Campervan Therapy

The Local Auction

Seán’s mother, Betty, reads in The Wicklow People that there’s an auction in Clara Vale. We take her so that she can catch up with old friends.

As we cross the arched stone bridge, SS Patrick and Killian’s white church nestles under an escarpment, roses riot over a cottage door.

A man teaches his girls to swim in the Avonmore. A mahogany nest of tables, children’s trikes, gothic dining chairs, bedsteads, sofas, paintings – all and everything is here. Betty is bemused when Dinah tells her an old skillet has sold for 85 Euro – for the two women such a price for a long-redundant item from their childhood is unfathomable.

Footpath Signs

Our Lady stands on her perch, high above the river, where we spot the signs for the Avonmore Way, which crosses the L6086 near Betty’s house in Laragh, so once home we set off on foot, back to Clara Vale.  

The L6086

We walk past Seán’s brother Michael’s field and the one he’s let out to the Axe Throwing Company…say no more… across Ballard Bridge.  Higher up the L6086 the bronze and green hills stretch out around us, purple loosestrife sways, ferns riot.

We’re alone, except for a passing car and sheep. Even a stack of tree trunks look beautiful in the afternoon sun. Honeysuckle winds itself through briars. The road edged in rowan trees, with their scarlet berry clusters.

The Avonmore Way

Finally on the Avonmore Way, peace descends in earnest as we walk through pine, hawthorn, beech and oak. The Avonmore Valley lush below us, hemmed in by mountains.

Clara Vale – Again…

The auction is over when we return to the idyllic hamlet of Clara Vale, the sun sparkling on the river, the trees reflected in it.

The last swimmers leave and I have the river to myself. I slip and slide over the mossy rocks, potter about in the shingle under the old stone bridge, lie flat out in the cool, cool, water and swim in a tight circle in the only deep pool mid-stream. Himself struts off in the opposite direction – any water under 28 C is an anathema to the poor man. Revived, I’m ready for the return stroll.

Though the sheer joy of the day is haunted by the sad memorial to three soldiers from Clara Vale killed in WW1.

The W.B. Yeats – Irish Ferries’ new ship

The ship sails out by Howth Head and Dublin falls away behind us, the sea as calm as the Med. Its soft blue is set against the peach sky as we eat our way through herb-crusted Irish rack of lamb. A nightcap and we sleep in the super-comfortable cabin, which may be suffering confusion, having lost its way from a swanky cruise ship and found itself on a ferry. Before we know it, we pull alongside Cherbourg’s quay, the sky the clearest of blues…the open road ahead of us.