June 18 Mannix depression

Storm brewing

Weather systems are well-named. ‘Highs’ and ‘Lows’ describe precisely the emotions inspired by their respective arrivals, whilst ‘Deep Depression’ speaks for itself. The one that enveloped Carmen and me at Mannix Point, at the bottom end of the Iveragh peninsula, had a peculiarly Celtic intensity, both in its nature, and its effect.

It left me particularly downcast, because it meant that no boats were sailing, and so denied me my one chance, on this trip, of visiting one of the most spectacular of all Celtic sites, the Skelligs, twin pinnacles of rock which jut out of the Atlantic, 12 miles or so out to sea from Waterville. I have a photograph of them on my bedroom wall at home, taken with a long lens when Claire and I visited Kerry in 2004. On the larger of the two – Skellig Michael – one of the most remarkable monasteries in the world was somehow constructed in the 7th century. It was abandoned some 500 years later but is still, apparently, substantially complete. Perhaps next time.

The weather was so filthy that I didn’t venture out of the van until tea-time. Valentia island (another stalwart of ‘weather reports from coastal stations’) was completely obscured by rain and low cloud, even though it’s just across the bay. I resisted the temptation (just) of drinking myself into a state of Celtic oblivion, and busied myself with the computer, which eventually condescended to accept two photographs for this blog, although whether they turn out to be the only two, we shall discover shortly.

Anyway, when the downpour finally eased, I did my laundry (8 euros, would you believe!) and then headed off into town to buy a newspaper and something for my supper. By great good fortune, I spotted a fish shop, where the owner was filleting some small plaice - “fresh off the boat sorr”. I bought some and fried them in butter for my supper and they were quite the best thing I’ve eaten in the entire journey.

Spirits revived, I headed off on the bike to the little ferry that crosses from Rennard’s Point to Valentia. By this time, it was a simply glorious evening, the rain having washed the air clean, and the fuchsia hedges which are such a feature of the west of Ireland fairly blazed with colour as I pedalled along.

The campsite and its owner – who rejoices in the name of Mortimer Moriarty – have won numerous awards, and despite the extortionate cost of using a washing machine and tumble drier, one can see why. The situation is perfect – on the edge of Valentia Sound, looking directly across to the island – and the facilities manage to be both homespun (like a peat fire in the communal reading room) and comprehensive. Assuming that I do return for another crack at Skellig Michael, this is where I shall stay.

Tomorrow, it’s the long drive to Dublin, for a ferry to Holyhead early on Friday.
What a wonderful place Ireland would be, if it wasn’t for the weather!

Mannix point with the mountains of Kerry beyond