“If nobody hears from me this evening, tell them this is where they’ll find me, at the bottom of a low cliff with a small waterfall running over the edge of it.”
The message I’d just shared, together with a Google map pin was written mostly in jest, but a tiny bit of me was serious. Coastal erosion had been at work since the path was first trodden, and although much of it was quite certain underfoot, there were one or two places where it didn’t pay to be looking up and gawping at the landscape. Here, where a tiny stream cut across the muddy trail, a fifty foot drop lay just a couple of feet to the left. A leap of faith to the other side. I wasn’t looking forward to the return hike after dark, even though the torch was fully charged and in the bag.
There were only two locations that were a done deal before I made my arrangements to visit the Dingle Peninsula. And I’d already decided that if I wasn’t happy with the first visit to either of them, the third and final day would be spent trying again ahead of any other considerations. The first, Dunmore Head, was relatively easy to get to. A fifteen minute yomp from the car park to the edge of the ocean and a place that offered some spectacular seascape action. I’d done that yesterday before finding my billet. Today the second non negotiable target, Ballydavid Head, was far less immediate. It would take the better part of an hour just to get to the view I wanted, and the path along the cliff edge that skirted farming pastures had looked pretty sketchy even on the map. But nowhere had caught my imagination quite like the Three Sisters headland had, and I wasn’t prepared to miss it under any circumstances. So armed with a camera bag, a flask of turmeric and ginger tea, a deli chicken sandwich that was almost the size as one of the hills outside the window (which I very nearly left in the fridge and undid the done deal) and a fleece lined hat that would have even a Mongolian yak herd nodding in approval, I set off. And just in case that enormous sandwich wasn’t enough, I also had an orange and two pretend Snickers bars from Lidl. Or Marathons for those of you who are even more stubborn than me about clinging to the past. Whatever you want to call them, they’re half the price and I can’t tell the difference. Can you?
With little thought, I left my wellies and waterproof trousers in the car, a moment of carelessness that would come back to soak me on the bum later. And once I’d negotiated the tricky path, there was the question of trying to follow it along a dog leg turn across boggy marshland and ditches towards the high ground. There it was, as clear as day on the map, yet non-existent in reality. I didn’t want to come to a sorry end sinking slowly into a lonely bog, so I followed a narrow sheep track. I just hoped that the sheep that made the track hadn’t come to a sorry end sinking slowly into a lonely bog. I climbed down one side of a deep ditch, hopped across and clambered up the other bank. This was getting tiresome and I really wasn’t keen on retracing my steps later in the dark. There was a simple option. I’d trespass my way back to the car. By that I mean I might cross a field or two; not ending up sitting in the farmer's front room, wearing his wellies and silk pyjamas, drinking his Jamesons Special Reserve and smoking a cheroot by the fireplace. But that was something to worry about later. For now, I’d come here to photograph the breathtaking Kerry coast. And this one promised everything.
After the ditch, the going became easier. And then the things ramped up again as I began the steep climb. But I broke the uphill slog more than once, stopping to admire the scenery and try some shots from the lower slopes. And then I pushed on towards the top, arriving at a place where all the superlatives were lost. Here, the words to describe the views ran right out from under my feet and disappeared into the wind before I could even begin to articulate them. There are a few places I’ve been lucky enough to visit where I’ve simply stood, open mouthed, disbelieving and struck dumb by the landscape before me. Vestrahorn, Haifoss, Glencoe and the Fanal Forest spring to mind. They’re effortlessly matched by the view from Ballydavid Head across to the Three Sisters and the lookout tower high above them on Sybil Head, with Tearaght Island disappearing and reappearing from behind angry dark sheets of rain that spread themselves across the horizon. And in each of those other places I’ve usually had to plant my tripod amid a forest of others. Here, I hadn’t seen a single person since I left the car. Not one. Not even a moving dot in the landscape far below. I was completely alone, cherishing each blissful moment. This really is as good as it gets. My expectations hadn’t just been exceeded - they’d been grabbed by the scruff of the neck, shaken roughly, slapped about the chops, and booted somewhere over the distant Atlantic horizon. This was triple A plus list territory, worth every one of the uncertain steps it took to get here and more. When I think back to 2024 in the years to come, this will be one of the moments I think of first.
As the hours passed, the silent curtain began to close in from all sides. Until now I’d watched the vicious squalls passing over Clogher Head to the south, and out to sea in the north, but there was no avoiding this one. I kept on shooting for as long as I dared, quickly stowing the camera away as the first hailstones thrashed into me. This was exhilarating. A little too exhilarating in fact. And although I’d planned to stay up here for the rest of the day, it seemed very likely that there was more to come. Plan B was needed. Clogher Head was only a couple of miles from my base, and there I could stay close to the car if I needed to make a run for it. I’d already got the shots I wanted, and a glowing sunset seemed unlikely. I careered down the mountain in a different direction, heading for those farm fields and the lane I was pretty sure would take me back to the car. Over saturated ground and tinkling streams that probably weren't there an hour earlier. Through a farm gate and along the muddy lane towards the hamlet, where only the smell of woodsmoke from a cosy looking cottage told me the place wasn’t abandoned. I wonder whether it was the one I’d been planning to trespass in?
I arrived back at the car in just half an hour. My Gore Tex shoes had been breached, and everything below the trouser line had succumbed to the weather. Omelettes, eggs, you know the proverb. With just an hour and a half until darkness would fall, I set off in search of Plan B and Clogher Head. Which very quickly changed into Plan C. And there’s another story to tell about that.
