Honestly, the worst part of my Wicklow Way adventure was getting there. The oldest way marked trail in Ireland starts in Clonegall, a tiny village in County Carlow. I would take a bus from Dublin city center to Bunclody, a slightly less tiny village nearby (less tiny = it has one pub).

I had my usual bus station cluster in Dublin and almost missed it (trains for life). And when I got on the damn double decker thing, I buckled up for 2.5 hours of trying not to toss my cookies as we whipped through the rollercoaster backroads of rural Ireland.

I somehow made it to Bunclody without losing my lunch. After kissing the non-moving ground, I met Paula, another solo American Wicklow Way hiker who was starting the day after me from Millview House. We decided to grab dinner together, but were derailed after the farmhouse dog, Jesse, tailed us into town. I managed to get him back home (sans leash) without him running into traffic or mauling any children along the way. I then rejoined Paula for grub and a well deserved cider.

I met two other fellow walkers at breakfast, Renate and Paul from the Netherlands. I bid adieu to Paula and was dropped off by a nice taxi driver at the southern terminus of the Wicklow Way.

The first day was a lot of road walking, but the roads certainly didn’t suck. I spent some of the day walking with Renate and Paul, two seasoned hikers who gave me some new adventure inspo (hi, West Highland Way).

I was mentally prepared for Day 1 to hurt, and hurt it did. That said, I really didn’t want to ride another bus, so quitting was off the table. After a 15 mile day, I hobbled in to Central House and slept like the dead. I remember being roused very, very late by rowdy revelers but promptly put in my earplugs and PTFO’d. After massaging my sore legs the next morning, I headed down to the B&B kitchen to make some breakfast. I was greeted by a bonafide party crime scene. Jameson bottles, half eaten slices of cheese, and open pickle jars lined the room. On the table was a giant golden golf trophy. And under the table… was a foot. A human foot. I jumped about three feet high when I saw it, but luckily it was still attached to a gently snoring Irishman.

My gut instinct was to run away from whatever tf I had walked into, but he was in between me and breakfast. I went about my merry way making toast, boiling water for tea, and packing a sandwich for lunch. He didn’t stir until I cracked open a yogurt. The dude sat straight up, blinked several times, said “Hiya,” and laid right back down to sleep. Respect!

I hit the road for day 2. A memorable stop was The Dying Cow, a 300 year old pub where I spent an hour drinking a Sunday morning coffee and chatting with the live-in proprietors. The Dying Cow’s name comes from ye olden days where pubs were closed on Sundays and religious holidays. The police caught several locals at the pub on Easter. The lady of the house covered for them, explaining to the cops that the fellas were just there to assist her livestock. “Would you begrudge a woman help for her dying cow?”

The Wicklow Way changed from scenic farm roads to gravel and dirt tracks. After 16 miles, I landed at Kyle Farmhouse, my home for the night. I was really vibing on drinking tea, shoving bread and soup in my mouth, and reading for hours on end after a day’s hike. Cloud Cuckoo Land, Hamnet, and Beautiful Country were all annihilated on the trip.

The farmhouse host kept offering to drop me further along the Way as the next leg was “a really big one.” I am a stubborn and bullheaded SOB though, so I waived away her offer and set off early the next morning. I would have missed some of my favorite views of the day, so I’m glad I stuck to my gut!

On Day 3 I encountered my first active timber areas, which I’d see a lot of in the next few days. While I’m all about sustainable forestry, it’s still a Fern Gully bummer to walk through felled trees for hours.