The Beara Peninsula, a Wild Paradise

I drove most of that afternoon, the long way around the Beara, and on purpose, just so I could catch glimpses of the Wild Atlantic from the mountainous cliffsides, white waves crashing on the rocks as a storm began to build. It’s a dramatically beautiful drive, with good reason.

The Beara is one of four windswept peninsulas jutting out of southern Ireland: Sheepshead, Beara, Iveragh, and Dingle, in order from the east to west. When one looks at these peninsulas today it is almost unbelievable to think that 300-400 million years ago this region was arid, hot and low lying alluvial plane. But it’s true. You can see this in the reddish and purplish Sandstone which makes up these mountains, somewhat unique to this part of Ireland.

A huge mountain building geological event took place around 300 million years ago resulting in tectonic forces compressing and thrusting up layers of rock in east-west folds. The mountain peaks of the peninsulas were born at this time. They were originally of Alpine proportion. In fact, many geologists say that they were birthed taller than the Himalayas, which are much younger by almost half.

However, time took its course, with erosion and hard weathering gnawing away on the mountains for eons until, in many places, only the sandstone rock ridges, slabs and ribs survive. With the advent of a glacial episode around 2 million years ago, the area was sculpted into what we see today: deep, steep sided and lake filled corries, hanging valleys, large boulders scattered hither and yon,
and sediments deposited during the retreat of the ice, creating the scattered, and sometimes mystifyingly located, lush valleys which people farm.

Having experienced the views of the Sheepshead, with my overnight at the memorable pony trekking farm, I was excited about my pilgrimage stopover on the Beara. I had booked several nights in a bothy, or small rustic cabin, in the woods at the foot of the Caha Mountains and my intention was to head out into the back roads to experience this land up close.

My physical disability now makes it impossible for me to trek as I once did, so the inviting and amazing Beara Way Trail through these remote mountains and valleys was out of reach. However, with the aid of an excellent surveyor’s map, I knew that I could get to multiple trailheads and wilderness areas rich in archaeological significance.

The Beara is dotted all over with stone circles, ring forts, Neolithic burials, standing stones, Ogham stones, cillins, and the ruins of both castles and primitive stone cabins. This is my idea of a dream environment. ☺ With the help of the collapsible walking sticks I had brought from home, I would amble as far as I could, resting when necessary, and see what I could see. wild Irish heather

Beara, by the way, is named, not for the bears which once roamed up in the higher elevations but for a Spanish princess, Beara. She was married to Mug Nuadat, the 1st King of Munster and he brought her back to his country as a bit of a prize.

From Beara and Mug are descended the great Gaelic family one reads about in the Annals of Ireland, the Eo’ganacht. The O’Sullivans, the O’Donoghues, and, most importantly to me, the McCarthy’s, are the names spun off from the Eo’ganacht as the generations passed and the great Gaelic family divided. Every village on this peninsula is filled with members of these three clans.

So, of course I stopped in Castletownberre
for a half pint of Guinness at the world famous McCarthy’s Bar. Famous because Pete McCarthy had lucked into a wild night there a decade or so ago as a crowd of nine women rallied together to celebrate Adrienne McCarthy’s birthday. He, being the only man in the pub at that time, and an affable one at that, was invited to join them. So he did.

Pete was on some kind of quest to reconcile the half of him that was English with the half of him that was Irish. He made a plan of it to travel around the world, visiting every town, every pub, every river, every Thing he would find that shared his name. He then wrote about the experiences. Which included that night’s birthday party featuring the McCarthy woman and her best friends.

He was a pretty good writer, Pete was. He was a better storyteller and an even better marketing guru. He also happened to have a shrewd publisher, which can make the world of difference when you’re writing, trying to make a living from it.

His book made the friendly little pub in Castletownberre famous

and it made Pete wealthy. Which, sadly, didn’t help him much when he died prematurely from cancer a few years ago. Rest in peace, Pete McCarthy.

Now, I happen to share that same surname, McCarthy. I wanted to tip a pint in Pete’s honor, while connecting on some kind of ethereal level with all of the McCarthy’s I happen to be related to out here in the West of Ireland, whom I have never met and probably never will.

So I chose the long way around the Beara Peninsula to my Bothy in the woods outside of Lauragh so I could have that Guinness. I’m not really that much of a beer drinker, but a McCarthy has to do what a McCarthy has to do.

I was served by Adrienne herself, the very woman.
When she asked me, as they always do, where I was from and why I was out here in the wild west, I gave an abbreviated version: the death of my mother last year from pancreatic cancer, followed by my own frightening brush with a rare disease, St. Anthony’s Fire, which made me think I might be dying too, concluding with the fact of my 61st birthday Pilgrimage to re-discover myself and heal.

She stood me the pint when she heard my name was Nyla McCarthy and said, “Family may be family. What do we know?” Another example of that famous hospitality the Irish are known the world over for.

Adrienne is comfortable in her skin; a good hostess who enjoys her curiously earned fame and a hardworking publican, at that. She appreciates how fast her pub fills up every day during high season with folks who have read the book, sitting side by side with locals, having a drink (or a few) in the most traditional pub in town,

I drank my drink, catching the end of the first ever wheelchair tennis singles being played at Wimbledon on the pub’s television (some kind of sports is always on in these pubs; today it was tennis) and watched the winner receive the cup. He then took his ceremonial drink as tradition dictates

history, in the making, while I sipped a Guinness at McCarthy’s Bar.

I left a generous tip on the table for Adrienne. After all, when someone stands you a drink you are meant to pick up the next round. I was only having the one but she had been kind to me.

I next stopped at the market to pick up vegetables and a few other staples for my four days in the cabin, relishing the idea of cooking, and eating, healthy food again. I probably bought more than I will be able to finish but it was that kind of a shop.

Afterwards, I climbed back into my little silver Nissan, which I have christened Eocha.
Loosely translated as “trustworthy horse”, my mechanical steed is serving me very well as I put her daily up steep hills and over rough lanes while I get off the busy tourist track to instead see back road Ireland.

With my detailed surveyor’s map always on the seat beside me, I headed off onto the “Ring of Beara” in search of my bothy.
Not to be confused with the overly exposed and congested Ring of Kerry,

this route is one harrowing cliff hugging lane after the other much of the time.

Whenever I came upon another car, which wasn’t very often, one or the other of us would have to back up until we found a few more feet’s clearance, allowing the other one of us to pass. Since I was going uphill, it was usually the other car’s job to back up. Believe me when I say that for that, I am grateful.

The storm continued building as I kept meandering through villages such as the very pretty Eyeries

or the countryside, where old stone walls still exist to separate field from field.
It took uncommon strength and energy to clear those fields of rock, making them the fertile grazing lands they seem to be now. Those fences are a source of great pride to the people.

The sheep were a curiosity for me. I could see, waaaay up in the rocks, spots of bright pink and orange, occasionally blue. Or even green. Finally, I stopped to study those spots and realized that they were sheep. The farmers mark them so that, a) they can tell whose sheep is whose when they are free ranging like that, and, b) to better see where those sheep are when they wander hither and yon. I choose to believe they are marked with non-toxic dyes.

I found a hand painted sign directing to an Ogham stone, which I hunted for in the downpour but just couldn’t find. The wind was blowing off the Atlantic pretty fiercely by this time. Each time I got out of Eocha to take a picture, I feared the door would be blown off. It was that strong.

In fact, I was knocked unsteady at one point when I was trying to capture a closer look at those floats all across the bay.
This is mussel farming at a very large scale. Each of those floats has a rope attached to it, which is dropped into the water. The mussels attach themselves, grow a bit, and are hauled in to be sold for good price at market.

At last I came to Lauragh, the village closest to the Caha Mountains and the woods where I was headed. I annoyed a local by pulling into what turned out to be a driveway to read my map (those narrow lanes!), it being the driveway he was pulling into. He smiled, politely, after he’d touched his horn not quite as politely.

As I was heading into Healy Pass the rain began to let up just a little. I could tell it was only a short break because I’d seen the front out to see and it was coming ashore soon. So I began to try to outrun the front, which feels a bit scary in a darkening landscape of stone and trees growing close right up and over the lane.

I found the turning. Another handwritten sign, but more importantly, the blue gate after the bridge, across from the church, just outside of the village, only a mile or so down the road. “You can’t miss it.” Fortunately, I didn’t.

When I stepped out of my car, it was into a quiet and stillness that I had dreamed of.
The Bothy

John led me inside, explained how things worked, then built a fire for me so that I wouldn’t be cold as the storm and the night settled in.

Siobhann left a prize winning loaf of soda bread baked just hours before, it was that pretty.
Fruit in a bowl, eggs from their own hens, potatoes from their garden and jams made with last season’s fruit. Everything organically made by this couple, originally from Donegal, now committed to living a sustainable and respectful life in their magical farm in the mountains of the Beara.

After we’d carried in my suitcase and my own box of veggies and fruit, the storm hit. Thunder across the way, powerful winds across the land, and driving rain. John gave me two sets of candles to get through the night. I’d already known I would be off grid for the duration so I settled down and made myself a tasty vegetable stew on the woodstove burner. my stew, bubbling away

I sit here now, in the fading light, the fire keeping me cozy as I write these words. I listen to the wind as it gentles down.
I study the Victorian stained glass above my bed, rescued from a London dumpster and repaired by John’s brother, as the evening light shines through

Occasionally a sheep bleats or a cow lows somewhere down in the valley. I am at peace. I have arrived.