Some wondrous solitude on the Wicklow Way hiking trail
REPORTER DAVID MEDCALF HEADED FOR THE HILLS TO TAKE A LAST WANDER ALONG THE WICKLOW WAY HIKING TRAIL BEFORE LOCKDOWN PUT AN END TO SUCH ADVENTURES. HE FOUND THAT HE AND HIS TERRIER WERE NOT ALONE – AT LEAST, NOT QUITE
THE editor thought it was a great idea, sending your reporter to take a social distancing hike along a section of the Wicklow Way, in or near Glendalough, while such a journey was still legal. The plan was to have a walk, but not on the shameful Sunday afternoon when the hordes descended on the Valley of the Two Lakes and created chaos.
With the world headed for lockdown, it seemed for that day as though half the population of Ireland wanted the most beautiful place on this island to feature in their last taste of freedom. The editor’s notion was to have the reporter patrol a portion of the Wicklow Way which runs between Glendalough and Roundwood, a couple of days after the pandemonium.
He was instructed to bring his notebook and speak to anyone he met who would speak to him while maintaining strict adherence to World Health Organisation guidelines. Surely, we reasoned, with so many lay-offs and the schools all shut, the hillsides would be gently swarming with under-employed folk seeking to fill their lungs with the freshest of fresh air.
With reports of car parks being closed off in the Glen, it was decided to commence the mission in Roundwood, a dozen high altitude kilometres to the south. So I drove a couple of kilometres out of Roundwood village along the public road, following the brown tourist signs pointing to the Way, and pulled in at a roadside halting spot.
The day was of the finest that spring in Ireland has to offer, with the sun gradually asserting itself as it dispelled some half-hearted light cloud cover. The sound of sheep ‘ baaing’ filled the late morning air as I stepped out of the car – the deep ‘ baas’ of the sedate ewes alternating with the higher, soprano ‘ baas’ of their newborns skittering around their field. I noted that mine was the only vehicle in the neighbourhood, but assumed that hordes of fellow hikers and waves of walkers would emerge in due course.
Dog (that’s Charlie to his friends) securely leashed, the journey commenced on tarmac, the road flanked on our left by hulking great beeches, more contorted than stately. The first yellow man of the day came into sight shortly after commencement, the logo of the Way our assurance that we were on the right track. Yellow men, yes, and plenty of them. Real men and real women, on the other hand were in distinctly short supply.
A cyclist freewheeled past without saying hello, a precarious length of Wavin piping bizarrely strapped to his back carrier. A householder sprucing up her bungalow by applying a coat of smart exterior emulsion also offered no greeting, not turning around as we marched past.
Twenty minutes gone and another yellow man directed us up and off the main thoroughfare – our venture into the hills had truly begun. A neat yellow cottage, radiant behind a line of dark conifers, marked the border between farmland and the highland. The occupants, nowhere to be seen on this occasion, offered a tap at which walkers may top up their bottles before passing beyond civilisation.
The gradient became stiffer and we crossed
a stile into a corner of the Wicklow Mountain National Park, as declared on a discreet sign. And there they were. I almost missed them while Charlie remained completely oblivious to their presence in clear view no more than 50 metres away. Three grazing deer. No, make that four, five, six, at least seven, all modest does rather than strutting stags.
They coolly returned my gaze and then hustled into the cover of adjacent gorse, last seen briefly as they flitted into sight again before fading into the gloom of a stand of sitkas. Deer may be common in these parts but it remains a privilege to see them so close.
They went right but we headed left and into the teeth of a chill breeze up through forest to the hut at Brusher’s Gap, with your reporter grateful for his six layers of clothing. The word ‘ hut’ is used lightly, with the structure built more along the lines of a bus shelter, with walls on just three of the four sides. Simply made though it may be, it must be a welcome sight at the end of a long day’s march and a gathering point for hikers.
But – guess what – on this occasion there were no other hikers to gather and admire the views across the hills to the east. So Charlie and I appreciated the fire pit and the picnic table. Then we took note for future reference of the sign indicating that the Mullacor hut is 17 kilometres further south and the Mucklagh hut a further 14 kilometres beyond that. We had no intention of straying quite that far today, but with any luck we shall return.
As we resumed our journey, a hawk glided across the grassland below us. Past land reserved behind high deer-proof wire fencing for young trees, and over our fourth stile of the day, we emerged from the forest into a brown wilderness of bracken and heather.
Desolate, yes. Exposed, yes. Unpeopled, of course. Yet on a fine day, this is a most glorious place to commune on the move with nature and the divine. The only company was provided by the tweeting birds whose camouflage is so perfect that they are practically invisible.
Over the crest of a ridge and, an hour after we set off, Laragh was spread out below us, complete with GAA pitch. We slithered down the slope towards this promised land and had just negotiated the stile at the bottom when a human being (wow!) bounded up behind us.
This robust vision in a green/brown tee-shirt turned out to be Alan Smyth, an army man out for a run with a lively collie-springer cross. A brief conversation was conducted at more than the recommended distance as Alan revealed that he was self-isolating. He had been ill the previous week and suspected that the problem may have been the dreaded virus, though he had no official confirmation.
‘ The testing process is ridiculously slow,’ commented the Laragh resident who then bounded off into the woods before he could be asked to pose for a photo. As he loped down the path, a couple ran up, with little to say beyond a hurried hello and a brief comment from the woman of the pair. She indicated that, with Covid-19 hygiene in mind, it might be a bad idea to lay a hand on the stile.
As the Way takes walkers away from the village, more than 50 minutes elapsed before I met another wandering soul. This was Joan Jackson from Roundwood who was encountered striding purposefully up a forest road and happy to talk at a distance of at least five metres. The niceties of social distancing were complied with as she revealed that she likes to take a two-hour walk every day – virus or no virus.
The paths around the reservoirs close to home provide one option but on this occasion she had driven to Laragh to take her exercise. Our chat was likely the only direct human interaction she would have all day with anyone other than her husband. Her daughters are not let into the house, though they do drop off provisions.
Joan sped on up the track while Charlie and Co began to retrace their steps, back through the woods above Laragh and then back out on to the highlands. The greatest hazard experienced was the danger of falling in the attempt, in light of the comment passed earlier by the unknown lady, not to put a hand on the stiles. Several times I nearly lost balance and could have fallen.
It was comforting – though slightly weird – to discover that this most remote stretch of County Wicklow had perfect mobile phone coverage. At least I could have called an ambulance for myself and then passed the time reading the latest Covid-19 jokes while waiting for the paramedics to arrive.
The journey back to Roundwood offered no new opportunities for conversation. Discounting that couple who had raced by without stopping, the rate of human encounter was running at around 0.1 persons per kilometre as our walk came to an end. Then the ‘ Two Polish lads’ (their term) came into view to send the statistic up to 0.2 persons per kilometre.
They were restaurant worker Nikodem Mierocha and security man Michal Meller, both resident at least 15 years in Ireland and working in Dublin. With lockdown looming, they decided to take to the hills, walking south and intending to spend the night at Brusher’s Gap. They reported meeting next to no one all day since setting off that morning from Powerscourt, apart from a few family groups around Lough Dan.
Chances are that they were the last people to stay at the hut before the Way, the wonderful Way, fell silent in the face of pandemic.