everything was wonderful with the word …
… until I jumped into the shower next morning. Boy did those brambles cuts hurt!
Take my advice. If ever you’re in this part of the world make sure to visit Cape Clear. But give Paddy’s walk a miss. This is a place to relax and amble about. Leave the brambles to the loonies.
Postscript: This is a tiny community and like many island communities is trying to regenerate itself. They’re looking for residents. You don’t have to be Irish or speak Irish. It might be just what you’re looking for. I quite fancy it myself. More here:
It looks and sounds a wonderful place. The photos as always are great. As for the walk. Well it seems a harsh place to walk. Guidebooks are not always what they seem.
Next time you visit Cape stay over and allow the time to walk the walks without the stress of getting back for the last ferry. Also forget the guide book and ask a local, as we all know the best walks. We even have our own walking group here and we spend many hours doing the walks but we are never in a hurry and will probably take twice as long on a walk as traditional walkers would. When I walk the hills I do it in sandals and shorts – forget walking boots, sure I get a few scratches but these are the medals which help to prove that you are still alive and kicking. The issue this year was the unusual increase in the amount of rain which kept people from walking the hills and resulted in the ‘paths’ becoming overgrown – I take a pair of cutters with me and cut the briers as I walk. I hope you have a better experience the next time you visit.
A wonderful account of our island, you’d be most welcome to stay in one of our yurts or tipis (which are for rent from April to October)
See you soon!