Hiking

Chaos in the Calm — Yurt Life in Norway

Leaving Ireland felt like being cast as a member on Alone. The training wheels were off, and it was just the two of us.

I’m famously stubborn when it comes to luggage. Unless absolutely necessary, I refuse to pay for a checked-in bag. This character flaw (or strength?) is truly tested in Europe, where they’ve started charging for anything that doesn’t fit below the seat. Eventually, I caved (slightly) — four weeks in unpredictable weather couldn’t fit “under the seat in front of you.” I bought one 10kg bag that was allowed in the overhead compartment, selfishly squishing Méabh’s clothes into a small backpack. At this point, it’s become a game between the airline and me — just how far will she go to not pay the extras? At home, I always win, but on this flight, I was forced to buy a $5 protein ball for the hungry hippo sitting next to me.

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Ditching the Crowds: Our Scenic Hike Along the Cliffs of Moher

We wind down the narrow, serpentine roads, hedgerows hugging each side – the west of Ireland showcasing its stunning scenery. As we pass through charming little towns, I know we’re not in Kansas anymore.

“Hey Mum, look, a castle!” says Méabh, as if from a fairytale – Ireland’s rolling green hills, stone walls, and castles seem plucked from a storybook.

Through Kinvara, Lahinch, and Lisdoonvarna (feels like a song, doesn’t it?) — all towns along the Wild Atlantic Way — we arrive safely in Doolin. Sustained by tourism and agriculture, Doolin is the gateway to the Cliffs of Moher, the Burren, and the Aran Islands. Though relatively small, it doesn’t lack charm.

We meet Pat Sweeney at The Doolin Inn at 10 a.m. He later told me he was 10 minutes late the previous day because one of his cows was giving birth — not your standard tour guide. A local farmer by trade, a jovial tour guide by day.

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Holier Than Thou: Hiking With My Father in Law

Croagh Patrick leaves no prisoners as it throws you into an immediate ascent. At 764m, it barely exceeds the usual Sunday Lofty hike in Adelaide, but this mountain seems far more imposing. Dubbed Ireland’s holiest mountain, it draws tourists and pilgrims alike who come for the unrelenting views and its strong ties to Christianity. Ireland’s patron saint, St Patrick, was believed to have spent 40 days and 40 nights fasting, sheltering in the church at the top of Croagh Patrick before famously banishing the snakes from Ireland.

In the Emerald Isle, the sun can’t tell if it’s coming or going, making it perilous to the wild weather of the Atlantic seas. But, as my father-in-law says, “If you don’t say, ‘Fuck it, I’ll go,’ then you’ll find yourself glued to the couch watching Netflix all summer long.” So, you take the weather forecast with a pinch of salt and pack for all seasons. The weather lady promised pockets of sunshine on Friday of the bank holiday weekend—that would have to do.

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