Name: Club Climbing Night
Start: 2026-09-03T18:00:00+01:00
End: 2026-09-03T21:00:00+01:00
Location: Dalkey Quarry

Across the Nephin Beg Range

(by Joe Glover, from Irish Mountaineering 1960)
An 18-hour hike along the Nephin range from Bangor to Mulrany.

Several years ago, when studying Bartholomew’s ¼" map of Galway and Mayo, a wild plan began to take shape in my mind. A cross-mountain tramp all the way from Bangor Erris to Mulrany – had it ever been attempted or accomplished?

Late in 1958 I began to plan a route and survey the difficulties of this terrain. In over ten years of mountain walking I had never covered more than fifteen miles at a time and the worst of my routes had been through semi-civilised country where “escape” routes existed at several points. The centre of Mayo, however, is probably the wildest and loneliest part of all Ireland and the Nephin Beg range itself appeared to be hemmed in on all sides with the worst type of bogland.

A brief study of the maps soon decided me on the question of which way to tackle the trip. North to south was the answer as this way the dullest country is covered first and the views ahead would be better. The total distance to be covered appeared to be about 27 miles and involved some 20,000 feet of ascent and descent and three major descents and re-ascents. Since I could not accomplish the trip in daylight I decided to start late in the evening, walk all night, and finish next day.

Pat McMahon of Tuam gave me invaluable advice – and, furthermore, I learned that he had already accomplished the major part of my route, bivouacing overnight on the way.

June 19th dawned doubtfully and brought the unwelcome news that Denis Helliwell, one of my two companions, was not feeling up to the mark. However, he and his wife Barbara insisted that we should go ahead with the trip as they were quite willing to drive to Mayo and back and manoeuvre the transport for my sole benefit – such is the true spirit of mountaineering!

As we drove westwards from Derry the weather improved and on arrival at Bangor Erris it was near perfect – with a full moon on show, too. So, at 9.50 p.m. precisely, off I set with my fox-terrier, Kim, just as the light began to fade, while Barbara and Denis prepared to camp.

Leaving Bangor I crossed the stone bridge over the Owenmore River, bearing left across a playing field and joined the rough track (Bartholomew’s!) climbing steadily across the west slopes of Knocklettercuss. The track was very rough and going so heavy I soon took to the hillside, heading for the broad ridge-top. At 10.50 I arrived at the top and tried to pick out my planned route across the bog to the east towards Maumykelly. As I expected, this turned out to be one of the most trying and deceptive parts of the tramp as I did not stick to the contours as shown (accurately!) on the ½" map, but took a route which, in the poor light, seemed right but never was.

As I left the top of Knocklettercuss I had behind me a glorious sunset and ahead, dimly revealed, the great crescent of hills I was to cover. Far away to the south I could discern Achill and Slievemore.

Off I headed to the east and after forty minutes arrived at the base of Maumykelly after crossing the last stream I was to see for hours. It was now quite dark, the moon being low to the south-west and hidden by the steep slopes of Maumykelly (1,205). I finally reached the top around midnight. The moon was now behind a cloud and a fresh cool breeze was blowing. I shivered! – and not altogether from the cold. This was my point of no return because from here escape was possible, though irksome. Every yard would now take me up and away from civilisation and I knew that night-walking in bare open country was quite a different proposition from a daylight jaunt.

Far ahead loomed Slieve Car. I was at once somewhat disconcerted to find myself going downhill into heavy bog. Too far left! Around 1 a.m. the wind assumed February-like tendencies and I felt distinctly lonely and depressed on this barren upland. Up and on again – odd lights twinkling miles away. The slope suddenly steepened, the drop to my left became abrupt – and then the immense cairn showed up just as the clouds cleared away and the moon shone bright and clear.

I scrambled to the top of the cairn (a burial mound I imagine) on top of Slieve Car (2,369 ft.) at 2.40 a.m., but I did not stay long. Ahead to the south was a long stretch of high-level bog and stony ground, which, according to my map dropped fairly steeply off at the edges. The next forty minutes was spent circumventing myriad small pools and boggy patches. Far ahead I could just see Nephin Beg. Eventually I reached the southern edge of the elevated plateau at Corslieve (1,785 ft.) and here was revealed a strange and memorable sight. A thousand feet below and stretching for miles to the south- west and west were hundreds of little bog pools and streams with the moonlight reflecting from them to cut a glittering, golden path through the desolation of black bogland.

Ahead and below lay the twin pools of Lough Scardaun and beyond was Nephin Beg, wreathed in early morning clouds. I pressed on for the west end of the Lough, the clouds increased, a high wind suddenly blew up and once again I seemed to be embarked on an endless uphill climb. Finally, as the light improved, I arrived on the nondescript level top of N.B. (2,065 ft.) to encounter a gale. As I was not yet half-way I was justifiably worried, as I would be heading into it. However, I knew that a mile or two ahead my old track crossed the mountains and this would serve as an escape route if the need arose. By the time I had located the negligible cairn in the cloud I was well and truly off line, so – out with map and compass. Off I headed and after descending about four hundred feet came out of the cloud – to find myself completely lost. Nothing made sense and no feature could be allied to the map. Back I went to the cairn again and this time I was very careful in my descent – and this time I came out of the clouds into a world which somehow seemed to have become adjusted! Suddenly the clouds began to lift rapidly and the truly lonely majesty of these hills became most impressive.

In bright sunlight and the dying breeze I headed down across a subsidiary 1,356 ft. top. Every feature for miles around was now etched out clearly in the after-dawn. There lay my long-expected track and it was 6.45 when I crossed it, suddenly feeling exhilarated and fit though hungry. Just over half-way – hours of daylight and sunshine ahead – no need to hurry. I was going to finish this tramp – if I didn’t fall asleep first!

I paused for breakfast on the banks of the Bawnduff River and took time to survey the scenery around me before setting off again at 7 a.m. on the long ascent to the top of Glenamong (2,067 ft.). I took 11 hours over this, but eventually reached the surprisingly broad top and had a chance to see the route ahead. Miles and miles of undulating hill top – and no sign of Denis and Barbara who were to drive to Mulrany and come eastwards to meet me. Too early yet, I thought, and headed down a brief drop, over a slight ascent and then down the long slope preceding the gradual ascent of Cushcumcarragh (2,343 ft.). From this there was a grand lateral ridge running S.E. over Bengorm to Lough Furnace with possible climbs on its north-east face.

It was now about 11 a.m. and not far ahead lay the next major top at 2,230 ft. Leading up to this was the most interesting obstacle yet – a fine arête about 150/200 yards long. Although I was now very tired, this was too good to miss and the next fifteen minutes were most enjoyable.

The nameless top was soon surmounted – I gazed ahead. Where were D. and B.? Suddenly as I sped down the long westward slope I spied them far ahead, just near the 1,446 ft. top west of Glen Thomas. About mid-day we made contact and the feeling of relief heartened me no end.

We chatted about our experiences for fifteen minutes and then Barbara and Denis decided to head eastwards to Cushcummcarragh and come off by the long lateral ridge mentioned above to the main Newport road. Off I staggered again, finding that the rest had been nearly fatal. I doubted now if I could make it, as the next top (1,646 ft.) seemed unattainable. I would pause and consider carefully the alternatives of climbing down ten feet into a dip and up again – or of walking thirty yards on the level to avoid this. The temptation to lie down and sleep was almost irresistible – Kim succumbed to it several times.

The day was now gloriously fine, hot – and growing hotter. Stripped to shorts, I struggled on.

Presently I reached Glennamaddy Lough, having covered 1½ miles in as many hours. The last top, Claggan Mountain, now lay ahead, but it seemed to have several tops. Being mentally very weary, I changed my mind three times about which was the highest and finished up by climbing all of them! The long ridge towards Mulrany became so irksome that I finally abandoned it and came down to the road beside Ballycragher Bay for the last two miles. The briar- tangled mountain was now definitely preferable to the sun-softened tarmac, but on I plodded. At long last, at 4.07 p.m. precisely, I arrived at my car – elated with the realisation that I had achieved my ambition.

Somehow I drove to Newport, in spite of having to stop the car every time any traffic approached and after waiting some time at my contact point I collected Denis and Barbara and pushed on for Westport where a hot bath, a steak and fourteen hours sleep nicely rounded off one of the most memorable mountain tramps I can remember.
Five Peaks Challenge

(by Paul Cullen, from IMC Newsletter Autumn 1999)
Along with three other climbers, Paul Cullen set a new record for climbing the Five Peaks in September 1999. But the experience left him with some misgivings …

It’s three in the morning, we’re on the top of Snowdon and stars are shooting past in clear skies. The sodium lights of the north Welsh towns are winking in the distance but no-one is looking. Three people in the group are chattering on mobile phones and two others are discussing the merits of rival brands of mobiles.

A hellish vision of the future, perhaps, in which the world of the city invades the countryside, right up to its highest peaks. No-where is safe now from the depredations of modern technology, it would seem.

But then who among us does not use the same technology – Goretex coats, altimeters, wicking fabrics? The era of nailed boots and woolly jumpers is gone and mobile phones are only the latest device to find use in the hills.

The Five Peaks challenge in which I participated at the start of September continually threw up such questions. The exercise, which involved climbing the highest mountains in both parts of Ireland, England, Wales and Scotland, brought together a varied group of people, from reasonably experienced mountaineers to 40-a-day smokers who wouldn’t walk for a bus.

People who had never before set foot in the hills thus found themselves engaged in a marathon challenge involving a total climb of over 17,000 feet. They left behind their skills as public relations consultants, managers, computer trainers and broadcasters at the foot of the first mountain, Carauntoohill and embarked on unknown territory.

The results were mixed. Right from the start, the unfit suffered. Balmy late summer weather made the challenge easier, but the non-hillwalkers showed little knowledge of the ways of the countryside, and insufficient respect for the dangers of mountaineering. At least one of our group became seriously disoriented as a result of fatigue and carried on far longer than he should have.

We took the bog-standard routes up each of the peaks to save time. A 5 a.m. start in Kerry left us time to drive back to Dublin and then north where Slieve Donard was climbed in the afternoon. Then it was a race to get back to the ferry from Dún Laoghaire, a task made easier by Garda escorts which screeched us through the rush-hour traffic in Dublin at breakneck pace.

Snowdon was ascended by the Pyg track, and then we were whisked up to the Lake District to start the climb of Scafell Pyke at 8.30 a.m. Glorious early-morning sunshine made this my favourite climb of the challenge.

Ben Nevis was climbed by the standard tourist slog, and we hit the top in mist and rain at about twilight on Saturday. It was nightfall by the time the bottom was reached, 41 hours and 19 minutes after we started.

This was by some hours a new record for the Five Peaks, but I was left with some misgivings. Excellent back-up, especially a team of drivers and the Garda escort, was the key to breaking the record. In truth, we climbed at a pace that most IMC members would have little difficulty with.

And why undertake the challenge at all? The Five Peaks is something of an artificial construct, dependent on traffic conditions and ferry times (unless you have a helicopter). Modern man has sought new challenges and dangers to replace the adventure and risk that was once posed by infectious diseases, war or acts of discovery. Mountain challenges are increasingly popular, but their frenetic pace is at odds with the view of mountains as a place of peace.

And yet after I had written about the challenge in The Irish Times, there was a tremendous reaction. Friends congratulated me on our achievement and even a local barman came up to me and said ‘’aren’t you the mountaineer? Like that fella Falvey? ’’. Maybe these challenges aren’t so bad. Oh, and my colleagues raised £22,000 for charity.
The Hart Walk

(by Brian Searson, from the IMC Journal 1989-93)
An attempt at walking from Terenure, Dublin, to Lugnaquilla and back in less than 24 hours.

The origin of the Hart Walk was a fifty guinea wager allegedly by the naturalist R M Barrington (a fine walker himself) that Hart could not walk from Terenure tram terminus to the summit of Lugnaquilla and back in under 24 hours. It seems to have been specified that one way could be by road but the other had to be over the hills. Hart, accompanied by Sir Frederick Cullinan, left Terenure at 10.58pm on 20th June 1886 and arrived back at 10.48pm the next evening. The details of the timing were recorded by Hart on the 1" map which he used. This was in the possession of the late J B Malone. The fastest recorded time ia 17 hours 39 minutes by Gaffney and Rice in 1976. (Information from article by Joss Lynam in Mountain Log No. 27, Autumn 1986)

Friday, 27 April 1990, 9.58 p.m. and suddenly I am under way. The first of many moments of truth arrived. The planning and preparing for an attempt on the 75 mile Hart Walk (Terenure to Lugnaquilla and back) had reached completion. The walking began. Wearing hiking gear and carrying a well-filled rucksack, I felt slightly strange in the city streets. Aware of the passage of people and vehicles, but determined not to be distracted by them, I slowly began to leave the footpaths and street-lit areas behind. Killakee Car Park provided a final panoramic view of the Dublin lights stretching from Tallaght to Howth. The gloom crept in rapidly on turning my back to the city and facing the Military Road.

Being smothered in cloud the mast on Kippure was not to be seen. Vague shapes of other hills, like the Tonduffs and Sugar Loaf, could be discerned. A few cars passed by. What were the occupants’ thoughts. A lone walker at the midnight hour! A chilly and keen wind blew on the stretch towards Glencree. Time for gloves and a balaclava. Lough Bray and the first time check. The tension was eased. I was 13 minutes ahead of schedule. Whereas for a wager in 1886 Hart’s target time for the walk was 24 hours, I had, foolishly or otherwise, set myself a schedule for a completion time of 20 hours. The first steps were taken, the first stage completed.

The stretch to Sally Gap, familiar from various Lug walks, slipped by easily. Beyond the next high point of the road at 1634 ft a new scene unfolded. An array of hills seen in silhouette stretched from Luggala to the Brockagh Ridge. How wonderful to behold as all the while unseen black tarmac drifted gently by. A startling sound intruded on my consciousness just before the Oasis. Repeated again and I guessed it was deer giving voice. The invisible but expected encounter with Glenmacnass Waterfall began as a whisper of sound. Rapidly reaching its full intensity, it then slowly faded as the road led downhill and away to a lower level.

Only a few stars were visible in the night sky. Their absence meant cloud. But how much and at what level, I asked myself. No answer was forthcoming and my eyelids got heavy. My pace felt comfortable and trance-like. What would be the official charge for sleep-walking on a public roadway! My eyes opened and I found myself on the left of the road centre-line, having been constantly to the right of it. Must keep my ears open, though no cars have passed either way since Glencree.

Laragh at last, and I sat at a picnic table; time for a sandwich and hot tea. I recalled another day at the same table being harassed by wasps looking for a share of an ice-cream cone! A street lamp nearby caused me to squint. But in its light I was pleased to find the schedule was being maintained. The next stage to Drumgoff with its rises and falls, twists and turns was to take a slight edge off the time gained. But nothing detracted from the novelty of witnessing the dawning of a new day. Just beyond the Shay Elliott memorial the eastern sky developed a faint paleness on the horizon. This grew imperceptibly for a while. Then suddenly the first streaks of light were stretching out across the sky with inky bands of cloud above. Stopping, I turned around and gazed, intent on capturing this magical moment of daybreak as the sun slowly dispersed the shadows of night. Yes, I was glad to have set out on this pilgrimage.

Changing from runners to boots at Drumgoff, I set off towards Lug very conscious of the different terrain and the long climb ahead. It took quite a while to get into the right rhythm after 7 hours or so on the roads. Shortly after 7 a.m. I reached the summit and had another breakfast. Only patchy cloud was encountered during the ascent but map and compass were required for the descent. I found myself stumbling along, out of tune with the undulations and slope of the ground for the first while. I was getting annoyed too with conditions, being obliged to keep a constant eye on the compass vaguely seen through fogged-up spectacles. Soon my anger became directed on the job at hand and movement became more fluid, more purposeful. The usual landmarks of Camenabologue and Table Track were passed with barely a nod in acknowledgement. Steadily I ate into the remains of the first mountain stage, delighting in the freedom of pushing the pace in a definite direction, towards each immediate if invisible goal. In due course Conavalla and Lough Firrib were met and then the Wicklow Gap, which turned out to be the first cloud-free mountain area. I was delighted to find a gain of 33 minutes had been made on the stage from Lug. Time in hand; it might well be required.

A break was needed before the climb to Tonelagee, unrelenting in its steepness and unforgiving of tired legs and fatigued mind. Already the time in hand was being nibbled away. Pushing along on compass bearing to boggy cols and boggy plateaus brought me to Mullaghcleevaun with no further time gained, or lost either. On nearing the surfaced road after the long descent from Mullaghcleevaun, the enveloping veil of cloud began to thin out. Relief at last. Map and compass were finally put away. My eyes could now start focussing on a real horizon rather than a guessed-at object. The spell of solitude and soliloquy was broken on requesting water at a house along the road. The children complied while I chatted to their father working in the garden. The next break was taken at Ballysmuttan Bridge where time in hand had surprisingly increased to 1 hour and 5 minutes.

Time for runners again, so wet boots and socks were stored in the rucksack and the first tentative steps of the final road stage began. Slowly, it seemed, my feet adjusted to the lighter, dried footwear and gradually the road-walking pace returned. By Stone Cross the descents seemed as tiring as the ascents of the road, but the city was now in view. The final goal was a mere 7 miles away!

Passing by the familiar entrance to Bohernabreena Water works and the River Dodder, the road led on to Bridget Burke’s Pub. Becoming increasingly aware of people and traffic (it was after all Saturday afternoon and sunny at that), my reveries and concentration were interrupted. Faces at a bus-stop and cyclists on the footpath became noticeable.

Suddenly I felt out of place, out of pace. It took a while coming to terms with this sensation of strangeness. It eased on wolfing down a few biscuits and stopping for a drink of water. A sense of balance returned as one foot was deliberately made to follow the other. I was actually moving again.

Templeogue Bridge and then the village, vaguely distracting in their familiarity, were soon reached. Unable to recall how far it was to Terenure I knew deep down that it just had to be kept going. Terenure College, my Alma Mater, was passed. Then the quiet green area with tall deciduous trees beyond. The public library, the crossroads at Terenure. the 15 Tram Station – and it was over.

Yes, it was now 4.39 p.m.-. it took 18 hours and 41 minutes in all. And so after a moment of thankful reflection, after a cool drink and some chocolate, how do I get home!
The Bob Graham 42

(by Denis Rankin, from the IMC Journal 1984-85)
An account of the first Northern Irish attempt on the Bob Graham Round.
Jim Patterson and Denis Rankin were the 130th and 131st recorded rounds and they were completed in 23 hours 10 minutes and 23 hours 22 minutes respectively.

It was a relief when nine o’clock in the morning finally arrived and the long cavalcade of Dark Peak Fell Runners jogged out of Keswick and South-West onto the delightful lakeland lanes that lead to the Derwent Fells. I immediately felt uncomfortable and ‘breathy’ and began to doubt the wisdom of my policy of maximum relaxation and ‘tapering off’ in the period leading up to such a serious undertaking. Jim Patterson and myself were delighted that the Dark Peak should give us the opportunity of joining their attempt on the traditional circuit of 42 Lake District peaks in 24 hours and we were soon to appreciate the excellence of their Organisation.

I began to feel better as soon as we hit the fells and started clambering up the slopes of Robinson, peak number 1, in hot pursuit of Ros Coates on her way to the ladies record. At this stage, it was difficult to differentiate between the real triers and the pacemakers: I think there were twelve of us with serious intentions, of whom six finally made it. From Robinson, we jogged round to Hindscarth, and the descent to Dale Head was ecstasy.

We were five minutes down at Honister which is the end of the first section and I spent all of the ten minutes resting time changing my footwear from ripples into my clapped out Nikes, which was to prove a very good move. Then we were off, with Martin Hudson taking over as pacer. The party went southwards over Grey Knotts, Brandreth and Green Gable to Great Gable but began to split up on the screes descending from the latter. Jim and I became most anxious as we waited on Kirkfell for the stragglers to catch up but contented ourselves with the fact that timekeeping was the pacer’s responsibility. In the circumstances, they had a difficult job trying to keep the party together while still sticking to the schedule. Ascending Pillar, Martin Hudson and the stronger runners amongst us threatened to break away. The traverse to Steeple, Scoat Fell and the descent from Red Pike was one of the most enjoyable stretches of the whole day with the sun threatening to break through. Tearing down the screes of Yewbarrow, I felt sufficiently relaxed to request JP to pose for an all action camera shot of scree-running.

We breezed into Wasdale campsite fifteen minutes up on schedule but with six hours and only twelve peaks behind us, there was no cause for optimism and we were eager to take only the statutory fifteen minutes rest. We took some sustenance in the company of the many Dark Peak supporters that had gathered.

Half an hour later, we were toiling up the long ascent to Scafell with the same pacers: a solid hour’s grind. A rope was in position for the difficult step on Broad Stand and I was at first reluctant to have recourse to such an unethical aid. After the top of Scafell Pikes there is a long, mostly level section which provided a really enjoyable run over the roof of England; Broad and Ill Crag, Great End, Esk Pike to Bowfell. A diagonal descending traverse took us through the cliffs of Bowfell and westward. After Rossett Pike, the party began to show visible signs of weariness. A breather was taken at a stream and in between the two Langdale Pikes, Martin Hudson was seen to ply himself with secret goodies taken from his rucsac. He had been suffering from a stomach upset and diarrhoea and was in a visibly weakened condition. It is to his credit that he struggled on to complete the pacing of two of the most strenuous sections in the scheduled time. Towards the end of this section, Jim and myself, paced by Andy Collinson, broke away and covered the miles to Calf Crag and Steel Fell, which involves much downhill running, at a steady gallop. And so to Dunmail, halfway along the main Keswick to Ambleside road, eight minutes up on schedule, twelve hours after setting out from Keswick.

Here Martin Stone had the burners going in the back of a minivan and a feast of carbohydrates was awaiting us; hot creamed rice with apricots washed down with mugs of tea. Much of my own carefully prepared fruit, nuts and home-made cake which was waiting for me at all the resting stations was completely superfluous.

The pacing role was now assumed by Mike Hayes and he was already charging up Seat Sandal when I was shoeless: a change into studs proved a mistake, because, while they are suitable for grassy terrain, they tend to be uncomfortable over the longer distance. By the top of Fairfield it was pitch dark and on the descent, a battery of torch lights revealed many Bob Graham attempts to be in the vicinity. This was to be the most testing section of the whole round and with mist constantly shrouding the tops, there could be no latitude for navigational error.

In this respect, we were fortunate to have the services of Mike Hayes whose compass work and ability to keep the party together as one by one we all went through bad patches, was first class. The attempt had now been reduced to six bodies who finally completed the round, including Jim and myself. The descent from the last top of this section, Clough Head, was tedious and the route finding was confused by the lights on the valley floor below, but we managed to stumble into the feeding station at Threlkeld at twenty past three.

Once again we were plied with all sorts of appetising goodies, and I managed to pull a fast one over Jim by locating a supply of apple tarts which had escaped his attention. The Organisation continued to excel and even those who had been forced to drop out of the attempt earlier on were there to support us and boost our confidence for one more section. My Nikes had been mislaid overnight and I had hardly time to realise my predicament before an almost brand new pair of the right size appeared before my eyes – a further indication of the tremendous team spirit which underlay the hole occasion.

On the final loop, north of Keswick, the ascent of Blencathra took a good hour in the brightening dawn, most of us grinding up the zig- zags in our own good time. On the far side of Blencathra the never- ending Mungrisdale Common required constant attention to the compass. This section was completely out of character with the rest of the Lakes: deep heather and long grass reminded one of the calf tearing Irish moors. After Great Calva the party became really spread out, Jim Patterson went storming on ahead going up Skiddaw and, in an attempt to hold the arty together I placed myself, judiciously I thought, between him and those behind. I gritted my teeth and tried to keep him in sight, but he soon disappeared into the mist and I found myself alone near the summit of Skiddaw.

As a result of the mix-up at the Threlkeld feeding station I did not have any map with me. I felt completely lost in an area unfamiliar to me and, realising that time was slipping by, I nearly panicked. I turned right at a fence but this lost me height so I retraced my steps. Fortunately I made contact again with a pacer who had been despatched to look for me and we were soon at the top of Skiddaw, albeit half an hour behind schedule. I set off down the tourist track in hot pursuit of the others. In Keswick I asked the first Sunday morning pedestrian I came across for the way to the town centre. The schedule had allowed an hours leeway so, although down on schedule, I touched the Moot Hall thirty eight minutes inside the alloted twenty four hours.

There were many people gathered there including pacers for the double Bob Graham attempt which was about to complete another section. In time, we were offered a lift back to our campsite at Threlkeld, and without making any conscious attempt to do so, we nibbled and dosed off in our bags and remained there for much of the day.
Glen Head to Slievetooey

(by Uinseann Mac Eoin, from Irish Mountaineering 1978)
A cliff walk in Co. Donegal.

A west wind lashes the waves against the black cliffs of Glen Head, 2 miles NW of Glencolmkille, making its dark profile bleak and lowering. The head itself falls away from the crest of the heathery moorland to the sea making it difficult to appreciate the shelving cliffs at this point. A square tower dominates the scene. You reach it from the village by a small road that heads due north up the hillside. At a point where the tar ends, one heads up upon the hill to the 916 mark, then heads west across the heather to the tower. The tower is at a lower level around 600 feet. From there the sharp hog backed profile of the Sturrall (derives from the Irish for tall, bold, beautiful) comes into sight. It is of compelling interest.

A mixture of pre Cambrian quartz and schist, it drops shear on its south west side, while shelving steeply on its. north east. The approach is upon sheep tracks on that side. One drops down towards it quickly, and then gingerly, if the wind is strong, down upon one of these tracks at the neck of the isthmus. One skylines upon grass for a piece, while ahead the spine rises steeply to a thin line of rocks. These are the arete of the Sturrall, a jumble of friable rocks, difficult to move upon. I do not know anyone that has skylined the arete from end to end, though it is possible to climb up to points upon it.

If one continues on the NE side under the shadow of these rocks and pinnacles, one will continue a slow diagonal descent towards the further end of it, where it is possible to scramble back up again on grass and rock to a gap in the arete. But move carefully, because one is upon a very steep grass slope that ends eventually in cliffs. Looking over through the gap, back towards the tower, is a striking view. The sea is churning in upon cliffs 600 feet, below. There are arches and caves, and a stoney cove, inaccessible except from a boat. Sea birds squawk and wheel. Once, on a steep ledge of heather, I saw two foxes, for of course the terraces could be reached by the wily animals. How safe they were there.

On another occasion, a bright sunny afternoon in autumn, I crawled out along it with Pat McMahon. We reached as far as we could go, a short distance beyond the see over gap. Pat wanted to come back along the arete. It is possible to climb up and proceed towards the land again from the gap, though one needs to be awfully careful. The real difficulty is alighting down again from it at the landward end. I retraced my steps on the sheep track until I reached the col or isthmus linking it to the mainland. I waited a long time, or what seemed to be a long time, for Pat to appear. While I waited I watched a small dark cloud in the blue sky that drifted in slowly from the NW. Suddenly Pat appeared upon the flat slab of rock like a table a hundred and fifty yards away from me, and fifty feet or so above me. He was triumphant. He had got this far. Standing upon the flat rock, 600 feet over the sea on his right hand and with a fall almost as steep on his left, he stood upon the table size platform raising five fingers in triumph. It was at that moment that the heavens struck. From the cloud come one single lightning flash that seemed to strike for and sear the very rock on which he stood. He gave a faint wail and disappeared from view. I hoped he had not fallen or been killed by the flash. Half an hour later I saw him trail slowly back upon the sheep track, disconsolate and somewhat frightened. The lightning had indeed been close. So close that he was knocked down by it; the tips of all his fingers had gone white. I was relieved though to have him back again.

On, north east of the Sturrall, is some of the finest cliff walking in Ireland, more interesting and broken than Moher in Clare, less regular than the impressive line stretching from Benwee Head in Mayo eastwards to Belderg, and longer and higher, than the three miles of cliff forming a crescent around Fair Head. On they go, past the hamlet of Port, (most isolated homestead in Ireland?), past Toralaydan Island, Tormore and Puliska until one reaches the narrow crest of Slievetooey, most isolated mountain in Ireland?). There is not a let up in the cliff scenery except as one rolls down to sea level at Port. A never ending cavalcade of cliffs, tors, inaccessible islands, shelving land masses and tortured geology lie upon ones left.

One cannot make haste here. One has to hug the cliff path, follow its every quirk, sit down frequently and stare; explore with ones eye. One may go from Glencolmkille, traverse the Sturrall and reach Port. But it will be a good walker who can go on past and take in Slievetooey on the same day. I rate it as one of the most striking cliff walks anywhere.

Across the Nephin Beg Range

Five Peaks Challenge

The Hart Walk

The Bob Graham 42

Glen Head to Slievetooey