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hawkwing_lbSpent the last three days in Glendalough. The trees there are still green, shading towards autumn-brown, Scots pine and fir on the upland ridges between the valleys. The quiet is silent, truly silent, except for the ripple of running water and the sound of wind in leaves and over stone. At night the dark is next to absolute, even with clear skies and a full moon.
Ghleann Dá Loch, valley of the two lakes, and the water of the upper lake looks black even in sunshine. They're glacial formations, surrounded by granite mountains that have worn down to narrow hills. I spotted feral goats, sheep, red squirrels and deer - only one, a stag with a fine head of antlers - and that's before I mention the birdlife.
Everyone who goes to Glendalough, it seems, traipses round the remains of the churches (there are several) and the round tower, below the lower lake. It's pretty enough, I grant, but to me the really interesting remnants are at the top of the upper lake and across the ridge in the Glendasan valley, where the hillside has tumbled great boulders down onto the ruins of a mining village that operated from the early 1800s (in Glendasan) - or mid-1800s, in Glendalough - to within the last half-century. It's a bleak site, cold and stark - it seems to catch the worst winds in the entire valley - and utterly impressive. You stand there, looking up at the river that rushes down a cleft between two hills, between the boggy remains of the old mining village and the scattered granite boulders; looking down the length of the upper lake with white ruffles on the black water and brown uplands, grey granite, green pine, barren hillside sheering steep to the lakeside, and you could be the last person on earth, alone in the silence of water and stone.
Of course, the walking's more than fair. I think I averaged about 10 km per diem, but I'm a wuss who wasn't prepared to do any serious hillwalking without more confident company. (Some may call this good sense.) Next year, perhaps.
The weather didn't turn really chill until after we'd headed home. Wonderful how things work out sometimes, isn't it?
Also, do I give off knowledgeable vibes, or something? Because being asked by an - American, I think, though the accent could have been Canadian - tourist at the upper lake What's good to see back that way?, quite insistently, and with a rather frantic wave in the direction I'd just come from, well. It makes me wonder. Both about them, and about me.
Perhaps I need a t-shirt. "I Answer Your Questions: Ask Me How" with the graphic of a punching fist beneath it. Because seriously, I get mistaken for a tour guide quite sufficiently enough while on campus.
---
The Parks Service people, however, are great and helpful. I have all the admiration in the world for them.
---
I have conceived a great love for Matthew Good's track, 'Flight Recorder From Viking 7'. I had it playing in the car across Sally Gap on the way home, and it was very apt.
---
Pictures will follow, if anyone's interested.
Ghleann Dá Loch, valley of the two lakes, and the water of the upper lake looks black even in sunshine. They're glacial formations, surrounded by granite mountains that have worn down to narrow hills. I spotted feral goats, sheep, red squirrels and deer - only one, a stag with a fine head of antlers - and that's before I mention the birdlife.
Everyone who goes to Glendalough, it seems, traipses round the remains of the churches (there are several) and the round tower, below the lower lake. It's pretty enough, I grant, but to me the really interesting remnants are at the top of the upper lake and across the ridge in the Glendasan valley, where the hillside has tumbled great boulders down onto the ruins of a mining village that operated from the early 1800s (in Glendasan) - or mid-1800s, in Glendalough - to within the last half-century. It's a bleak site, cold and stark - it seems to catch the worst winds in the entire valley - and utterly impressive. You stand there, looking up at the river that rushes down a cleft between two hills, between the boggy remains of the old mining village and the scattered granite boulders; looking down the length of the upper lake with white ruffles on the black water and brown uplands, grey granite, green pine, barren hillside sheering steep to the lakeside, and you could be the last person on earth, alone in the silence of water and stone.
Of course, the walking's more than fair. I think I averaged about 10 km per diem, but I'm a wuss who wasn't prepared to do any serious hillwalking without more confident company. (Some may call this good sense.) Next year, perhaps.
The weather didn't turn really chill until after we'd headed home. Wonderful how things work out sometimes, isn't it?
Also, do I give off knowledgeable vibes, or something? Because being asked by an - American, I think, though the accent could have been Canadian - tourist at the upper lake What's good to see back that way?, quite insistently, and with a rather frantic wave in the direction I'd just come from, well. It makes me wonder. Both about them, and about me.
Perhaps I need a t-shirt. "I Answer Your Questions: Ask Me How" with the graphic of a punching fist beneath it. Because seriously, I get mistaken for a tour guide quite sufficiently enough while on campus.
---
The Parks Service people, however, are great and helpful. I have all the admiration in the world for them.
---
I have conceived a great love for Matthew Good's track, 'Flight Recorder From Viking 7'. I had it playing in the car across Sally Gap on the way home, and it was very apt.
---
Pictures will follow, if anyone's interested.
