OPINION (AN COLÚN): A meeting with a ghost in the highlands of Kerry

THE beginning of August found me spending several days on my own in the Iveragh Peninsula, wild camping and climbing the hills.
I was on my own, but I wasn't lonely. I was in a state of solitude, which is a very different thing altogether. Curiously enough I often feel painfully lonely when in the presence of other people. The shallowness and harshness of other people can make my soul feel lost, longing to get back to its source.
The first night's campsite was beside Cloon Lake right in the centre of the Peninsula. I was completely alone here. This was about as remote and wild as you can get in Ireland.
The lake is surrounded by the impressive sentinels of the Dunkerron Mountains, each peak looking ancient, beautiful and intimidating in the late evening light.
Midges were a bane at the spot and mercilessly attacked my skin as I unloaded the car, set up the tent, collected water from the river, cooked a humble pasta dish and ate it. Midges can make life a misery for the wild camper in Ireland and I tried to bear it as stoically as I could. Finally, when the blanket of night completely fell, the temperature dropped and the wretched beggers thankfully disappeared. I sat in my reclining chair beside the tent, reading into the wee hours with my headtorch.
Reading is one of the things I greatly enjoy doing on holiday. Disappearing into the worlds conjured up by books for hour after hour, with my thoughts for the day being reduced, in combination with reading, to the few essentials of eating, drinking, sleeping.
My book was Patrick O'Brian's masterpiece “Desolation Island”, which would be a cherished companion for the next few days.
After five hours sleep I rose at 6 and, following ablutions, breakfast, etc, set off up the slope of the nearest mountain. This was a peak called Beann, right beside one of Kerry's most celebrated mountains, Mullaghanattin. From the car the slope had looked easy enough and you would be forgiven for thinking you'd reach the summit ridge in half-an-hour or so. But how deceptive mountains can be to the naked eye! The grass, heather and rocks of Beann's slope proved a considerable test. It took two hours to reach the summit ridge and my legs felt it deeply - it had been quite a workout.
In compensation, I was now in a wonderland. The weather was beautiful and up there the mountains of the Kerry peninsulas marched away in all directions. In such places you feel that you're in the world of your imagination, in the world of a fairy tale.
Below me descended the steep slopes of The Pocket, a great amphitheatre of soaring peaks culminating in the lofty pinnacle of Mullaghanattin. 28 years ago, in the summer of 1996, I walked the circuit of The Pocket with a couple of friends, a majestic walk which resonates in my mind to this day. I hadn't been back since. In my mind's eye I could almost see the ghost of my younger self tramping by. The hair was red, not grey; the red beard was full and long, not a grey goatee; there were a few less pounds about the midriff; there were plenty of problems and anxieties in my head and I was devoted to reading books about artists and mavericks. I enjoyed one good drinking session a week (preferably with a sing-song), smoked forty cigarettes a day, occasionally partook of a pipe, cigars and snuff. There were a number of differences and similarities between the Derek of 1996 and the contemporary manifestation. Two of the similarities were my undying enthusiasm for walking in mountainous areas and reading.
What hadn't changed since 1996 was the dramatic appearance of the cliffs surrounding The Pocket. The sandstone rocks of the intimidating slopes of these mountains were laid down millions of years ago. Then the Earth's crust heaved upwards and exposed them to view, in the process creating a remarkable sight. The rocks of these cliffs are assembled in a rippling formation, creating an effect as if they are still malleable and in motion. This effect is one of the defining characteristics of the Dunkerron mountains.
After admiring the views for some moments and communing with my 28 year old ghost, I turned south-westwards following the ridge which narrowed as it ran upwards to Beann's summit (752 metres). From Beann the ridge dropped very steeply to a col. Thankfully, there was a wire fence here which assisted my steep descent as I could hold onto it. The climb above the col was equally steep. My goal, a Vandeleur-Lynam (637 metres) was a kilometre further along. When I reached it I thought to myself, That leaves just two to do. There are 275 Vandeleur-Lynams in Ireland (peaks over 600 metres) and I have climbed all of them over the years, bar two.
Standing at point 637 on the Beann Ridge my legs felt weary and I thought to myself, “ Oh my God, I've such a long way to get back to the tent.” Off I set, retracing my steps. When I came to the final slope the sun was touching the horizon. There would be enough time to get back to base before darkness. On the final slope I slipped on my backside a couple of times. On the second slip I landed beside a St Patricks's Cabbage. This attractive plant raises erect stems, from May to August, up to 30cm high which bear star-shaped white, or sometimes pink flowers. It's part of the Lusitanian Flora, which means it's part of a group of wildflowers native to Ireland but mainly absent from Britain. They are also found in the Iberian Peninsula. Why they are restricted to just Ireland and Iberia has been a subject of academic debate since the mid 19th Century.
I got back to the tent just before dark, after what had been a challenging, exhausting, but very rewarding day. Tomorrow my plan was to head to the hills of Knocknadobar in northern Iveragh.