We took showers with no towels this morning (don’t ask) and supplemented the hostel’s breakfast of coffee and toast with the fruit and yoghurt from the grocery. We were out the door at 7:10 to begin our seven to nine hour hike to the town of Camp.
We left Tralee and walked along a pretty canal to Blennerville, home of the largest working windmill in the British Isles. 
After stopping at the town’s only gas station to buy sandwiches for lunch, we got turned around and walked 45 minutes down the wrong road before realizing our mistake and backtracking to find the trail.
After stopping at the town’s only gas station to buy sandwiches for lunch, we got turned around and walked 45 minutes down the wrong road before realizing our mistake and backtracking to find the trail.
The Dingle Way is marked with a yellow hiker man with an arrow that points the way we should be going. We learned that morning not to trust the descriptions in our guide (which contain no street names or distances, just directions like “pass junctions on the left and right until you come to a dip”, but to always look for the Dingle Man.
After several miles on a tarmac road going uphill, we opened a gate to join the sheep on a mountainside. 
We’d worked up enough of a sweat to stow our jackets and hike in shirtsleeves. All the land on this trail is privately owned, so we either have to open a gate or climb a stile (a ladder over a fence) to get from one property to the next.
The trail continued uphill over many rocks (and sheep poop) across the side of the mountain (this is called contouring as opposed to climbing up the mountain).
I was slowing down as the pain in my feet increased, and Jim estimated that we wouldn’t get in for 12 hours at our current pace, which didn’t make me feel any better.
When we stopped to eat our sandwiches, Jim plastered up the tender areas of my feet so they wouldn’t blister, and gave me some coffee to re-energize me.
We crossed several streams by rock-hopping, and my foot sank in the bog in several places where I couldn’t quite reach the next rock – yuck!
The views were beautiful. As we started to head back downhill, my mood (and my pace) improved.
We stopped at the ruins of Killelton Church that was built in the 900s, and where, until recently, women continued to bury their babies. There was a tree bedecked with ribbons representing prayers for the dead babies, reminiscent of memorials we’d seen in Asia.
We were back on level ground now, and climbed seven stiles and traversed the Finglas River on stepping stones to approach the town of Camp. Elapsed time = 8 hours, including lunch, breaks and the 45 minute wrong turning. I’d say we made the journey in very good time!
The Finglas Bed and Breakfast is run by a lovely lady named Katherine Daly. When she saw my bedraggled, muddy state, she ushered us into her nicest room with a full bath, “...so you can have a good soak, dear.”
Cleaning up did indeed revive my spirits, as did the fish and chips and the pint of Guinness from James Ashe’s Pub next door (It was national Fish and Chips day…) When you raise your glass here, the toast is “Slainte!” which is pronounced “Slancha!”
