Explore the Untamed Beauty of Ireland's Dingle Peninsula on Foot

I can't figure out how we'll make it to dinner. I told my spouse, Taylor, as we carefully made our way up a rugged slope, facing away from the North Atlantic. We had covered 13 miles of what would be a 43-mile, three-day journey across the Dingle Peninsula, which juts out as Ireland’s farthest west point.

That morning, we departed from the melodious coastal town of Dingle and embarked on a hike towards Dunquin, a minuscule village overlooking the Blasket Islands archipelago. Shortly after having lunch, we strayed from the trail to investigate the remains of a 7th-century monastery and found ourselves somewhat disoriented as we tried to find our way back.

We found ourselves delayed as we reached the top of the peninsula’s slope. From our vantage point over the hilltop, we could barely make out Mount Brandon, a sacred destination standing at 3,000 feet tall, which used to mark the boundary of the explored territories. Beneath us lay crescent-shaped shores calling invitingly. However, this picturesque scene was somewhat marred by the realization that we still had five more miles to cover before finding rest for the night. Adding to our concerns, the only eatery open throughout the year in Dunquin seemed likely to shut down before we arrived there.

To celebrate our 15-year marriage milestone, we decided to hike the Dingle Way. Most of our journey has been filled with joy and fortune, yet recent times have been challenging due to the pandemic, which brought us closer than ever—both geographically and emotionally—as our children remained at home for over a year and devastating wildfires threatened our neighborhood. We believed this was an opportune moment to recalibrate and contemplate our experiences.

We had reached Dingle tired and stressed the previous day. That morning, as we hiked away from the town alongside a bustling roadway, I doubted whether this was the appropriate way to celebrate. Wasn't it more advisable to simply take a break? However, ultimately we strolled along blooming hedgerows and explored glistening meadows. We marveled at the village of Ventry and dined.

dinner at an isolated shore.

It was now late afternoon as we made our way over the rugged hills towards Dunquin, observing how the setting sun cast shadows across the rocky outcrops. During this walk, I reflected on how hiking in such terrain invited us to embrace a distinct tempo—one where one could contemplate time unfolding over hundreds of years and perceive distances through each measured step taken with our feet.

It seemed personal to tread upon routes walked by humans for millennia. Earlier, about a mile behind us, as we looked out over the water from a meadow, we encountered beehive-shaped huts—round stone structures where ancient Christian monk hermits lived in solitude. Not far away, across a couple of slopes, stood an old Neolithic earthwork enclosure.

The stones started beckoning to me. They showed signs of continuous, meticulous effort: meant for protection, reverence, and endurance. Similar to grand European cathedrals, these henges and shelters nearby stood as remarkable, unnamed accomplishments of collective, long-term endeavor. The stonework lining the path beside us, outlining a distant ridge, had likely existed for hundreds of years. Over time, they became intertwined with bluebells, gorse, and orchids—housing life within layers of existence themselves.

I considered all those individuals who had labored above, lifting each stone individually. What if you envisioned this as the culmination of your entire career? I told Taylor as we climbed yet another stone fence situated precariously atop a steep rocky incline. To rear a flock of sheep, to repair some fences that will endure longer than you?

We heard the murmur of a leafy brook. Soon after, Taylor came back to me, shifting the conversation towards our lives:
Here’s another version:
As we listened to the gurgle of a shady creek, Taylor returned to my side and steered the discussion toward our own experiences: If you were limited to moving just a handful of stones throughout your life, which ones would they be? And what walls do you wish to repair? His statements lingered in the atmosphere.

Just moments before 8 p.m., with the daylight fading away, we arrived for our meal—a simple yet deeply rejuvenating serving of fish and chips at Kruger’s Bar, known as “Ireland’s westernmost bar.” As we ate, we observed the orange-hued sun dipping below distant dark islands. Exhausted from our journey, we slept heavily through the night. Upon waking, surprisingly early and full of energy, we were eager to continue walking.

The following day proved to be less mountainous. As we followed a meandering shoreline, we spotted lapwings and sea thrift plants, feeling relieved after completing only an 8-mile trek. In the early afternoon, we found ourselves sipping cider in Ballyferriter, close to the foot of Mount Brandon, celebrating our journey with some tasty salmon.

On our last day, we still had 15 miles ahead of us, this stretch taking us over Mount Brandon. Prior to starting our ascent, we stopped at the Gallarus Oratory, an approximately millennium-old building that stands as possibly Ireland’s most intact early Christian church. This structure is elegant, minimalistic, and compact; its stonework tapers up into a sharp, seemingly unlikely apex. The slender entrance leads to a chamber containing just one window.

Upon our arrival, the window projected a shaft of dawn light, as though inviting someone to kneel there. Taylor and I were captivated by the cut stones, perfectly fitted without a trace of mortar between them. We discussed once more how maintaining something meant for longevity—such as this space dedicated to hope, prayers, and illumination—is an arduous task yet essential when considering its purpose transcends individual lifespans.

We departed from the oratory as the sun ascended in the sky. Commencing our ascent of Mount Brandon, we found it more precipitous and rugged than anticipated. Up along the incline, the gusts resonated loudly in my hearing. It occurred to me that this place had been revered for centuries; first by those honoring Saint Brandon—a figure possibly active during the sixth century whose voyages might have led him to lands now known as part of Iceland—and before them, devotees paying homage to the ancient deity Lugh. The trek proved arduous throughout much of its course. There were stretches where thoughts eluded me entirely due to exertion. Climbing felt ceaseless. Reaching the peak, an intense breeze whisked my hat out of reach.

I enjoy walkdays because they allow my body to settle into a pace. This steady rhythm clears my thoughts. During these hikes, snippets of insight would pop up intermittently as I moved along. What barriers exist in my life that require repair? In what ways can I contribute something robust and beautiful for tomorrow? What is meant by my purpose? And what is my contribution?

The queries had turned into a chant. As we made our way down the mountain and the breeze quieted, I wished that understanding also possessed a sleek spherical form—a tangible mass I could hold onto as I continued my journey ahead.

Tess Taylor

Journalist, educator, and playwright Tess Taylor has written five poetry collections and works as an editor. Leaning Toward Light (Storey, 2023). Ever since her college days, she has been captivated by Ireland’s rich literature and lush scenery, immersing herself in the writings of authors like Eavan Boland, Seamus Heaney, and Brian Friel.