Dublin to the River Shannon
November
2008 update
For at least three
years I had itched for a bit of a challenge.
I’m not sure why.
Perhaps my upcoming retirement
released an extra measure of wanderlust
hormones and they needed some release. On
one of my trips to Ireland I began to take
note of a canal on the maps I scanned
regularly.
The Grand Canal snaked across the
heart of the country, beginning in Dublin on
the Irish Sea and reaching the River Shannon
80 miles to the west.
The canal’s appeal may have come
partly from my interest in our local Muscle
Shoals Canal, built in the 1800s and flooded
in the 1920s when the Tennessee River was
impounded and the canal was no longer needed
commercially.
The Muscle Shoals Canal passed only a
few hundred yards from my house, unseen 20
feet below the surface of Wilson Lake.
Whatever the reason, on
a trip to Ireland in August 2001 and staying
in a cottage a couple miles outside Tralee
in County Kerry, I found that the most
appealing route into town was along the
local canal’s tow path.
In a local book store I picked up one
of the 1:50,000 scale Discovery Series maps
from the Ordnance Survey of Ireland that
covered part of the Grand Canal’s route.
But as detailed as the map was, it
still left a number of questions.
This first map was an older one, and
the hiking or walking trail, known as the
Grand Canal Way, appeared to be broken into
a number of non-continuous sections.
It seemed to shift from one side of
the canal to the other.
The towns on this map sheet was quite
small, possibly too small for commercial
lodging. I hoped to find B&Bs or guest
houses along the way.
Nevertheless, it seemed
doable, especially since it was flat and
from information I gleaned from many Irish
web sites, it was reasonably well-traveled
and safe.
I decided I could hike the entire
length of the canal by taking my time,
setting a goal of about 15 miles each day.
I would spend nights in B&Bs or small
guest houses, visit a few pubs if I wasn’t
too weary at the end of the day, and
complete the entire 80+ mile hike in 5 days
or so.
Work obligations (out of retirement
and back to work!) resulted in my plans to
hike in May of 2003 being delayed until late
September.
The hiking distance,
based on the distance table in the Guide to
the Grand Canal of Ireland (published by
Duchas, The Heritage Service), is just shy
of 82 miles from the Westmoreland sea lock
at Ringsend harbour in Dublin
to
the River Shannon. I added a few more miles,
continuing to Banaher to catch a bus back to
Dublin.
September 24, Wednesday (miles 0 to 2.3)
Three hours after
touching down at the Dublin airport on my
mid-morning flight from Nashville I was on
the Grand Canal.
In fact, I was at its very beginning,
the sea lock that separates Ringsend Basin
from the River Liffey.
Quite possibly, the Grand Canal
technically ends as it enters Ringsend
Basin, a man-made harbour lined with new
commercial and high rise residential
structures, with small boats tied up to the
docks. Excited about my journey and wanting
to start my hike where the canal’s waters
enter the River Liffey I walked along the
southern edge of Ringsend Basin, and then
along its eastern edge.
I didn’t have a detailed map with me
and soon discovered I couldn’t quite reach
the sea lock from this side of the basin.
Buildings and other maritime
structures hugged the eastern edge of
Ringsend too closely for me to pass by.
Nevertheless, I edged along taking
care for my footing and got to within about
30 yards of the sea lock.
Dock construction debris stood
between me and the lock.
In the water at this point was an
abandoned barge of some sort, listing
slightly.
I took my time eyeing it, and
deciding it was safe and stable, climbed
aboard and took a photograph.
I wanted evidence I had started at
the beginning!
A week later, when I
returned to Dublin after my canal hike, I
took the harbour duck tour and after the
pilot/driver heard my Grand Canal hike story
and my lament about not getting close to the
sea lock, maneuvered his duck right up to
the lock for yet more photographs.
For the next couple
hours I walked along the Grand Canal as it
wove its way through the harbour warehouse
district east of the heart of Dublin and
along through light commercial areas to the
south.
When
the Grand Canal Way emerged from the
warehouse area it began to pick up a
tree-lined character, bounded by grassy
strips that were tow paths many years ago.
One
arched bridge after another carried the
city’s vehicular traffic over the canal.
From
time to time locks broke the flat stillness
of the canal’s waters.
In fact, seven locks stepped the
waters down along the 2.3 mile stretch from
the former Portobello Hotel to the Ringsend
Basin.
The mellowness of the canal’s quiet
wooded corridor contrasted with the hectic
urban pace just a few feet away.
The old grassy tow paths now
contained 3- and 4-foot wide asphalt walking
paths down their centers.
Benches and other street furniture made the Grand Canal
corridor an inviting respite, not far from
the middle of this world class city of a
million or more people.
Jet
lag was taking its toll on me as I continued
my walk westward toward the old Portobello
Hotel, now a business college building.
I left the canal
at that point, mile 2.3, and wandered back
to my hotel near Grafton Street,
getting lost a few times even though I knew
I needed only to keep moving in a northerly
direction.
September 25, Thursday (at mile 2.3)
Ah!
This was my first real day of hiking.
The day before was more of a stroll
along the beautiful wooded canal, all within
a couple miles of the city center. The words
“urban center” and “hiking” strike me as
incompatible.
I had
long planned for this day.
With maps and guide books giving me
all the information I needed, I planned to
walk an easy 10 or so miles to the
Hazelhatch Bridge at mile 12.9 then take
R405 north about a half mile to the train
station and back into Dublin for another
night in the city.
The backpack I bought for the trip
was a weekender, sizable enough for as many
clothes as I needed, assuming I could find a
laundromat from time to time.
But
here was where I made the only major changes
to my original plans.
My son and brother had visited Dublin
just 30 days before my trip, and in addition
to picking up maps, guidebooks, and a good
collection of brochures, they also tried to
gather as much information as they could
about my planned hike, a solo one at that,
by someone over (ahem) 50.
Maybe it was the dark atmosphere of
the pubs, or possibly just their concern and
the way they asked questions, but they came
home with a real anxiety about my safety.
They evidently expressed that concern
to me sufficiently, because I did reevaluate
my plans. The first reaction was to outline
in some detail my plans and email them to
the Inland Waterways of Ireland listserv, a
discussion forum for boaters, primarily, and
others who fancy the country’s wonderful
network on inland rivers and canals.
I found some Irish hiking club
websites and sent them an outline of my
plans.
Universally I heard that along the
rural sections of the Grand Canal, after
leaving the western suburbs of Dublin, I
should expect to be entirely safe.
But two or three respondents
suggested care walking through the western
industrial suburbs, communities such as
Clondalkin near the M50 motorway.
It was even suggested I start my hike
out beyond Clondalkin, out where the
countryside begins, about 10 miles from the
city center.
So I
adapted my plans to my son’s concerns and to
the advice of those experienced locals.
I adapted in two ways.
First, I decided to look as little
like an American tourist as possible, so I
put my weekend backpack in the closet for
some future hiking adventure.
Instead I decided to use a light
daypack, a slightly used pack I bought for
only $5 at Unclaimed Baggage in Scottsboro,
Alabama.
It certainly was small and extended
only just above my shoulders, unlike the
weekender which was almost a foot taller and
reached the top of my head.
While still at home, I tested its
carrying capacity.
I carefully rolled two sets of
everything, from underwear to socks, shirts,
hiking pants, maps, toiletries, a second
pair of shoes, and other items I knew I
needed, and neatly packed the daypack.
I was amazed that everything fit! On
my first day in Dublin when I saw every age,
from kids to retirees, walking along the
streets with their similar-sized day packs,
I knew I made a good decision.
I might, just might, look like an
Irishman taking a casual stroll, and not an
older tourist, an easy mark for some
hooligans.
My
second adaptation was even easier.
I had no need at all to use that
daypack for the 10 mile segment through the
most risky section of the hike, the section
through the industrial suburbs.
All I needed was some drinking water
and my maps and guidebook.
For maps, I cut up the 1:50,000 scale
Discovery Series maps into strips, showing
only about 2 miles on either side of the
canal, reducing the weight and size of the
maps I had to carry.
I laminated each map strip to
minimize rain damage.
I also photocopied and reduced to
about half-size the 15 or so pages of the
Guide to the Grand Canal of Ireland.
These were placed in a large zip-lock
bag which fit almost perfectly in a
protected pocket inside my rain jacket. With
not even a daypack, I would certainly not
look like a tourist, I thought.
So
day one of my hike into the countryside was
more like a good long stroll.
I planned to reach Hazelhatch and
take the train back to Hueston Station,
maybe 3 miles from my hotel.
After
a light breakfast at 7:30 I walked due south
to the canal at Portabello at mile 2.3.
The day was a fine one—warm weather
with only a few light wispy clouds in the
sky.
I worn jeans rather than hiking
pants, to further
disguise myself as just another Dubliner,
and a sweatshirt under a very light
waterproof wind breaker.
I had a hat stuffed in one pocket, a
small 35-mm camera and passport in another
and the maps and guide book copies safely
tucked away.
For
the next hour or so I walked along a paved
tow path, passing through a collection of
urban developments, some upper middle income
residential estates as well as a number of
poorly-maintained apartment flats, clearly
occupied by low income residents.
Some sections of the tow path were
well maintained by neighborhood groups who
took considerable pride in this exceptional
amenity in their midst.
All
along the tow path I passed a number of
casual strollers, often older men and women,
as well as other neighborhood residents
walking their dogs.
A jogger or two passed me by.
Well
before I reached Lock 7 (at mile 6) a sign
on the tow path identified my first
unexpected obstacle. (Nov
2008 update—This detour has long been
rectified and now a
walker continues along the tow path
unimpeded, so disregard reference to the
detour.
I keep it here to keep the written
record of my experience intact.)
The sign warned that the tow path at
Lock 7 was closed and to pick up the Grand
Canal Way on the other side of the closure,
walkers were to take Killeen and Nangar
roads.
I soon reached a bridge over the
canal and saw that highway and bridge
construction had made walking underneath the
bridge unsafe, prompting the closure.
I left the tow path and saw a pub a
few yards away.
Asking directions, I learned that I
was on Killeen Rd, and had to follow it
south to Nangar and then westward to a major
intersection, and then north until I saw the
canal.
But the route was a mess, a real
hazard to walkers, a narrow roadway with no
sidewalk, filled with flying dust (no rain
recently), fast trucks, construction
vehicles and cars. After about a third of a
mile of dangerous walking I left the
construction hazard zone when I reached
Nangar Rd.
After about a half mile on Nangar I
turned north and soon found my canal.
The detour was over, but now I was a
bit bemused when, after 20 minutes of
searching I couldn’t find a path down off
the road or bridge to the canal’s tow path.
I was now at the edge of a large, very
attractive collection of upscale office
buildings, a planned office complex called
Park West.
After misjudging a shortcut some
office workers used, for access to the
canal, I finally backtracked to the south
side of the bridge and slid and bumped down
the steep slope to the tow path below.
It wasn’t a graceful descent, but no
one was looking.
The
Park West complex was quite beautiful.
A shiny aluminum spiraling spire,
maybe 80 feet or so tall, strikingly
punctuated the office park landscape,
showing the developers’ good taste in public
art. The spire’s blue tint at its bottom
faded to white as it gently wound upward
toward the clouds. Many of the nearby
buildings appeared vacant and there were few
cars in the parking lots.
This business complex had quick and
easy access from M50, the major thoroughfare
on the western edge of the metropolitan
area.
No doubt it would soon be a beehive
of activity.
In a
few minutes I crossed under M50, hearing the
buzz of high speed freeway traffic above.
A few yards on the other side of this
noisy roadway, sitting in a folding lawn
chair alongside the canal, was a solitary
fisherman, seemingly oblivious to the hub-bub
almost above him.
West
and south of M50 and the canal was
Clondalkin.
Industrial housing estates and heavy
industry were scattered throughout the area.
Along this section of the canal I saw
no one else walking, no one jogging, no one
out for a late morning walk.
Walking about 3.5 miles per hour, I had
reached an area of the tow path that
appeared rarely used.
Rubbish strewed the path, now grassy
instead of paved.
The water was crystal clear.
From time to time I saw rusted
bicycles, not only on the edge of the path,
but on the bottom of the clear canal waters.
I was saddened to see two junked car
bodies along the edge of tow path, rusty
enough to have been there for years.
This was the section of the Grand
Canal I had been warned about.
Although no further evidence was
needed, I began to notice how the warehouses
and small factories whose property bordered
the canal fortified themselves with high
fences, often capped with broken glass,
strands of barbed wire and even sharp
upturned stones. The message was clear.
I
wasn’t confronted with this distressing
environment for more than an hour or so.
Soon the quality of canal-side
development changed and fields with cattle
and sheep appeared bordering the canal
corridor.
Here I saw an interesting contrast.
Close to the canal were the quiet
green fields, yet a few hundred yards beyond
might be a series of very sizeable
industrial facilities, many quite tall and
prominent in the landscape.
Often they were actually attractive
architecturally.
About a mile past Lock 11,
the real Irish countryside began to emerge.
Wheat
fields, more cattle farms, enticing views of
the Dublin and Wicklow mountains to the
south, and hundreds of birds. This was the
first time I remember hearing any birds.
But now I saw numbers of blue herons
at water’s edge, always waiting to see if I
was continuing toward them before lifting
wings and flying away, squawking about my
disturbance.
In the city I had marveled at how
many swans graced the canal waters.
Now the swans were replaced with
herons.
The
remainder of my hike this day was probably
the most awe-inspiring of my several days on
the canal.
Possibly it was because of how
quickly I left a dreary part of western
Dublin and moved into the strikingly
idyllic, beautiful Irish countryside. From
out of almost nowhere to seems, in a matter
of an hour or two, I eased into a scenic
landscape that had changed little in several
centuries. This was the countryside I had
longed to experience first hand, down at eye
level, moving at a hiker’s pace, not a car’s
speed.
I also chuckled to myself that day
about something I was calling “the
exhilaration factor.”
After years of planning and dreaming
about this trip, I was now there! And it was
everything I thought it might be. The
exhilaration tended to obliterate any little
discomfort, any clouds in the sky and any
hunger in my belly.
It
was not yet noon time and for that reason or
the exhilaration factor I wasn’t hungry.
But also along the tow paths out in
the countryside, the fence rows were lined
with blackberry bushes chock full of ripe
blackberries.
From time to time I stopped and
collected some of the juiciest. They tasted
just as good as the Tennessee blackberries I
remembered from my youth.
Throughout most of the morning I appeared to
be the sole hiker along the tow path.
Other than an occasional casual
walker, out with a dog, or on a short
stroll, I was alone.
But toward late morning, I began to
catch sight of someone well ahead of me.
With the gentle curve in the waterway
and the path, from time to time I lost sight
of the other hiker.
Over a period of 30 minutes or so, I
began to overtake him, probably because he
stopped for more blackberry snacks than I
did.
As I got closer I saw a middle aged
man with a small day pack.
I greeted him as I overtook him and
asked where he was going. He said he had
just gotten off a boat from England and was
on his way to Naas to join his wife and
children.
He appeared a bit worse for the wear,
so I understood why he chose to walk.
Naas was still another 12 miles or
so.
He was the only hiker I encountered,
going in either direction, during my entire
hike along the canal.
The
countryside here was still quite beautiful.
At lock 12 near Lucan Road Bridge a
pleasant little village, Adamstown, lay a
few hundred yards north.
The
“exhilaration” factor was most potent here.
The quiet beauty of the farmlands,
the warm weather with no hint of rain, my
rather steady progress and absence of
fatigue, and lack of any knee problems, kept
me moving along the green grassy tow path at
a steady pace and a fine state of mind.
At this point I began to question my
plans to end the day’s hike at Hazelhatch.
Ten miles on such a fine day seemed a
bit too cushy.
Just
after noon I saw ahead of me a small
collection of boats lined up along either
side of the canal and knew I was approaching
Hazelhatch.
The first boat I came to was clearly
someone’s pride and joy.
It was cleverly decked out with
potted plants and flowers and its owner
quite likely lived on the adjoining
property, a few feet away on the other side
of the path.
There, too, were well-tended flowers
and other plants.
It was a splash of orange, yellow,
red and other vibrant colors against the
backdrop of Irish emerald.
I
wasn’t especially hungry when I reached
Hazelhatch, the frequent blackberry snacks
blunting my appetite, but lunch is a good
excuse to stop and rest for a few minutes.
The train station with service back
to Dublin was about a half mile north, so I
planned to eat and return to the city. On
the north side of the canal, at the
Hazelhatch Bridge, was
a tempting-looking pub with its tables and
chairs spilling out onto an open air patio
right on
the canal.
How better to snare thirsty boaters!!
I walked in and asked about food.
Unfortunately they didn’t
serve food and the bartender told me the
nearest restaurant was a mile or two to the
north.
I thought about the additional walk
up to the restaurant and back to either the
local train station or the now more enticing
option—walking on to Sallins and catching
the train there.
Here it was around 12:30 or so.
The weather was fine today, but what
would future days hold?
I was still game for a few more miles
today, I thought, so why not take advantage
of my good fortune.
I didn’t have to weigh the pros and
cons for long.
In a few minutes I was off along the
tow path again, this time the town of
Sallins my destination for the day.
Of
course this decision was made consulting my
maps and guidebook.
It was clear that the Sallins train
station was just a few hundred years from
the canal, so I shouldn’t have trouble
finding it.
I passed more charming countryside,
walking on a soft green path.
More cattle farming and wheat fields
alongside, scattered country cottages
nearby.
If I get a chance for a return walk
along the Grand Canal, this section is one I
certainly want to experience again.
The remainder of the hike that day was
uneventful except for the beginnings of some
muscular soreness on my left shin.
Mention of one of the lockkeepers in the
guidebook piqued my interest.
From my genealogy research I knew
that the earliest Irish ancestor on my
mother’s side we can trace was named Martin
Fogarty.
And there in the guide book, was a
Martin Fogarty, shown as lockkeeper for
locks 14 to 18, and showing he was based at
lock 15.
My notes (reviewing them now 60 days
later) said that there was an old, recently
abandoned lockkeeper’s house, at lock 14,
but there was no house at lock 15.
I didn’t inquire about Mr. Martin at
the houses nearby.
By
about 3:30pm I arrived in Sallins and looked
southward where my map told me I’d find the
station.
As I left the tow path and walked
south along the road I heard a train.
For a few seconds I wondered if I
could reach the station in time to catch the
train.
But when the station was at last in
sight, I saw the train stop for what seemed
like a few seconds and then move forward. It
was heading toward Dublin.
When I got to the platform and found
the daily train schedule I learned that I
had by just a minute or two missed the 3:38
into Hueston Station.
Fortunately at that time of day
trains passed through Sallins on their way
into the city almost hourly.
I was tired by this time, and took
advantage of my missed connection to relax
on a bench.
For a time I was all alone.
But soon others appeared, those on my
side of the platform, waiting for the 4:38pm
to Dublin.
I didn’t have a ticket, the ticket
window was closed, and didn’t know how to go
about getting one.
I approached a middle-aged lady who
was waiting for the Dublin train and
inquired, telling her also that I was coming
back to Sallins by train the next day. She
asked why I was in Sallins, and I told her I
was planning to walk the length of the Grand
Canal and I had just walked from Dublin.
The surprised expression on her face
was priceless. She may never have heard of
anyone in recent years so foolish as to walk
here from Dublin.
After regaining her composure she
told me I could buy a ticket on board, and I
should ask for a return (round trip) ticket
with a bus connector into city centre.
I did, and paid 12.5 euros, about
$14.
The train trip back to Dublin was a
treat.
After the longest one-day hike or
walk of my non-military life, I was settled
into the comfort of a fast train, taking me
in a few minutes what had taken me many
hours and two days to complete.
The contrast in speeds was not lost
on me, as I dosed lightly on my way to
Heuston Station.
In front of the station I boarded bus
# 90 which followed along the north side of
the Liffey.
I stepped off as it approached
O’Connell Street.
My first long leg of the journey was
over, about 20 miles, but without a
backpack.
September 26, Friday (at mile 20.8)
Another
fine morning started with a quick breakfast
of orange juice, croissant and a couple cups
of coffee at 7:30. A bit after 8am I hopped
aboard bus # 90 and a few minutes later
stepped off the bus at Hueston Station.
I arrived in plenty of time and
caught the 9:05 for Sallins, arriving at
9:40.
This was a little later than I wanted
to start my day, but leaving from Dublin
gave me little choice.
By 9:45 I was on the canal again, but
with my backpack for the first time.
Now is the real test, I thought.
Will I still make reasonable time?
Will I tire easily?
The soreness in my shin was still
noticeable, but I assumed it would go away
as I limbered up.
Soon
I crossed the Leinster Aqueduct, the first
of several aqueducts along the canal.
I find the concept of wate
r
passing over but not mingling with other
water truly fascinating.
I have been in awe of such structures
ever since I saw an historic photograph of
Shoal Creek Aqueduct, dating to the late
1800s, not far from my home.
I
continued my fairly easy pace, still
averaging about 3.5 miles an hour or less.
Underfoot was a nice soft grassy
surface, sufficiently trodden to provide a
solid and comfortable waking surface.
The weather was nice still, a bit
hazy with scattered periods of sunshine, but
no rain.
Temperatures reached to the upper 50s
(12? C), ideal for hiking.
By late morning I took off my jacket,
slung it over my shoulder at times, and
other times tied it around my waist.
A floppy and decidedly
cornpone-looking wide brimmed hat kept the
sun off my face.
The hedgerows on the north side of
the tow path were still lined with
blackberry bushes.
It was an inspiring
walk to my next destination, Robertstown,
just about 8 miles from Sallins.
I felt my day’s trek must take me
much further, but this little village, the
subject of frequent comments in articles
about the canal, stuck in my mind as a
special place.
So I approached it will a sense of
satisfaction and anticipation.
Here I was, backpack in place, almost
30 miles into my hike, visiting this quaint
and historic canal-side village. Robertstown
probably had little reason to exist other
than as a minor crossroads community before
the advent of the canal.
But the canal brought a
flurry of activity in the early 1800s and a
major hotel opened in 1801.
It still stands as a proud sentry at
the eastern end of the town, and now,
according to the guidebook, is a community
center. It was the first building of any
consequence I came to as I entered the town.
The canal offered the traveler a
gentle curve as it passed through the town.
Robertstown was quiet on this Friday.
Strolling out of the small canal-side
park that separated the water from the
street was an older man.
I motioned to him and asked about
options for lunch.
He suggested the Barge pub and
restaurant, a popular place he said, only a
block away and facing the canal.
I walked in and passing through the
pub area settled down at a table in the
restaurant section to the rear.
Both the pub and eating rooms were
sizeable, suggesting a good business during
the height of the season.
When
I arrived I was the only customer but two
couples arrived shortly. After a delicious
lunch of Greek salad and
a
pint of Guinness, I returned to the canal,
this time shifting back over to the northern
side, having to assume my Discovery Series
map was correct.
And it was.
My
guidebook told me that the highest point on
the canal was near the community of Lowtown.
Surely the name is in jest.
Lowtown was only about a mile west of
Robertstown and I must admit I never
realized when I reached it, or passed it.
Just east of Lowtown two smaller canals
enter the Grand, the Old Barrow Line and the
main Barrow line.
The
countryside began to change in character now
as I entered a region of low-lying peat
bogs.
The scenery lost some of its charm
and in fact appeared a bit dull and lifeless
compared with the bucolic appeal of the past
two days.
The bogs, source of a healthy economy
for many years, were mined for their
valuable energy qualities, heating homes,
businesses and industries for hundreds of
years. Even today the distinctive scent of
burning peat wafts over much of rural and
small town Ireland.
On a previous trip to Ireland one of
my fellow travelers brought back a peat log
as a souvenir.
I often wondered if she ever decided
to burn it in her fireplace.
The
tow path along the canal here was wide and
grassy most of the way.
From time to time, the path faded
into a single-lane road that hugged one side
of the canal.
In fact, this was a common
arrangement for maintaining the continuity
of the Grand Canal Way—incorporating the
adjacent roadway into the Way when needed.
Over the several days, my walk
shifted from grassy-green paths to gravel or
paved roads and then back again to soft
grass.
I
made no reservations for overnight lodging
on this hiking trip.
I was unsure about how far I would
hike each day and what kind of weather
Ireland would treat me to.
If I experienced some discomfort in
my knees, as I expected, I would travel
fewer miles each day.
And I gave myself enough time in
Ireland, a bit more than two weeks, so I
could sit out a spell or two of bad weather.
I also assumed there would be a
number of B&Bs and guest houses located
along the canal to serve canal travelers.
So I planned to trust to luck when
mid afternoon arrived, and seek out a place
to stay in the nearest village or town.
My
research showed me this segment of my
trip—between Robertstown and Tullamore—was
quite likely the only place I would have
trouble finding overnight lodging.
The countryside along the canal is
sparsely populated, although my maps showed
some villages two, three and four miles away
from the canal.
By
early afternoon on this Friday I started to
think about laying my now well traveled
bones on a nice soft bed in some gentle
lady’s quaint B&B.
It was a comforting image.
I hoped to find lodging somewhere
around Allenwood, although I was
disappointed that the town was just a couple
miles west of Roberstown and barely 10 miles
from my day’s starting point in Sallins.
But leaving Sallins so late forced me
to reduce my planned mileage for the day.
At
the Bond Bridge near Allenwood, I left the
canal and walked north to the village center
and finding a grocery store across the
street from the post office, walked in and
immediately found my way to the pastry
counter. I deserved a couple delicious
pastries to restore my energy, I
rationalized. By now I was a little short on
cash, so I used the ATM and joined the queue
at the checkout counter.
I asked some middle-aged ladies in
the queue for directions to local B&Bs.
One lady said she knew of none, but
another told me she thought there was a B&B
operating this time of year about 20 minutes
walk south, back over Bond Bridge and across
yet another bridge.
She could offer no more precise
directions.
So I struck out again, and walking
south for what certainly was 45 minutes, I
could find nothing. I stuck my head into a
pub just over the Old Barrow line bridge and
asked if anyone knew of a B&B in the area.
No one did.
Well, I was getting quite frustrated.
The walk south of the Grand Canal was
on a well-traveled road with cars speeding
by every minute or two.
The road side shoulders were skimpy,
barely wide enough for walking and sloping
sharply downward into a ditch that was often
three and four feet deep.
Footing was treacherous.
A misstep could send me sprawling
down into the ditch or worse, lurching into
the path of a passing car.
Pedestrians along country roadways
are a commonplace in Ireland, and I found
drivers displaying great courtesy to us less
fortunate foot travelers, shifting to the
far lane when possible.
Nevertheless, I was anxious to get
back to the green grass of the way.
With
no luck finding a B&B I turned around and
followed R415 back to the Grand Canal Way.
By now it was late afternoon.
The weather was still favorable, cool
and mostly cloudy, with patchy sunshine from
time to time, so I continued to hike
westward.
My Discovery series map, at the scale
of 1:50,000, was sufficiently detailed to
show individual structures and I noted that
I was approaching an area that was sparsely
settled.
I was making excellent time and the
exhilaration factor still influenced my
mood.
The shin splint was bothering me, but
I managed to overlook the discomfort.
I continued to hike on
into the early evening, and seeing no
villages along the canal, began to wonder
how I’d find a place to bed down for the
night.
This
was mostly peak bog country, quite flat with
low-lying hills visible in the distance from
time to time.
Along the canal in many places hedge
rows with sizeable hardwoods and tall shrubs
broke the monotony of the more mundane
scenery just beyond.
The canal was a bit narrower here.
I enjoyed the quiet and the solitude.
I saw no one.
I walked for miles and miles and
heard just the songs of playful birds and
the sounds of my feet striking the grassy
path.
A few
miles west of Allenwood once again I pulled
my laminated Discovery series maps from my
jacket to review my progress and see what
lay ahead. But this time I was puzzled by a
lack of continuity in my maps.
Maps for the full distance of the
canal were cut into strips covering a mile
or two each side of the canal.
Up until now, when one map strip
ended, the next strip continued the route
unbroken.
But now, I couldn’t find the strip
that should have started about five miles
west of Allenwood and continued on south of
Edenderry, ending about three miles east of
Daingean.
A bit tired, I assumed I just was
overlooking it.
Returning to my maps from time to
time over the next couple hours I finally
had to admit I didn’t have that strip.
My guide book had a different type of
map, without topographical and other
details, but it was nevertheless still easy
to determine my location within a mile or
two. The guidebook maps and the Discovery
series maps clearly identified each
structure crossing the canal so reading the
bridge’s name, long ago etched into its
surface, gave me my precise location.
But I certainly hated to be without
my valuable map strip.
I
continued my steady pace, still relishing
the exceptional autumn weather. I was now
well over 15 miles from my starting place at
the Sallins train station at 9:45 this
morning.
But the thought of finding lodging
for the night was always on my mind.
Maybe the evening Irish air was
getting to me, but I began to wonder if I
could just continue to hike all night.
It actually was a pleasant thought
and I caught myself grinning at the
audaciousness of it.
I continued walking.
With no signs of a village in sight,
and presumably no lodging either, I decided
to simply keep walking.
As dusk took over and then night, the
tow path continued ahead of me, soft and
easy walking in a star-lit sky.
I was oblivious to the light weight
of the daypack on my back.
The moon was not shining that night;
it was the wrong phase of the lunar cycle, I
thought. I slowed my pace to accommodate the
reduced visibility and became intensely
conscious of the rhythm of my foot steps,
ensuring that each footstep hit the ground
solidly. The worn center of the tow path was
clear beneath my feet and it was easy to
keep my footing with only starlight showing
me the way.
I had
absolutely no fear of encounters with
hooligans out in this remote area.
No town or village was nearby and no
one had any reason to be here. I did pass a
few cottages, with dim lights shining
through curtained windows, and farm dogs
barking at my approach. Both the dogs and I
knew a fence separated us.
And since I heard St Patrick chased
all the snakes from Ireland, there were no
critters to fear.
So I continued my pleasant hike in
the starry night.
For a
couple hours or more the stars kept my way
reasonably well lighted.
At about mile 44, I noticed cloud
cover slowly spreading overhead.
Visibility soon diminished to a level
that made walking difficult. Between the
canal and the tow path was a line of tall
sycamore and other hardwood trees, offering
a canopy overhead to intercept the dew that
certainly would fall during the night.
The ground was dry and covered with
thick grass.
So in the dimming light I looked for
a comfortable place to make camp.
I use the phrase loosely.
I had no camping gear—no tent, no
sleeping bag. I did though have plenty of
clothes in my daypack, so I dug in and
pulled out two pairs of hiking pants, my
long sleeve shirt, my woolen sweater and an
extra pair of socks and tee shirt.
I donned three layers of clothes, put
the windbreaker hood up over my head, and
settled into the soft grass underneath the
protective sycamore just a few feet from the
canal.
I was quite comfortable.
I did wake regularly, moving
occasionally to softer turf and trying to
fluff up the almost empty daypack that was
my pillow.
But it was a reasonably good rest
after about 25 miles of hiking on an
adventurous Friday.
September 27, Saturday (at mile 45)
Saturday I awoke a bit after twilight and
slipped off my extra clothing.
The skies were overcast but cleared
up as the morning drew on.
My shin splint wasn’t particularly
bothersome initially, but the soreness came
back after an hour or so of walking.
This
was still bog country and for many stretches
of the waterway its color showed the dingy
gray cast of bog field run-off.
The countryside appeared pleasant
enough, even with broad expanses of scrubby
vegetation on either side of the canal.
At mile 47.4 I saw the second of the light
rail bridges used by small gauge rail cars
hauling turf from the bog lands.
Now
some stretches of the canal were arrow
straight and I could see the waterway almost
disappearing into the horizon a few short
miles ahead.
This was a bit disconcerting because
I seemed to walk and walk, making little
headway.
The canal still stretched straight
ahead.
My
destination today was Tullamore, a sizeable
town of 7,000 or more straddling the canal
and the hub of a large trade area in the
midlands. I planned to spend at least two
nights there.
My intermediate goal though, was
Daingean at mile 50.9.
So the sight of the manicured lawns
and sand traps of a Daingean golf course on
the northern edge of the canal lifted my
spirits and quickened my pace.
I was
hungry.
My last meal was really just a few
bites of pastry back in Allenwood yesterday
afternoon.
I continued to snack on blackberries
into the evening, but I had nothing
substantial to eat.
So
approaching the Molesworth Bridge in
Daingean, on the other side of the canal I
spied a row of buildings including a Spar, a
convenience store sure to have coffee and
some sort of vittles for hungry locals.
Crossing the bridge and walking past
the small village park, I entered the store
and found a hot food counter in the back.
I ordered a chicken pie and jambon
with coffee.
I took the food back out to the
bridge where I sat on a stone wall and
virtually inhaled my first meal in the past
24 hours.
I
rested more frequently today, stopping under
bridges for short breaks.
I napped for a half hour or more
under the Born na Mona railroad bridge near
mile 53.
I woke to the sound of voices when
two men and a woman got out of their car and
set up chairs and paraphernalia for a
morning of canal fishing.
The
remainder of the walk to Tullamore was quite
pleasant, past peat bogs, small cottages,
and on a walking surfaced well-maintained by
regular cutting.
Possibly the close proximity of these
two sizeable towns, a bit less than 10 miles
apart, made it a popular local walking route
and encouraged a high level of maintenance.
At some point I passed a group of
teen aged girls from the local rowing club
out in their sculls, enjoying the cool
morning.
This
morning I also saw for the first time, a
canal barge underway. I had expected to see
boaters plying the smooth waters of the
canal all up and down the waterway, but this
being off-season, the waters were quiet.
A
charming waterway without boating activity
was entirely unexpected.
As I approached the homeport for the
Celtic Canal Cruisers I saw two of the
company’s rental boats out on short runs,
and I knew from my map I was only a couple
miles from my day’s destination.
A tall radio or television tower off
to the southwest was another landmark
telling me I was closing in on Tullamore.
I was
now 60 miles from Dublin and it was time for
a well-deserved rest.
I left the canal and walked across
Bury Bridge into the heart of Tullamore and
spotting a colorfully decorated pub, went in
for a pint of Guinness and directions.
The bartender directed me to a 30
euro a night B&B and by mid afternoon I
began my weekend visit to this agreeable
little town.
September 28, Sunday (in Tullamore, north of
mile 59.4)
For the next two days I relaxed at the
Hillview B&B about a mile north of the canal
just off the road to Mullingar.
The
owner, Martin Moran, was a gracious host and
drove me into the town centre on Sunday
where I looked for an instant cure for my
shin splint pin but found nothing more than
an ointment that had no apparent effect.
I wandered through the attractive in-town
shopping centre, drawing cash from the ATM,
enjoying some delicious Irish stew and
indulging my craving for ice cream. Back at
my room I showered long and slept well.
September 29, Monday (at mile 59.4)
It
was time to leave Tullamore, at least
temporarily.
My shin splint was still a bit
painful, and I wasn’t sure about how to find
the two B&Bs the guidebook listed for
Ferbane, about 16 miles west, so I decided
to exercise caution.
I asked Martin if he would pick me up
in Pollagh, only 10 miles west, and return
me to his B&B, giving me a short walk and
another chance to let my leg improve.
He agreed and in fact, knew an ideal
meeting place in Pollagh, Gallagher’s pub,
situated right on the canal.
So after breakfast, at about 8:40, Martin
drove me the mile or so to the canal in the
heart of town and I struck out for Pollagh
without my day pack, not needing it since I
would return that evening to Tullamore.
It was drizzling, the first rain of
my walk.
My rain gear repelled the light rain and the
foot path was draining well so I didn’t have
to walk in puddles or mud.
During most of the walk the rainfall
was so light that it was the stippled water
in the canal that told me it was raining.
For only about 15 minutes did I have
more than just a easy rainfall, a soft day,
the Irish call it.
The
countryside here was more remote than I had
yet encountered.
Cattle farms and numerous farm
buildings…barns and other out buildings…
hugged close to the fences lining the canal
tow path. There were a few farm houses.
The path surface continued to be wide
and grassy.
The canal crossed over two aqueducts, over streams called
rivers but narrow and more on the order of
minor creeks (to a Tennessean).
For the first 5 miles or so my leg
seemed almost healed.
But as the morning drew on
the soreness returned and I looked forward
to reaching the village of Pollagh and my
pick-up.
On
the north side of the canal about mile 62.5
I saw ruins of a large old building, shown
on the Ordnance Survey map as a fortified
house, and the
Guide
as Ballycowan castle, built in 1626.
Immediately in front of the castle
was a farmer’s house, barn and other out
buildings.
With no clear unobstructed view of
the castle, I walked on and from the
aqueduct took a less than satisfactory
picture of the top of the castle peeking
above the trees.
As
the bridge over the canal as Pollagh drew
nearer and I saw the church spire to the
right of the bridge, I felt considerable
relief.
Gallagher’s pub came in sight too,
but it was on the other side of the canal.
Tired and a bit damp, I looked at my
watch and noted that it took me another 10
minutes to get to the pub after it was
directly across the canal from me.
I crossed the bridge and back a few
hundred yards to the pub, and seeing a man
come out of one of two doors, entered the
same door.
I took off my rain gear, selected a
booth not far from the bar, and asked if
they served food.
They didn’t, the bar tender told me,
but he said he could fix me a sandwich and
soup.
In not more than a couple minutes he
brought me a home-made ham sandwich on white
bread and a cup of delicious vegetable soup.
And ah, did it hit the spot.
I had
arrived at 12:30pm and my pre-arranged
pickup by Martin was for 2:00pm.
So I lingered and enjoyed the food
and pint of Guinness.
He walked in just after 2:00pm and
offered to buy me a drink.
I took him up on it, but down-sized
to a half-pint.
It
was good to get back to Hillview B&B that
afternoon. Knowing that I had a longer walk
the next and final day, I put my feet up in
my room and watched television the rest of
the day.
September 30, Tuesday (at mile 69.4)
My
final day on the Grand Canal started back in
Tullamore at the Hillview B&B.
After another of those hearty full
Irish breakfasts of rashers, sausage, fried
eggs, black pudding (which I left on my
plate), toast, orange juice and plenty of
coffee, Martin drove me back to Pollagh.
It was about 9:40 when he dropped me
off at Plunkett Bridge at mile 69.4, where I
had gotten the day before.
No rain, but a bit overcast.
I had
two destinations today.
To complete the Grand Canal hike I
had to reach Shannon Harbour, the modest
little village located just a half-mile from
where the canal meets the River Shannon.
Secondly, I needed to reach Banagher,
a town just south of Shannon Harbour and
large enough to find overnight lodging.
Banagher also had bus service that
would get me back to Dublin.
On
this final day I was driven by the two
distances I had to cover.
First, the Guide showed Griffith
Bridge in Shannon Harbour at mile 81.3, so I
had 12 miles to cover to reach my first
destination.
My map showed Banagher about 3 miles
south, so the total distance for this final
day of my Grand Canal hike was 15 miles.
This was the distance I expected to
cover each day when I initially planned the
hike, but I didn’t factor in the discomfort
of a nasty shin splint.
Again
for the first 5 miles my lame leg felt fine.
I was re-invigorated by the
destination now being so close at hand.
And the weather was decent: cloudy
and in the upper 50s.
By
the time I was close to Ferbane, about 7
miles out of Pollagh, I began to feel the
leg discomfort coming back.
The village of Ferbane was far enough
north of the canal that I couldn’t see it.
But for its reference on the map and
in the
Guide
I wouldn’t have known it was there.
I was glad I didn’t try to walk
directly from Tullamore to Ferbane and
attempt to find one of the B&Bs.
After walking the 16 or 17 miles and
then still having to search for sleeping
quarters, I would have been more than a bit
weary.
I continued
on the Grand Canal Way, well marked with
short squared posts about 5 feet high and
engraved with the silhouette of a hiker.
Also
strategically placed, usually at a decision
point, such as a bridge, were the larger 8
or 9-foot high directional sign posts
pointing the way for the Grand Canal Way.
I was always encouraged to see either of
these markers.
I was concerned that at a bridge over
the canal, the improved foot path would move
to the other side of the waterway and I
wouldn’t realize it, and travel miles only
to come to an obstruction that would force
me to retrace my steps back to the bridge to
get back on the foot path on the other side
of the canal.
From what I could observe, this is
unlikely to occur. Along most of the canal,
the old tow paths on both sides are in
reasonably good shape, and in fact, through
the towns and villages it was common for
both sides to be improved.
I
must admit I was more focused on reaching my
goal on this final day than I was on
enjoying the pleasant character of the
countryside along the canal.
I passed the village of Belmont, not
clearly visible from the way, but houses
lined up along the road leading north from
Belmont Bridge hinted to a town just beyond.
At mile 78.1, Belmont Bridge was in
striking distance of Shannon Harbour, just 3
miles and one hour’s easy walk beyond.
Passing Belmont, I now turned to the final
strip-map page of my
Guide.
Turning to that final page was a bit of a
victory in itself.
Soon I crossed L’Estrange Bridge and
the road leading north to Shannonbridge.
Early during my trip I had trouble
distinguishing between the villages of
Shannonbridge and Shannon Harbour, confusing
one for the other.
For
me, one of the grandest sites on this fine
Grand Canal was the image of the old
buildings of Shannon Harbour looming in the
distance.
Approaching the village, I saw a
number of canal boats lined up along both
sides of the canal.
I
left the way and walked up the south side of
Griffith bridge and took photos of the grand
old buildings and the village.
I saw a little eatery of some sort on the
southeast side of the road.
A table or two were outside so I
assumed I could find something to eat there.
It was about 2:30 and I hadn’t eaten
since breakfast.
A lady whom I believe may have been Vietnamese was
inside, painting around a fireplace in a
room off the bar.
She fixed me a ham sandwich and I
guzzled a large Coke.
My
goal was met.
I had reached Shannon Harbour!
The
final leg of the journey was a road walk of
about 3 miles to the town of Banagher.
At mid afternoon, traffic was light.
I walked due south from Shannon
Harbour to its intersection with R356, a
fairly wide and busy roadway.
Within a half-mile or so of the
center of Banagher, sidewalks began to
appear, easing my walk.
On a little concrete median in the h
eart
of town was a collection of signs pointing
to B&Bs, hostels, the marina and other local
points of interest.
As
tired as I was after this 15-mile leg of the
hike, I decided to stop at the first lodging
I saw.
Not more than 100 yards toward the
river I came to the Crank House Hostel,
which shared a three-story building with the
tourist office, a restaurant and other
businesses. I checked in, got a room to
myself (with bath down the hall), and put my
feet up in the common room.
The hostel’s lone staff person on
duty at the time noted how tired I appeared
and offered to fix a foot bath for me.
I relented and enjoyed being pampered
for a few minutes.
It was quite appropriate—I was at my
destination and I had achieved my goal!
At
8:30 the next morning I was on the bus back
to Dublin.
