Best Irish Walks - Joss Lynam

...news broadcast that did its best to unnerve me before a solo round of the Coomloughra Horseshoe ('Morning! Right so. First on Radio Kerry News, a report from the inquest into the death of that Swedish bloke who disappeared while walking in the Kerry mountains, and whose remains weren't found for over a year. And after that, we'll have the death announcements!'), an uncomfortably wintry ascent of the magnificent Brandon Mountain, myself and my ever-game ...
...atmospherics: one of my very best days in nearly 30 years in the mountains.


==My Ship Is Coming In==

Throughout this all, I can safely say that Lynam's book has never let me down. These days I feel a lot more comfortable creating my own itineraries, but if I want a guarantee of quality, I always return to it. Time has inevitably introduced the odd inaccuracy (new fences appear, gates change colour, etc), but his actual ... more

Wouldn't it be lovely if it was possible to discover a new country entirely at one's own pace? Cruising around at random, going where your whims and fancies took you...staying awhile ('a while' being 'as long as you like') at all the secret and wonderful places you happened upon, drinking in the mystery and the culture...and feeling steered by the vagaries and quirks of fate.

Unfortunately, most of us don't get to live our lives like 'A Year In Provence'. Most ordered, salaried existences have limited spare time and are crippled by the fact that recent economic events make spending money that you don't actually have a bit trickier than it used to be. Our leisure, our holidays, need to be accompanied by a bit more of a quality guarantee than pure chance supplies, and so it's wise to seek the advice of a knowledgeable authority. The internet can provide this of course, but there's still something reassuring about the literally printed word: democracy means that any old idiot can write something on the World Wide Web, but you'd hope that your average publisher would be a little more selective. (Apart obviously from Blake Publishing and Century Hutchinson, who are the fools who keep putting out Katie Price's ghostwriter's cack).

So, a guidebook then.

Make It Easy On Yourself

The collision between the majority-of-my-life penchant for mountains and a more-recently-acquired interest in Ireland (well, if my mate Dave will go and pair himself off with an Irish girl...) was inevitable, and crawling from the smouldering wreckage was an overriding need to visit and find out more...after all, here were legions of mountains comparatively close by with which I didn't already feel a sense of intimacy. I had a few coffee table compilation books covering the whole British Isles (and therefore possessing Irish sections), but these were books whose gloriously enticing photos and slightly limited route selections were unfortunately wrapped up in rucksack-unfriendly dimensions. I did also have a casually acquired copy of Paddy Dillon's corkingly idiosyncratic 'The Mountains Of Ireland', with its rubbish diagrams and 'interesting' peak criteria (sod maths, if Paddy liked the look of it it was in). Basically, nothing entirely satisfactory.

(Later on, I acquired Lonely Planet's guide to Irish walking too, because a man can never have too many guidebooks to pore over while otherwise engaged in the smallest room in the house: a good selection, but cluttered with too much extraneous information and containing at least one potentially fatal 'left when you meant to say right' direction).

So off to Amazon I went. Firstly, I wanted a book covering the whole of Ireland, because I was planning an extended stay using multiple bases (and I wanted some idea of what those bases should be). I needed something that made a definite selection based upon quality rather than relying upon such often-dodgy criteria as 'height'. And finally, I was after something written from the point of view of the hillwalker rather than the native. Fortunately, my eyes alighted on Joss Lynam's bell-ringing name, and remembering (favourably) some of his articles in the mountaineering press down the years, I decided that my metaphorical punts should be punted in his general direction.

'Best Irish Walks' is actually a condensation of a much larger work: previous editions had contained 232 walks in four volumes, but we're now presented with a single book with 76 walks. Actually, it's more accurate to say '76 chapters', as a fair few of those 76 entries contain several variations and alternatives (usually pitched at those wanting something more low-level). Starting from Dublin and working around the coast (a study of the map will reveal that the majority of the interior is low-lying), Lynam tours Ireland roughly clockwise, opening with the granite Wicklow mountains that act as the capital's extended municipal park. Via the Blackstairs range, his next stop is the glacially-gnawed plateau of the Comeraghs in the south-east, before briefly heading substantially inland to the high rolling Knockmealdowns and Galtees. Unsurprisingly he spends a lot of time in the fantastic tangle of sharp peaks that line up along the coastal peninsulas of Cork and (especially) Kerry, dallies briefly with the striking limestone karsts of The Burren before exploring the varied western ranges of Mayo and Connemara. Finally he curves around the northern extremity, taking in more limestone scarps in Sligo, the fascinating quartzite peaks of Donegal and a concluding granite encore in the mountains of Mourne.

The walks described vary from very easy (by hillwalking standards that is: there's nothing that the infirm or downright lazy would consider a doddle, but the opening Wicklow salvo of Bray Head and the Great Sugarloaf are no more than strolls of a couple of hours each) to rather more tricksome, both in terms of length (the hellishly a-long-way-up-and-a-long-way-down-and-repeat-ad-nauseam traverse of the Maum Turks of Connemara) and technicalities (the Big Gun section of the Reeks ridge in Kerry is either 'great fun' or 'fecking terrifying' depending on your disposition). The majority of the routes explore the mountains, but there's also decent selection of the stupendous coastal walks on offer.

Each chapter has an illustrative map (which is not good enough for navigating in the field: you need a real map for that. Even owners of GPSs who also own a bit of sense tend to carry actual maps too, just in case), a guide to the distance and ascent involved (and the time to be taken: obviously a guestimate but 'on the generous side of accurate' in the experience of this usually-solo-and-occasionally-fitter-than-average reader) and an italicised introductory paragraph giving an outline of the walk in terms of its location, terrain and appeal. And of course a description of the route(s) involved, and it's here that Lynam generally scores a bullseye. His prose manages to be both amiably freewheeling (peppered as it is with personal anecdotes which betray a genuine adoration of the mountains) and heartily illuminating, rarely being more or less informative than necessary. And his advice is generally sound: he never puts off the adventurous by overdramatising difficulties (for instance, rather than give a blow-by-blow account of the Big Gun - Cnoc na Peiste traverse, he describes it as 'interesting' with 'two knife-edges lasting for approx. 1.5km') but he won't mislead the inexperienced or timorous either ('if your head is not good, do not press on!').

As well as describing each outing, Lynam also provides good, concise background information. There's the stuff you don't need to know but which can add a little bit of colour to your days on the hills, such as a lengthy treatise on the flora and fauna of the Irish mountains, a similar essay on the geology, and a highly convincing explanation of why it seems to rain to an Ark-fabricating extent. Then there's the stuff you do need to know, such as how to get there and where to stay when you do (although with the book published in 2001 it's fair to say that such advice has been rendered slightly out-of-date by Michael O'Leary's happy band of brigands and the Internet respectively), and the slightly prickly subject of access (of which more later). And to register a picky complaint: while obviously what constitutes 'safety in the mountains' will always come down to person opinion, Lynam's advice on solo walking seem rooted in the days before mobile phones. (Oh, and the photos are sparse, black and white and rubbish. Just in case you thought they'd be ravishing).

The Sun Ain't Gonna Shine Anymore

The cover of 'Best Irish Walks' has a little image of an old-fashioned compass and, more significantly, a big close-up of a pair of very muddy boots. Believe me when I say that this arrangement is designed to inform more that it tries to inspire. Because if there's one thing that sets the Irish mountains apart from the English and Welsh hills in particular, it's their quite supreme levels of saturation. I've walked the length and breadth of these isles, including a comical-in-retrospect near-drowning on top of Kinder Scout, and nothing quite beats the immersive experience of Ireland. According to the illuminating section on the weather, even the drier (a deeply relative concept) hills of the east get about 200 days rain each year, while the more maritime areas of the western seaboard marinade themselves on more than 225 days. With 170-odd Atlantic depressions sweeping across the Emerald Isle each year keeping the bogs suitably reverse-irrigated, it seems likely that the only vessel of escape for this sticky ocean of surface water lies within the boots of the hapless English tourist. This isn't terrain (or indeed a guidebook) for the pathologically genteel.

In case anyone on Ciao needed telling, I'm not pathologically genteel in the slightest, so I've had a whale of a time getting variously drenched, burned to a crisp and caked from head to toe in mud at Mr Lynam's behest. My first, extended trip over the Irish Sea went brilliantly thanks in no small part to his book: there were easy days and hard days, fun days and 'profoundly character-building' days, all played out against a background and foreground of a multiple-personality-disorder climate. My Kia Wheels of Steel found themselves directed down some classically remote minor roads, the type that are single track and have the big green Mohican of grass down the middle because it's only naive English hillwalkers who ever use them (and they're not that abundant a species in Ireland).

From that first trip I have particular cause to remember the crevice that nearly broke my ankle on Lugnaquillia, the Radio Kerry news broadcast that did its best to unnerve me before a solo round of the Coomloughra Horseshoe ('Morning! Right so. First on Radio Kerry News, a report from the inquest into the death of that Swedish bloke who disappeared while walking in the Kerry mountains, and whose remains weren't found for over a year. And after that, we'll have the death announcements!'), an uncomfortably wintry ascent of the magnificent Brandon Mountain, myself and my ever-game compadre Dave O'Bloke being borderline blasted off the summit ridge of Galtymore, a fabulously undignified half-running half-slithering flight from some gothically driving rain atop Western Europe's highest sea cliffs, and the time-stood-still crossing of Slieve League's lower One Man's Pass.

Subsequent jaunts to visit my friends Dave and Maria have yielded scorching days on the big hills of the Dingle peninsular, a giddy solo crossing of The Big Gun and Cnoc na Peiste (a traverse as good as anything in England and Wales yet almost unknown), a 'slightly' extended version of Lynam's Cloon Horseshoe done after a 3am start to catch my flight and climaxing with mild sunstroke and two fewer toenails, and a winter's walk over the deserted Waterville hills at the tip of Iveragh with crisp snow and glitteringly implausible atmospherics: one of my very best days in nearly 30 years in the mountains.

My Ship Is Coming In

Throughout this all, I can safely say that Lynam's book has never let me down. These days I feel a lot more comfortable creating my own itineraries, but if I want a guarantee of quality, I always return to it. Time has inevitably introduced the odd inaccuracy (new fences appear, gates change colour, etc), but his actual selection is nigh-on impossible to quibble with, and the sensible (rather than the Claims Direct brigade) will be able to take account of the passage of time. As indeed they should...especially when it comes to the subject of access to the hills.

I may have given an impression in this and all those other reviews that Ireland is an outdoor paradise (albeit a damp one), a little parcel of heaven fallen to the Earth...and that is mostly true. But only mostly. Because the penalty for loving Ireland for its subtle differences from Great Britain is that some of these differences can be more malignant than benign. Hillwalking in Ireland is at a similar stage of development to hillwalking in England about 50 years ago, but alas that doesn't just refer to how damned quiet the hills are...land ownership is stuck in the last century too. Strictly speaking, there is no free access to farmland in Ireland, which means that everything described in this guidebook that isn't part of a National or Forestry park is actually private property. When you ally this to the borderline non-existent network of public footpaths, then you begin to grasp the lack of legal support for walkers.

I feel slightly treacherous even raising the subject, as all my interactions with farmers in Ireland's hill country have been utterly cordial: either I have been cheerfully granted permission to cross their land, or they've asked me to go a particular way, or even they've suggested a route they thought to be superior to the one I was intending to take. Occasionally I'll admit to finding them borderline unintelligible (those deep Kerry accents are very thick, believe me), but nobody has ever refused me access. It might be my happy smiling face, but I'd like to think it was because the problem isn't as bad as it's sometimes painted. Lynam himself occasionally mentions routes included in previous editions that are now forbidden, or makes mention of houses where permission should be sought (which is more than other guidebooks do, I've found). Personally I'd add the suggestion to always speak to the farmer if you see him (folk the world over respond to friendliness in my experience), but otherwise to attempt to keep clear of agricultural buildings and herds if you can. This should minimise inconvenience to the landowner. It is their workplace, and it should be respected.

But obviously the carrot must be accompanied by the stick...because some farmers are right feckers.

Hard To Be Friends

I've never been refused access to the mountains, but I've seen enough Keep Orf My Land signs to know that I've probably been lucky. And I've heard some horror stories: a few years ago refusal could be excused upon the grounds of a legal quirk that rendered landowners legally responsible for any misfortune that befell anyone crossing their property, but that's long since been closed. Basically, access is refused these days for no better reason than because the landowner can. (Or maybe he fancies making a bob or two).

You might be tempted to sympathise: after all, farming is publically perceived to be a mighty tenuous existence these days, so we should all do exactly what the agricultural lobby (who are fearsome in Ireland) tell us to. Or should we? They are subsidised after all. Just a bit...

According to the National Farm Income survey of 2007, monies derived from subsidies had fallen by 14% on the previous year's figures. This sounds quite good, until you delve deeper and discover that meant a mere 84% of a farmer's money came from subsidies, as opposed to 98%. Yes, that's right: in a good year, a mighty 16% of farm income came from producing and selling, the remainder coming from Government and EU handouts. And they wonder why some folk believe that a little more access to land might be a small price to pay for continuing public money? Notice I mentioned EU handouts...yes, that's right, even as a UK taxpayer you're paying some Irish farmers to forbid access. Hilariously, some of those who won't let walkers cross their land would do so if they were paid a fee...and fail to see the irony in it.

Rather than list a litany of incidents, I'll just mention one man who has come to symbolise the battle between those who own the land and those who'd dare enjoy it.

The county of Sligo in the west of the country contains some striking limestone hills and escarpments, with broad smooth plateaux collapsing into gleaming white cliffs. The most famous upland area is the Benbulbin group, and its most arresting outline (indeed, possibly the most startling scene in all of Ireland) is provided by the fabulously implausible spike of Benwhiskin. When viewed from the north (see one of my included pics) the peak gives the passing walker an almost pornographic 'come hither' look...which is unfortunate.

He Would Go Out Tonight, But He Doesn't Have A Stitch To Wear

The farmer who owns the land around here is colourful, to say the least: Andy 'The Bull' McSharry. The nickname comes from the anti-hero of the John Keane play 'The Field', portrayed on film by Richard Harris, and it seems to have been given to Mr McSharry by himself, rather than others. When you factor in other circumstantial evidence such as the big cowboy hat he's usually pictured sporting and his having his own 'The Bull' logo on his jeep and 'Keep Out' signs (see the link below) then it's easy to see why some folk have mistaken the valiant crusade he's conducted against all those nasty hillwalking types who want to climb his mountain for a quite stupendous ego trip. His travails have included standing for the Dáil (one local wag suggested that a voting booth should be stationed on top of Benwhiskin, just to annoy him) and serving a prison sentence for refusing to pay a fine for threatening two hillwalkers: if I recall correctly his contention that it was the walkers who'd threatened him was slightly undermined by his being the only party in the altercation to be carrying a shotgun.

http://www.kiosite.org/Latest-Newsletter/previous-issues/2009--spring (see the picture halfway down)

Apparently a deal has been negotiated with 'The Bull' (with unspecified sweeteners from the authorities), and there's now no problem climbing Benwhiskin so long as you ask him. So, all's well that ends well. Pity that apparently the threatening signs have been left in place...maybe he sees them as being historical documents, or something.

No Regrets

Hopefully you won't let this aside put you off...I only included it in the spirit of disclosure and giving the reader the complete picture, warts and all. (Oh, and because I find McSharry borderline hysterical. As myself and my friends often say: 'Father Ted: it's 90% documentary, 10% comedy'). In all probability you won't encounter any problems (I've spent over 30 days specifically in the Irish mountains and nobody's tried to shoot me yet), but I'd point potential visitors towards a couple of resources which may highlight any recent developments, both positive and negative :-

1) http://www.mountainviews.ie/ Ireland's pre-eminent hillwalkers web resource: I have to say that, because I'm a member on there. Constantly updated by over 450 users (so new access issues are flagged up quickly), free registration. They even let interlopers like me on there, so you'll be fine.

2) http://www.kiosite.org/ Keep Ireland Open. A site specifically devoted to campaigning on the access issue. New issues and developments in existing ones highlighted in newsletters (archived online).

And let's end on a positive note of recommendation of Mr Lynam's splendid little book. Not one for the absolute beginner, but for any British hillwalker, no matter how seasoned, it serves as a cracking introduction to Ireland's own unique take on the wonders of the great outdoors. Swallow your disdain for swelling those capacious O'Leary coffers and go sample it.

(Available new for £10.99 from Amazon) 

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