Why We Hiked the Wicklow Way 90 Miles to Dublin

Unhappy Feet.jpg

Not my happy day

The doctor suggested I take a statin. Hiking 85 miles through the Wicklow Mountains seemed a rational alternative.

It wasn’t an ostrich response—not exactly. I just felt lifestyle should lead medication. I was less fit than I should be; this wasn’t rocket science.

I amped up my walking, doubled down on my diet, and last week, walked 90 miles in seven days on the Wicklow Way into Dublin. I made it!

We had moved by bus from Dublin to Bunclody, a town near the southern terminus of the trail, in order to hike from south to north. The bus route paralleled the Wicklow mountains and gave me the first glimpse into just how far and hilly this walk would be.


The night before we set out, I lay awake. Had I signed up for too much? Was I fit enough? What would I do if I wasn’t? Our opening day was 14 miles over gentle hills, but in the two months of practice in Coutrmacsherry, I’d never logged more than ten miles in a single day.

The first day was difficult largely due to the length. I staggered into our B&B with a gait that hovered somewhere between Frankenstein and the Swamp Monster. My feet hurt, so did my back, my calves. Everything ached so much that I wondered how I’d ever walk the next day, but once we hit the trail, I loosened up.

Thankfully, the second day was shorter. But rainier. We hiked through sheep’s pastures and cattle fields—up and over turnstiles. A huge black steer blocked the trail at a narrow point. Pat checked his undercarriage. “Julie, be careful, that’s a bull.” We waited fifteen minutes occasionally tossing rocks up in front of him to get him to move. Eventually he did and we hurried past. Half way through the hike, I sat and pulled off my waterproof boots and wrung out my socks.

I was miserable.

Late afternoon, we came upon a 300-year-old pub, The Dying Cow, and stopped in to warm up, dry off, and have a drink. As I sat barefooted, Pat took my socks outside to wring them out again. We nursed our drinks for an hour before resuming the last mile to our base.

I learned that everyday—no matter how long or short, easy or hard–my gait became a stagger the last 250 yards. This, I concluded, is what my swagger had been reduced to. It was ugly, and painful.

That second night, as our boots dried atop the radiator, I mentioned to Pat that our penultimate day ended in Enniskerry. “It’s supposed to be the nicest village on the Way. Maybe we should explore there and take the bus to Dublin. We’d finish almost the same number of miles, and we’d have more fun.”

After all, the agency that put together our trip generally ends the trail in Enniskerry. Our directions stopped there. I’d be executing the plan, not giving up. Right?

“Sounds good,” he replied. I began to rationalize the new plan.

But then, hiking became easier, the hills grew larger, but less daunting. We summited in a spot where we could look down at the beautiful valley of Glendalough. I felt stronger and I told Pat, “It would be a mistake not to take this to the end. We need to get to Dublin.”

During the day, we talked—then lapsed into long spells of silence focused on the task at hand; it really was as simple as placing one foot in front of the other. I started to speculate that we should do this more often. Maybe bump up the mileage a bit. Perhaps hike the Camino or a route I once read about between St. Moritz and a village in Switzerland. “My only requirement is that we sleep in a bed—and not poop in the woods.”

The day we walked into Enniskerry was purported to be the hardest day of the trip. The night before, we slept in the village of Roundstone over a pub where a band played until one in the morning. Think of it as sleeping in Wembley Stadium during a Who concert. Still at seven, we were up and ready to go.

The climb out of the village was miles long, steady, unrelenting. Once we reached the summit, we walked for miles more on a raised wooden platform. To one side we glimpsed the mountains we had travelled over the last several days. To the other, the sea and a patch of Scotland. The wind whipped so hard, we at times fell off the boardwalk. That afternoon, we walked into the B&B completing the day in the shortest time so far. Of course, I was staggering; it was my new normal. Pat kept encouraging me, “Tomorrow will be great. The last day is always easy. I bet we skip at the end.”

Pat, it turns out, is a liar.

The last day of fifteen hilly miles into Dublin kicked my butt. We loop de looped through Marley Park looking for the Wicklow Way Trail Head, asking people if they knew where it was. Dubliners, it turns out, are a sedentary group. Few heard of the Wicklow Way; no one knew where it ended.

Finally, we gave up. We never skipped.

I had pictured fist pumps and tears in front of a statue. I had warned Pat to be ready with his camera. Instead, we rode the tram, the Luas, into the city. I forced the disappointment down and searched for the pride. Over a hamburger in a Dublin dive bar near the bus station, I found it.

There are so many things I’ll never do in life: compete on the Olympic team, become a brain surgeon, win the Nobel Peace Prize. Certain ships have sailed without me, and I have to accept this.

But the Wicklow has forced me to rethink those things which I have mentally nudged into the impossible column: write a book, learn a second language, hike 90 miles over mountainous terrain. If I can do one of those items, is it possible I could do them all? And if I can do them all, what else can I do?

I’m not sure. Perhaps my new-found bravado will fade. But I feel certain that one day, we will hike again.

The southern hills

The southern gentle hills of farmland


The Dying Cow.jpg

The Dying Cow (and so was I)

Hiking over turnstiles

Somehow, Pat always looked happier than me

Sheep on the hills.jpg

Somewhere near Glenmalure, the hills grew

Wicklow-3495 - Copy

Some hikers just won’t give you room to pass!

Glendalough Valley.jpg

And then, we came to the spectacular Glendalough Valley

Glendalough Cemetery.jpg

And the old monastic village


More monastic village-Glendalough


The hardest day was my favorite–a memorial to the Wicklow Way founder


Ugh! I’m not a horse fan. Walked way around these fellas


And then we saw it! Dublin!!


The end!

Categories: Ruminations, Western Europe

Tags: , , , , , ,

10 replies

  1. Amazing! Fantastic! I’m sure your sense of humor helped along the way.
    Again, great photos and superb writing. I am just plain envious.
    Congratulations on completing the trail.

  2. That’s a mammoth trek! But you made it. I don’t think I’d like the wet socks part either… write that book, lady… there are people waiting to read it!

  3. Great story. We hiked over six miles one day last year in Southern Poland. It was mostly downhill. It took us days to get over the pain our shins. I think this has taught me that the cure is not bed rest, but instead to get back out on the trail.

  4. Congratulations, you did it! Thanks for the wonderful description of your experiences along the way, coupled with the photographs, it makes for delightful reading. Fifteen miles on the first day sounded a brutal start, good for you for pressing on. I always thought that most walkers did the trail north to south, which would have made that 15 mile leg occur when you were warmed up!
    Maybe your next challenge can be the coastal walk in Wales, it is a mere 870 miles all along the coastline. We walked two sections in Pembrokeshire last year, about 4 or so miles each quite a workout.
    Looking forward to your next post.


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