Tuesday, April 28th. There has to be something wrong with me, if, on my first real day off from this gruelling walk from coast to shining coast of the Emarld Isle, and after an almost 40 km route march the day before, I should choose to, well, go for a walk. But we did and what a walk it was too. First off – I was too tired to take much notice of where exactly I had landed and of the surrounding countryside, but on awaking on this crisp, clean, cold but bright sunny morning, the full splendour of the Knockmealdown Mountains, that rose quite literally behind the Ballyboy House B&B was revealed and it was just too much of a temptation not to attempt the closest and highest of the peaks. Also I was aware that the next morning I would be joined by Caroline Casey, one of Ireland’s most prolific and highly profiled social entrepreneurs for a days walk and I was keen not to have to start searching for the start of the East Munster Way first thing in the morning. After a lengthy and relaxed chat with Breeda, my very athletic, very authentic and quietly autocratic 60-something hostess, who I discovered was a keen hiker and trail walker and who encouraged me to explore the mountains in her backyard, we set off in the morning sunshine, not expecting to be out for too long and certainly not expecting any excitement for the day, other than a few good views.

I think I am going to have to give up expecting things, as everything in life nearly always turns out farcically differently to my well-reasoned and quite detailed imagination as to how they will play out. To begin with, the sunny morning was just a trap, to get me out of the house, straight out of the stratagems in the chinese epic “The Three Kingdoms”. Hiding behind the Knockmealdowns, where a large battalion of heavily-armed black thunderclouds was waiting until I had travelled just far enough for the “too late to turn around now” feeling to have taken root before ambushing me with the first salvo. This initial downpour had me wrongfooted, I admit, but I did have my rain gear with me (of course) and proceeded to struggle into my waterproofs as the rain came pelting down halfway up the road leading to the Vee (the saddle between the two largest mountains in the group). Hardly had I completed the costume change, but the onslaught stopped and the sun was there again and continued until I had reached the edge of the wooded part of the mountain and emerged onto an open piece of road hich formed a large viewing platform over the enormous stretch of Vale below. A perfect place for a cup of tea and so backpack was duly unladen and Stella catered for and seat taken. It took about 5 seconds for the rain to come out again. Away went the thermos, away went the packet of biscuits, out came the waterproofs on went the woolly hat and so on – you get the picture. Hardly on and us on our way up the mountain road again, sun came out, dried away the rain and itsy-bitsy spider was climbing up the spout again. Far too warm for waterproofs and off they came again. Just then I discovered the purported reason for my coming up here in the first place – the first waymarker for the East Munster way – and could  (maybe should) have stopped and turned around there and then. But something kept me going – the lure of a peak? The thought that 6kms didn’t count as a walk, more a trip to the bathroom? On we kept and sure enough, five minutes later, an almighty downpour this time accompanyied by such a cold wind that I had to add a pair of gloves to the costume to stop my hands from freezing any more than they already were. By this time I had changed clothes more times than Liza Minelli at a Las Vegas Review and without any assistance from behind stage and possibly not quite as elegantly, and was getting bored of this routine. Which was fine, as for the next hour the downpouring rain was unbroken, interspersed with snowy bits (not bavarian standard, but passable) until we reached the intersection of the two mountains, the Vee.

Again, at this point I could have chosen the short(er) route back to Clogheen, but I picked up a sign for the alternative Avondhu route that I could have taken yesterday (the long route over the mountains), but couldn’t manage and so decided in the name of completeness to finish the job and walk that section as well.

I am delighted that I did, even though the whole exercise ended up just shy of 35kms and some tough, but glorious walking over the fells with several very steep inclines. All walkable, of course, but not really relaxing. And a full assortment of weather – we had a hail storm which lasted for 20 minutes and came in at us horizontally, we had a little snow, lots of rain and even some sun again as we were making our way off the mountain. It was getting on for five o’clock as we arrived home, soaked through, knackered and again dying for a large pot of tea and a drying out session in front of the fire. All of which we received with good grace from Bernie, our stand-in hostess for the evening, as the mistress was away.

So much for the day of rest – this is an exquisitely beautiful area, ideal for walking, with gigantic views, magnificent mountains on both sides of the valley, the Knockmealdowns on the south side and their more famous cousins the Galtees on the northern flank. Definitely come-back country.

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Too full at 0600 on Monday morning from last night’s “simple irish supper”, I skipped breakfast and quickly packed the last pieces of my kit that I had not been able to stow away the night before (most of it actually). I have become a dab hand at packing my backpack quickly and efficiently and have figured out the best way of arranging the pieces so as to minimise the waste of space and to distribute the weight evenly.

I had made the decision the day before, that I was going to take the final 38km section of the Avondhu Way to Clogheen (pronounced Claheen), in Tipperary in one go and determined to set off at 0700 in order to break the back of the trip before noon. Which we did and a very intense day it was too. We have passed decisively from sheep to dairy cattle country now and we were followed on almost every lane by curious young herds of cows, which Stella found very disconcerting, especially when they began stalking her, starting slowly at first at one corner of the field but increasing in speed as she pulled away from the lowing, stumbling, inquisitive herds, falling over themselves in their rush to get as close to the fence and us as possible. You know you have been on  the road a long time when you start talking to cows and mediating between them and your dog and not finding that fact at all curious.

The way out of Fermoy is on metalled roads for…miles. We wandered along main streets, past housing estates, on back lanes, back onto main roads, now contending with the morning’s rush hour traffic – admittedly this is not Shanghai, but nonetheless a lot more traffic than I have become accustomed to – even onto a motorway roundabout and slip road (with a sign pointing to Dublin which on that cold Monday morning brought on a twinge of homesickness, along with the thought that approx. 120 minutes away was home). 8,5 km later we turned off the country road into the Glashalston Reserve and the prettiest part of the days walk, at least for the first half. We walked through a beautiful woodland park, following the mellifluous babbling of a stream gradually uphill, climbing steadily until we were on more open forest tracks with glimpses of the open countryside and hills through the spaces in the plantations. We spent a great deal of the middle part of the day on seemingly endless forest tracks which ran for kilometres in a straight line, before arriving at a junction at which we would turn left or right before marching for another interminable stretch along an identical path. I knew from studying the maps over the last days that the final section would be in a mountainous area and so I had a watchful eye on the hills in question from the moment we left Fermoy. This was the geography we were making a beeline for and as imposing as they had seemed from 30 kilometres distance, the more manageable they appeared to be as we came closer.

What I had underestimated – probably lulled into a false sense of security by the cracking pace we had set all morning – was the length of the final stretch over the start of the Knockmealdown Hills to Crow Hill where we would finally hit the road which would then take us down into Clogheen and Ballyboy House B&B, some 5, rest. 7,5 km away at the foot of the mountains in the sumptuous green valley below. The last two hours and 10 km to Crow Hill seemed to never want to end and by the time we hit the small mountain carpark I had 38km on the tracker and an average speed of just over 5,0 km/h. We had encountered every type of weather imaginable: rain (lots of it), sunshine, sleet, icy winds, even snow for a three minute interlude and a spot of hail and had almost every type of ground underfoot, from asphalt, through bog and fen track, forest path, broken stone ways (a peculiarity of Irish Trails, the purpose of which I have yet to fathom. These ankle breaking routes heaped with small stones and rocks are good for …nothing, except, possibly, ensuring that walkers do not hurt themselves by moving too quickly. I smell an EU health & Safety Directive lurking somewhere in the background.).
Late in the afternoon, ten and a half hours of almost non-stop walking with a full pack later, Stella and I arrived at Ballyboy House, a very idiosyncratic and characterful B&B just outside (and on the wrong side) of Clogheen, owned and run by Breeda and John, wet, cold, hungry, our feet pounding and well-pleased with our efforts for the day. Although I didn’t get the room with a bath which I had been dreaming of all day, we were treated to a pot of tea and fresh scones in front of roaring fire, in front of which, lying on the floor Stella and I duly fell asleep, her head draped over my lap.

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