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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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

Pictures of Best Irish Walks - Joss Lynam

Some folk in Connemara need the rules of modern dating spelled out to them

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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.

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.

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.