09/01/2007
08/02/2007
The TIFA Sub-Chapter of Lecale Ramblers Ascent of Carauntoohil
The TIFA Sub-Chapter of Lecale Ramblers Ascent of Carauntoohil.
Saturday 14.07.07
Norman Eileen John
“You can’t buy adventure”.Van Hallman
“So it’s climbin’ you’d be wantin’ ”? Eileen Ekin
“One step at a time. (Sweet Jesus!)” © Norman Ekin 2007
It’s strange what first crosses your mind as you hold on like grim death to a clump of grass on a damp black vertical rock face. Why is it called grim death? Surely it should be called grim life. The second thing that crosses your mind, apart from the obvious “Am I going to slip slowly and then with ever increasing velocity and noise to a certain death and and an equally certain ensuing silence”, is, “How did I get here?”
It all started when Norman, on a sunny Sunday morning, as we strolled along the Lagan, casually asked me if I was interested in climbing Carauntoohil. Not knowing anything whatever about Carauntoohil, apart from it being the highest mountain in Ireland, I blithely and with a light heart said, “Yes”.
A few hours later I started to question my sanity as I flicked through the file which Norman had gleaned from the Kerry Mountain Rescue Team
with words such as Devil’s Ladder and statements such as “ In windy conditions you can be blown off ridges” jumping up from the pages waving at me and saying “What have you signed up for you idiot?”.
It was a few months later when we arrived on Thursday the 12th July at our B&B near Killarney we were told that they couldn’t access the website we had been using to forecast the weather on top of the Magillicuddy Reeks. We pored over the 14 day forecast for Killarney which seemed to say that Friday was not a good idea and that Saturday was maybe better.
So we went in search of an internet café to find that the forecast gave only 12hrs in advance instead of the expected three days.
After much scratching of heads and other parts we phoned Norman’s brother who agreed to contact us on Saturday morning at 7am to give us the up to date forecast.
Friday, it turned out, was definitely not a good idea because we woke up to rain more rain and a further seven hours of it.
On Saturday at 7am Norman came down to breakfast with the phoned through forecast which seemed to say rain, rain and rain at three hourly intervals.
So we decided to go ahead based on the scientifically observable fact that it was not raining at that time.
We set off walking at 9.00 and about 10 mins later it started to rain.
So we stopped, squeezed into the wet weather gear, shrugged on the rucksacks laden with emergency clothes, ropes, food & water and trudged on through the wetness. And then it stopped.
As we poddled along, The Gazelle, a white jacketed, tall female with not an ounce of excess weight effortlessly strolled past us as if we were going in reverse.
I filled in our time by spending half an hour trying to cross the swollen river at what we subsequently discovered was the wrong place. But what the hell may as well get swept away at the start instead of falling to our deaths at the promised hairy bits which had been waking me up for about a week in advance with images of Devil’s Ladder and O’Shea gulley as well as my particular nightmare of vertical rock faces.
Just to make it easier for us Norman had been warning us of how horrifically vertically horrific the O’Shea gulley would be and that it was named after a Brother O’Shea who had fallen to his death in 1968. Just so we would not be put off by the sheer reality of it all.
The reality?
The O’Shea Gulley? Wee buns.
The Devil’s Ladder? Supreme confidence that we would get down in one piece.
The vertical rock face? No problem.
We would plunge to our certain demise.
No problem.
I can still feel the texture of the grass on to which I was clutching as if it was a steel hawser albeit attached to a dandelion. I can still smell it. I can still taste it. OK, a bit over the top, I didn’t have my teeth clamped to the grass but I would have if I could have.
I have the heel of Eileen’s boot fixedly fixed in front of me as she doggedly climbed above me and don’t ever ask me to look down.
Which I had to. Dear God, if you exist, I can’t go down. I am expending all my power on going up. Norman please don’t ask me to help. I can’t go down.
The rest is a blur until I got to somewhere vaguely horizontal
Horizontal is a concept which is variable according to the verticality of the situation.
And I don’t care how vertical it is as long as I get the impression that it is horizontal. I am not asking for absolute horizontality just so long as it gives the feeling that I am not about to plunge vertically to wherever and whatever follows vertical plunging.
And then I felt rotten. I was not able to help. If I had to go back I couldn’t. The only way was up.
So we went up.
As we were coming up to the third level we met an Italian, on the way down, who lived in the Dolomites and with whom I tried out my atrocious French until he gently reminded me that he spoke Italian. And English.
He did intimate that what was awaiting us was difficult wished us luck and disappeared. A few minutes later we glanced back to see him RUNNING down the mountain below us.
Eileen was heard to mutter that she hated Dolomite men especially Running Dolomite Man.
And Gazelle woman who at this point was most probably polishing her fingernails in a salon regailing her swooning swains with stories of how she had popped up and down Carauntoohil before lunch and how she had bumped into some saps bumbling their way upwards.
The scree slope of Bro. O’Shea’s Gulley was a long puffing sweating slog but I had a lot of energy and everytime I stopped for a breather and to not get too far ahead I was pushed on by a driving need to move on.
Then having found the eroded serpentine path and very glad I had the security of the walking sticks I came suddenly to the saddle at the top of the gulley.
A stunning vista unfolded stretching away to the Dingle peninsula with the sands of Inch beach gleaming gold in the sunshine and the waters of Dingle bay reflecting the sun like a mirror.
To the right was the black blocks of Been Keeragh at 1010 metres the second highest peak in Ireland from which came voices from two climbers who were descending from the top. In front beyond a deep valley and a brown serrated ridge edge was Caher at 1001metres the third highest. Upwards and to the left was our goal - Carauntoohil.
I stood, divested myself of the rucksack, peeled off the various layers of rain jacket, anorak and fleece and laid them on the ground to dry off in the warm light wind which played around on the saddle.
Then Norman emerged from below followed by Eileen. We hugged at the relief of having made it to the top of the gulley and we took photos of each other.
We had nearly done it. Only another 129 metres higher to go diagonally around biggish boulders.
So after a short break we picked our way upwards with places which had me feeling that I could stumble and plunge into the previous vertical plunging scenario. And the cloud suddenly swirled in as we got higher.
As we approached the cross which crowns the summit I decided we had to get to the top together.
Then we were there.
We had done it. To the top.
Camp Granada.
A bottle of Champagne magically appeared from Norman’s rucksack and as we sheltered in a semi-circular stone enclosure just below the cross we toasted each other and the mountain as well as offering the cross a sample and took photos.
We did not stay long as it was cool in the wind and mist on the top of Ireland.
A gentle slope peppered by stones and cairns and sun played on the slopes led down to the Devil’s Ladder.
As Norman offered a sacrifice of a hard boiled egg to the god of the depths we looked down on the mud and the vertical drop and prepared to slither down on our bottoms having tucked away the walking sticks which had been such a help on the way up.
We donned our helmets and began a slow descent staying very close and stopping every two or three metres so that we would not be hit by the loose stones underfoot with Norman in front, me in the middle and Eileen behind.
A long careful slithering and stopping and considering for two hours ensued.
Often at what appeared to be near the end of the Ladder we kept finding even more difficult bits until we were finally at the bottom. The tension flowed out as we took a break and then we realised we had a further two hours of relatively flat surface to go and that it was soon getting dark.
An hour later,in the gathering gloom, Norman magically found the right crossing place for the river and we spent the last half hour in blackness gingerly picking our way through the grey and white stones looming out in 3D from the path with help from the pencil torch which that morning I had, at the last minute, packed into my rucksack.
At 23.29 we heaved ourselves achingly into the Jeep.
About 14.5 hrs after we had set off.
We had done it. To the top and back.
And the pubs were most likely closed.
John Quinn
02.08.07
12/09/2006
Greetings and welcome to AYAYA
Greetings and welcome to AYAYA
THINKING : Think it
LIVING : Live it
DOING : Do it
What does AYAYA mean? Whatever you want it to be. Just follow the principles outlined.
Remember the more you give out to the universe the more will come back.
John
03.04.07
Welcome to Sunny Newcastle
Welcome to Happy Days in Sunny Newcastle proclaims the red fading letters above the now closed shop front.
I photograph it and when later I examine it and am dissatisfied I go back to find it has disappeared under a new black plastic banner advertising an Accessories shop.
So welcome to the new Sunny Newcastle where you can share the sounds chosen by the many budding DJs as they throb their way along the main drag enabling you to digest not only the aromatic petrol and diesel flavour they impart to the air and ozone but also the particular aural quality they offer with their straight through twin exhausts mixed with the latest in car entertainment systems.
Louder please.
Come to the new Sunny Newcastle where you can enjoy the rustle of empty Tayto crisp packets mixed with the crunch of glass underfoot.
Visit the new Sunny Newcastle where you too can join in at kicking the plastic Lucozade and Coke bottles along the strand as they join the empty milk cartons bobbing up on the incoming tide.
More please.
You too can join in with the national sport of decorating our cropped hedgerows with cream coloured polystyrene and multi coloured cups mixed with fish n chips papers and Super Valu plastic bags. So much better than boring old green trees and bushes.
Keep on eating.
Avoid slipping on the beer slicked pavements with our patented
Chewing Gum Anti Slip Surface®™ laboriously laid by hundreds of hard working masticating matelots.
Happy chewing and keep on spitting.
Savour nostalgic memories of Walls’ truly non milk dairy fat ice creams with a regular cone of Morelli’s Famous Italian ice cream.
Accept no imitation and keep on licking.
John 03.04.07
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Great ripostes of our time No.1
Statement: I am happy with my belly.
Reply: Which one?
Thank you Diana
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The below comment was posted to me on 13.03.07 with regard to my photo of a gate in Audleystown Rd.
I welcome any other comments on any aspect of my blog or on this comment.
We're tired of you and your foreign ways. Sneering at our houses and our
lifestyle. Did you not notice that the Audleystown Road resident has digital
terrestrial television and what's wrong with his fine 5 barred gate?
Doesn't it serve its function as well as any Vorsprung Durch Technik 6 cylinder 4
OHC fuel injected German gate? And who wants beer taps on mountain tops
anyway! What's wrong with a tea making machine?
The sooner we leave the common market the better! Damn Belgians and their
chocolate teapots!
Yours
Outraged of Otterburn
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2. The snake
Have you ever killed anything?
I don’t mean a fly or a wasp or a spider.
"Johhnnn. There’s a spider in the bathroom come and kill it".
I mean something big. I mean something like a snake.
A big snake. Three quarters the width of the road.
I was in Northern Australia driving a Suzuki 4 wheel drive jeep thingy which I had hired in Darwin to get around Jabiru National Park. I had hired the 4 wheel drive because I had read that there were some places I wanted to visit where it was advised to have a four wheel drive and in addition the small print of the car hire agreement stated that if I tore out the sump of a vehicle by driving off road then it was not covered by insurance. Tell me when do you ever read the small print? You do when you hire a car in Australia.
So I set off, feeling somewhat foolish, driving on a metalled road in the 4 wheel drive jeep thingy, complete with kangaroo bars, about which in the past I had been particularly scathing. Of both 4wheel drives and kangaroo bars.
Q.Why are there no kangaroos in Hamburg? A.They’ve all been caught by the 4 wheel drive kangaroo bars.
Then I turned off the main road onto a washboard surfaced dirt road and crawled along at about 25kph with every rivet, if they use rivets in a Suzuki 4 wheel drive, and every screw and every door panel vibrating so much that I thought the vehicle would disintegrate in a reversal of the current Citroen ad on TV where the car deconstructs itself and starts dancing to a heavy metal garage rap.
So I stopped to turn the knob things on the wheel hubs to engage the 4 wheel drive which did have the effect of stopping me slithering across the road as if I was driving on ice. But it had no effect on the vibration.
Then something, and I say something, because I still don’t know what it was, overtook me like a bat out of hell and disappeared at about 80 kph in a large cloud of dust.
Could it be that I was travelling too slowly? I gingerly accelerated to about 60 kph and the vibration seemed to reduce itself and I stopped muttering loudly about Japanese scrap.
The only problem about travelling at 60 is when you are overtaken at 80 is that you end up driving into an impenetrable dust fog praying that no one has parked on the road in front of you for the next two to three seconds or for however long it takes for the dust to settle because you can’t see a thing.
So I accelerate to 80 feeling mightily pleased with myself when just in front a large python is crossing the road.
Whump. Whump.
I quickly glance in the mirror and see the snake writhing but not going anywhere. I close my eyes in horror.
Driving in a state of shock, gripping the steering wheel tightly, blaming myself for going too fast, racked with guilt for injuring such a magnificent creature and asking myself what do I do now?
After about a kilometre I gradually trickled to a stop and thought for a short while. I have to go back and kill the thing. I can’t leave it writhing in agony.
So I turned round and drove back in trepidation to where I had run over the poor thing. How does one kill a snake mercifully? Drive over it again and again? How do you know it is properly dead? The kiss of life procedure was not really an option was it?
Except that it wasn’t there any more.
What do you do?
I drive past the place where I had run over it.
I turn round and come back.
Still no seriously injured python writhing either on the road or at the side of the road or in the long grass leading into the trees.
And I wasn’t about to go prospecting into the trees or the grass or the bush.
So I get back into the 4wheel drive and rather slower and chastened I drive towards Yellow Waters where I have booked a cabin for the night.
John 24.04.05
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11.03.2007
Ho Hum. I sit and ponder on what I should write and inspiration fails. So I will go out into the grey dampness of the afternoon
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Summer 2006
The top rail of an open red painted gate, flecked with bird droppings, lies open to one side of the lane.
I touch the second rail as I walk into a recently cut meadow dotted with bales of hay with a wide uncut margin infested with thistles.
Immediately above my head, swallows dart and swoop making me swat away imaginary insects.
In the distance the sound of an unseen tractor turns the recently cut grass, attended, near the entrance to the field, by three attentive dogs.
White disconnected clouds float unmoving in a bright blue sky.
John 23.12.06
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GREAT BUS JOURNEYS OF OUR TIME
The bus sets off from Cairns in the early morning and climbs up a winding road to the Atherton plateau.
The first stop is in A which is a small town still waking up to a grey dawn.
On the bus are three passengers, six boxes of apples, 3 kilos of meat and two bags of mail.
The bus travels through a flat landscape of sparse trees, fields and a one track metalled
road stopping every hour or so at small slightly shabby settlements of one storey metal roofed bungalows often with just one shop and a hotel which is Australian for pub.
The driver supplies these small settlements with fresh fruit and mail and in turn picks up gossip.
Bruce hasn’t appeared at the end of his drive, which is about ten miles away from his house, to pick up the last delivery- is he drunk again or is he ill?
Kevin, the driver, organises someone to see if he is OK.
Then we pass the place where a young guy travelling around on a motorbike
hit an emu and was killed yesterday.
I get off at Croydon where in 1835 about 30,000 gold prospectors mined for gold and you would perhaps find 35 living there now amid the remains of rusting water tanks and abandoned wind pumps and where the dusty second hand store is run by two thin middle aged spinsters.
The dining room of the galvanised-iron covered hotel is full of tourists who like me are there to take the train which runs once a week to Normanton, four hours away and which stops for breakfast at the Black Bull- a tin shack which dispenses weak scalding hot Nescafe in melting plastic cups. The unshaven and well built owner hitches a ride with his two kids on the train because his car will not start.
I get talking to Jimmy, an old bush hand who plaits hatbands for a hobby and brews a particularly potent homebrew, who invites me to stay overnight and I fall asleep to the sounds of a tape of James Galway playing.
The next day I pick up the bus on the way back and am the only passenger for the 12 hour trip back to Cairns, passing a silent army of clay sentinels built by generations of termites along the road as well as faded coloured hoardings advertising 26km long volcanic tunnels.
As we come towards the airport a jumbo dips below the tree line on its landing approach only to heave itself ponderously into the air once more because a kangaroo has carelessly hopped into its path.
I find a room at Hunters hotel next door to the bus booking office and fall asleep as the street lights and sounds in the pedestrian zone filter through the curtains.
John 29.03.03
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