Kenmare to Sneem

I found myself in Kerry on Saturday morning. I had every intention of staying in Kildare for the weekend, running my 18 miles in the Phoenix Park and so on.  On Friday, I finished work a bit earlier than I had planned and suggested we head West to enjoy the fine weather. That's the good thing about running, it can be done anywhere.

And so, on Saturday morning, I loaded up with water, some jellies, smeared myself in sun cream and headed down the lane, through the town (pausing to pick up some energy bars in the health shop) and out West towards Sneem. It was a glorious day. I was a reluctant runner to begin. It wasn't so much that I didn't want to run.  It was just a case of wanting to do other things too, ranging from reading the Weekend paper to browsing through the town to a spot of gardening. I was almost in the 'grumble zone'.

That said, as soon as I left the town, passed the suburbs and was heading West, I left all the distractions behind and bent into the task ahead with better grace. I was determined to keep it a slow, steady pace, almost chanting this to myself from time to time. 'Slow and steady wins the race.' It became something of a mantra, something I locked into from time to time to test my pace and breathing. Before I knew it, I was at the entrance to Letter, sooner again I was passing Templenoe Church, Pat Spillane's bar and then, I was really on my way. I paused at Blackwater Bridge for another energy bar, checked my distance from Kenmare and into Sneem to discover I was about half way and on I trotted again.  Although it was a warm morning, I was enjoying the shelter of the trees. The coconut scent of gorse floated in the air with the odd, more pungent smell of wild garlic where someone had mown or strimmed in front of their cottage.  Everywhere, there were men in Saturday-morning mode in the gardens of the homesteads that dotted the roadside. One stood brandishing a shears (not at me).  Another strolled across the road, brush and bucket in hand. Another worked diligently at fences, a thatched mansion facing the sea behind him.  It was all leisurely and not a lawnmower to be heard. I noticed Blackwater Pier on my left for the first time ever, less a feat of being on foot than the clearance of trees, I think. There were lots of trees, chopped and tidied of last Winter's damage. Most noticeable of all are the Cordylines, amputated stumps where once there were flowing leaves. It had been a severe Winter, although hard to remember now on this alive April morning.  The birds were in full chorus, although I failed to hear a cuckoo. Even the Primroses put in appearance from time to time. 

Shortly after Blackwater, I turned a corner. The sea, heretofore glimpsed only as dappled patches of light between trees, now laid out all her charms, blue and sparkling, moving in the breeze.  The hills of Beara Peninsula leaned away on the opposite shore. It was a magnificent morning! I breathed deep, trying to embrace it all as I paced onwards.  Equally dramatic was the blast of warmth that assaulted my senses from time to time, almost as if I were passing under a huge hairdryer. The slabs of rock on my right were radiating the morning's sun back to me.  

On I paced, bemused by the motherly-looking woman on her bike all decked out in her 'Fit4Life' high-vis jacket as she went out a mile or so, passing me on her return trip with a smile. The Kenmare-Sneem road is busy, but I think I chose my times well. It wasn't too stressful. It was between times, too late for morning work traffic and too early for the return of the Tourist buses. I had to negotiate a corner or two on the wrong side of the road, I had to step to one side from time to time, but I felt safer here than I did on the back road to Sneem a few weeks ago where locals seemed to think they had the road to themselves. The busyiness of this road, lent some caution to the drivers. On I paced. Slow and steady. My muscles were beginning to tire, my upper left hip joint was beginning to 'catch' in a whole new way. Still, I was comfortable, had more energy and knew that I was able. Soon, No.1 arrives, pauses up the road. He tells me that I have 24kms done. I think, great, only 3 more. Then, I do my sums and realise, no. I need 5 more. minimum.  I hand over my water bag though and enjoy the coolness at my back. Stiff as my legs are, at this stage, I now manage to run a bit easier, a bit freer without the weight of the rucksack. 

I pass Parknasilla on my left. I am reminded of my childhood visit there, linked to an incident in which I nearly sliced off the thumb of Café-Java brother during a ball game. I, playfully, used an old knife found in the grass to try and knock the ball from his hands. My geometrical mind had not yet kicked in. I did not know that a knife would slip off a sphere to splice through the bearer's hands requiring stitches in the local hospital. That happened days before a weekend trip to Parknasilla. I can still see him on the side of the pool looking in at myself and Etty splashing about while he holds his bandaged arm aloft. My splashes were tinged with guilt. Mind you, he did elict the attentions of Maeve Binchy who pitied the boy with the bandaged arm as she (I did not know her) took her daily swim.  

Here I was today, far from a weekend in Parknasilla, plodding past, all hot and sweaty. How strange is life.  Soon, other landmarks passed me by (or rather I passed them) - the cottage with the cheese, the artist's lodge and so on. I knew the end was in sight. No. 1 was giving me distance reports.  He drove off then and I finished the last few kilometres, rounding the corner to the town entrance.  I thought kissing the sign with the town name might be a bit dramatic and, besides, I would lose stride. I trotted down the hill, stopping alongside one of the ghost estates that now litter many of the small towns of Ireland.  I eased down onto the pavement, gratefully took a Sports drink and guzzled it in one go.  I was less overwhelmed than the previous week, sorer in one or two spots but overall content.  Only two more particularly long runs before the marathon itself.

Next week, it's only a half marathon! Oh the joy, the joy! I'll be back in Kerry by then, I am already considering my options for routes. Oh the joy, the joy!