Bray

Fog weighed down on us. A Kish Cloud, chill, heavy and condensing on my clothes. Across to The Obelisk, hill one today, the cloud rolled in from the east, swirling along the valleys and brushing through the tops of candle-lit chestnut trees, standing in eerie silence. I commented to a couple of ghostly walkers that it was like being in a cold rain forest.

Down on White Rock strand, the beach appeared curiously detached from the main body of the Irish Sea, the grey fog merging into the the equally grey sea just a few metres offshore. Windless, air movement apparent as transient wisps. Almost no bird song nor gull cry, the only sound being the unseen eight-carraiged commuter trains and the lapping waters of the ebb tide. Do gannets and terns 'fish' in fog or is that like trying to hear the sound of one hand clapping?

I scrabbled across the aureole that separates the beaches, the fog a bit thinner on the Killiney side. I walked on, past the ugly conversion of the Martello Tower that appeared out of the cold steam close to Shanganagh River, whose outflow was so weak that I just stepped across it.

Beyond the Shanganagh but before Bray, I saw lots of Sand Martin colonies in the glacial moraines. They wisely choose only the sandiest channels. An odd coincidence; lots of Ringed Plover too, both birds having distinctive breast bands.

Bray Harbour, where I emerged from the fog, had the usual feeding frenzied swans and pigeons which, after two hours of walking, made me feel peckish. I stopped at the Coffee Dock at the far end of the promenade for a latte and collected other refreshements for later consumption. Then, ten minutes allowed, up Bray Head where the 1950 Holy Year Cross was more like a Cross of Babel - I met a school outing of well heeled kids where I heard most EU languages spoken by mid-teenagers, posing for later Facebooking using some pretty sophisticated cameras. Fleeing for the solace of the lonely walker, I headed past the Brandy Hole aiming for The Little Sugar Loaf. Bright yellow gorse, spent bluebells surrounded me. Contrails above confirmed the Eyjafjallajakull ash blown elsewhere. A few false trails (false in that they now end at gates wrapped in unfriendly barbed wire to block entry to another golf blight), I found my way to the rear of Kilruddery Estate. Struggling to find a way in, I passed below Windgate, resolved to do it the long way around by the Glen of the Downs golf course. Fortuitously, I avoided being whacked by a recycling truck to find myself being asked by a local resident if that passing noise meant he'd missed the weekly bin collection. I learned that Lord Meath allows the locals access to ride their horses for a small annual fee and so I accepted the resident's suggestion and returned to a gate I'd noticed earlier.

A beautiful walk awaited me. There were some folk taking horses from horse boxes, preparing to hack the hill. Chirping Skylarks and Meadow Pipits filled the air. Pheasant rose in front of me, one brightly coloured, squeaky hinge calling cock with a hen flying, almost unseen, literally under the cover of his shadow.

The phone rang as I was reaching the summit of The Little Sugar Loaf. Lia was curious where I'd got to in the five hours since I left. Breathless, we discussed taking E for lunch to celebrate her PhD. I ran down the west side, The Great Sugar Loaf a challenge postponed to another day. A quick drink in the petrol station in Kilmacanoge while I waited for Lia to take me home.

Today there was no SS torture - softer surfaces, slower pace or better shoes; who knows though very grateful.

WalkMeter records a five hour walk that covered about 23 km in which I probably burned 1500 calories. It felt longer and harder but I think I could have done another 20 km. However, I thoroughly enjoyed the better company of a family celebration, getting a good bowl of soup, crispy fresh bread and a damned good chorizo risotto.


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