| A Man Wearing his Heart on his Slieve
By Malcolm Rogers
Malcolm Rogers tries to overcome a bad case of vertigo and climb Slieve
League in Co. Donegal.
If you define cowardice as running away at the first sign of danger,
screaming and tripping and begging for mercy, then yes, Mr Brave Man, I
guess I am a coward.
Recently I was trying to ascend Slieve League in Co. Donegal in the company
of my local Co. Louth walking group and, I regret to say, it proved beyond
me.
Slieve League is where Europe comes to an abrupt stop. And it takes you
a little by surprise, as Donegal sweeps up reasonably sedately to the Atlantic
then suddenly plunges 2,000 feet into the sea.
These are reputedly the tallest sea cliffs in Europe, although I always
thought it was Croaghaun on Achill. But hey, what’s a couple of hundred
feet between friends, especially when a forty miles per hour wind threatens
to dislodge you from your vantage point.
No matter whether it’s the record holder or not, this truly has to be
one of the most magnificent sights in Europe, if not the entire world.
The richness in colour of the massive rock face provides visual pleasures
non-stop — the multi-coloured schists, quartzites and mineral ores of red
and grey, mingled with stains of various metallic ores, accumulate with
washed down clays and soils to provide an impossibly colourful background
to the restless Atlantic below.
The air is clean and fresh, and the landscape a rugged, wind-sculpted,
water-riven panorama of ravines, precipices and silvery strands.
Perfect for a walk, you would think. But let me tell you. Even the way
up to the car park is a challenge. Joe Lynam’s excellent book Best Irish
Walks describes it as ‘an adventurous road’, which is not the word I would
have used.
The actual summit of Slieve League lies to the west of a dipped arête
which is referred to as One Man’s Pass, and which an early guide book describes
as “a narrow footpath high in the air, with awful abysses on either side”.
Even the Rough Guide to Ireland, usually a fairly gung-ho sort of read,
describes the route as “capable of being extremely hazardous”.
Foolishly, I decided to give it a go, in the company of my friends. After
all, had we not climbed Slieve Foye in the Cooleys many times, as well as
knocking off Slieve Donard in the Mournes and Slieve Gullion in Armagh.
And anyway, beyond One Man’s Pass is another link in the route called
Old Man’s Pass — I wasn’t to know that it would hold no respite; it’s only
called Old Man’s Pass because it’s a couple of inches wider.
No amount of groundwork could prepare you for the verticality of the
cliffs here. A 2,000 feet drop on one side and only a slightly less vertical
1,000 feet descent on the other.
We climbed steadily for an hour, myself and the other vertigo-challenged
members hugging the landward side. My friend Bernie was the first to turn
back, as we approached a dizzy perch which looked out onto New York.
The shingle beaches far below us seemed impossibly silver, and the view
kept me on the track for another 10 or 15 minutes.
The western Atlantic coasts of Europe, from the Highlands in Scotland,
passing by Donegal in Ireland, Land’s End in England, Brittany in France
and Galicia in Spain, all speak of and evoke dreams about a departure westwards
and about the millions who departed — of whom the sunset is a reminder every
evening of those who left, who were lost at sea, or who discovered new continents
of experience.
But then quite suddenly I’d had enough. A mixture of plunging cliffs,
the heavy going along the turf path which regularly crumbled down to the
sea, my legs having turned to jelly, a glimpse of the peaks and passes ahead,
a limited supply of clean underwear — and I headed after Bernie.
Anne was the next to cry off, following me down the reasonably gentle
slope on the landward side of Bunglas (literally ‘end of the cliff’). We
convened at the bottom of a schist ravine, delighted that we’d been brave
enough to admit we were cowards. The Monty Python song from the Holy Grail
came to mind: “Bold Sir Robin, he bravely ran away, buggering off and sneaking
away, he bravely ran away.”
We didn’t care.
Bernie and Ann decided they to head back to the car park, but I didn’t
want to see another cliff for the rest of the week. In fact I was vowing
to myself that in future I would holiday in Holland or Belgium, where the
highest slope is likely to be a 10-foot tipper truck.
I opted instead to walk up Teelin Lough to the village of Carrick, about
two hours away. And what a beautiful walk that turned out to be. The lough
is surrounded by fuchsia, meadowsweet, gorse and heather, and the fast-flowing
Glen River babbles into the far end. Butterflies fill the air, and in the
lough herons wait patiently for their unsuspecting dinner to come swimming
by.
Having reached Carrick, I sat on a wooden bench in the town square to
survey my options. Our party were staying in the Glen Hotel, Glencolumbkille,
some 4 miles away, so I could walk it in something over an hour. But I was
tired — I’d already tramped the best part of seven miles.
There was a bus at 7.30pm — in about three hours — or maybe I could get
a taxi. Then a curious thing happened. I was adopted by a local family.
A mother and her three children came over, sat down, and we fell into conversation.
Pat, the mother, had been born in Bromley and had only come to Ireland with
her Donegal parents when she was seven. Today, however, no trace of estuary
English invaded her dulcet Donegal tones. We sat and talked, watched the
kids play, went for a drink in the local pub — called the Slieve League,
in case you hadn’t guessed.
The day wore on, and eventually Pat and her children drove me back to
Glencolumbkille. It was a rare Donegal day — fear and friendship in equal
amounts.
Funnily enough, on my arrival at the Glencolumbkille Hotel earlier in
the day I’d already had the schist scared out of me. I’d taken the lift
to the second floor — and it had got stuck between floors!
Only for a couple of minutes (about three I would imagine), but long
enough for me to contemplate the old game — if you were stuck in a lift,
who would you want as company. Well the only person I would have been remotely
interested in sharing the life with at that stage was the lift engineer.
I probably should have known at that point that it was going to be a
typical Donegal day.
Malcolm Rogers stayed at the Óstán Hotel, Ghleann Colm Cille (tel: 00
353 73 30003).
Two night’s bed and breakfast, two evening meals, single guest supplement:
€187.
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