Campervan Therapy

Glendasan River

The textures of schist, shale, pink veined marble are clear in Glendasan River’s waters. The sudden silver of Galena shines from the river bed as I leap across the stepping stones. Water boatmen scud across the water, and circles radiate out from small fish surfacing.

St. Kevin’s Way

St. Kevin’s Way takes us to the valley top and the disused mine spoil heaps. Nothing grows on those bandage-white scars. There’s something eerie about the valley today, even the feral goats are not in sight, the mine’s ruins mournful.

Miner’s Way

We veer onto the Miner’s Way, the old granite footpath worn by the thousands of feet that have stepped this way before. The grand sweep of time reminds me just how insignificant we are. Seán escapes my existential crisis by inspecting the mine shafts and winding gear.

The Wicklow Gap

The Wicklow Gap’s bronze topped mountains are a raw beauty and I think about how I love rambling in these vast spaces where there’s so much sky.

But the real beauty is close up. The fresh gorse and multi-shaded, purple heather buzz with bees.

Climbing Camaderry

Of course we’ve left the O.S. Map in the van so Seán is glued to MAPS.ME as we climb higher and higher up Camaderry Mountain. We lose the track, walk round in circles, and find it again, on repeat. Crossing a stream all human life vanishes. Just us, the bees, birds and the deer who pop up from the ferns to check us out. A cross between red and Sika deer, they’re graceful and slender. A stonechat sings his pebble bashing song.

The Irish Sea

Soon I’m begging Seán, like any seven year old would, “Are we nearly there yet?”  A mountain climb tricks you time and again – you think you’re at the summit only for the next hidden slope to rear its head. Finally, legs quivering like blancmange, we’re there. And the panorama of purple and bronze mountains and the Irish Sea is worth it. 

Descent to Glendalough

After a spot of sliding and scrambling down rocks we hit a level, peat-bouncy path along the valley’s spine. Easy, I think. Well, I couldn’t be more wrong. The path shrinks until we’re buried in head-high ferns, deer leaping out of our way. We’re on a deer track, slipping and sliding over hidden rocks all the way down the steep valley.

Our trials don’t end there. When we emerge from the ferns, we slither on the pine needles, the Upper Lake’s car park a perpendicular drop below us. When we tumble down the few last, unsigned, ancient granite steps, I know we’re not meant to have gone that way. No sensible person would in high summer when the ferns have taken hold of the mountain and rioted towards the sky. And I vow that I’ll not be putting myself in the hands of Himself and his beloved MAPS.ME without an O.S.Map for the foreseeable future.