Lug reigns forever.
Back in January 2023, I set myself the challenge of hiking Lugnaquilla mountain once a month for 2023, twelve summits and twelve descents, what could go wrong?
Outside of the Kingdom of Kerry, Lugnaquilla is the highest mountain in Ireland, no small crown to wear.
This description, from the http://www.visitwicklow.ie webpage made the mountain seem worthy of a challenge, especially a yearlong monthly challenge;
and so it proved to be.
In international terms, it is a large boggy hill, ssssh don’t say that out loud.
But still a challenge.
Time, health, age, weather, distance, exposure, all considerations to be worked with, all tests of stamina and determination.
There was no doubt in my mind that if I was physically able, I would complete the Lug Challenge but good health in my case is a movable feast, more honoured in the absence than the presence. All I needed though was one day a month and, in the end, it was comfortable, perhaps comfortable enough to lead to greater challenges in the future?
The second big question in my mind was this, at the end of the year, after our close demanding relationship spanning twelve months, would I love the mountain or would I have grown to hate it? I expected to love it, to have become familiar with its hidden secrets, its shy beauties, its tough demands, but, it was possible that the challenge would drain me so that I hated it.
I should have trusted Lug.
The mountain kept the best til last. On a dry clear day in early December, I headed south through the Wicklow Mountains, stopping at the Turquoise cafe for a coffee and a bun, not a celebration, I still had nothing to celebrate, 11 out of 12 is not success, no cause for celebration, but a fuel stop, a fuel stop is always a sweet moment or two.
Turn back now, whispered the god of procrastination into my ear, leave it for another day, there will be plenty of time for success. Pretending to be the god of wisdom, the sly voice continued, drink your coffee and go home, be wise, don’t attempt this hike in the winter, the roads will be icy, snow may fall, you, you may fall, Go Home, Go Home Now.
Challenges are always more active in my head than at my feet.
Four degrees Celsius at the Drumgoff carpark, sunny skies and no wind. A few other cars parked up suggested I would have company in the hills. I had chosen the Drumgoff route for sentimental reasons, and in answer to the whispering god of procrastination, an appeasement, it was the route I’d used most often, the route I knew the best and I felt a draw to hike it again, to say hello and goodbye properly, or at least goodbye it may be some time before we meet again.
Up the forest track, across the trace of the Wicklow Way, along a grassy path and onto the boardwalk, the slippy boardwalk with occasional slivers of ice surviving from the cold night before. Care now, a slip at this time could leave a gap too big to be bridged.
I caught up with half a dozen excited hikers, dressed casually and in runners but in the company of a young man who appeared to know what he was doing. ”Are you going to the top”, he asked, an irresistible invite to talk about my challenge, “It will be slippy up top”, he continued, “but you look in good condition”. Sweet music.
The second boardwalk is always slippy and had developed its prowess further, my walking poles essential for keeping my balance.
Then it was open mountain, the boggy path, made boggier by the passage of other intrepid hikers over the months and years. The sky was still blue, the breeze visiting somewhere else, enough clouds hovering in the horizon to add contrast to the view and as a reminder that this moment of perfection, no matter how perfect, is not permanent.
Occasional traces of snow began to appear and the ground underfoot became firmer, still frozen, not an unwelcome development. Then, at about 600m AoD, I crossed the snow line and the frozen snow crackled and protested underfoot, but my way was marked by the earlier passage of hikers, leaving their frozen footprints on the mountain’s back, helping me avoid the wetter bogholes and keeping me company along the way.
And still the breeze waited, as if the mountain was holding its breath, and the clouds continued to circle above me, but left my path and the summit bathed in sunlight. Is this a welcoming party, I wondered, or a trap?
Beguiled by the beauty of Lug, I did not care, I was going on, to the summit, though the god of small thoughts had not stayed in the car, had not behaved as such a god should, its a trap, he whispered, a trap, turn back now, the forces are gathering.
But the beauty, I responded, and the small god was silenced.
Then there was Lug, as I had never seen him before, blanketed in white powder against a pale blue sky.
Irresistible.
I had not yet caught sight of the creators of those footprints but they only pointed up hill. They must still be on the mountain. Another crest and I was on the slopes of Lug itself. Then I saw the four men walking towards me, their mission complete. We exchanged exclamations on the beauty of the day, the mountain. They told me that they’d climbed through cloud and then, just when they reached the summit, the clouds had parted and the views unfolded, that they had even eaten lunch on the summit. A dart of jealousy overtook me, was Lug treating them specially, preferentially, had he sent them to lure me on, would he throw a drape of clouds over the summit as I arrived. I took a hasty leave and moved on, a little nervous now.
So close, but still powerless, still unsure whether I was being welcomed or lured.
The clouds moved a little closer to the summit, I felt a belly laugh from the mountain and the crows took to the sky as if they felt it too.
Suddenly, my old friend Trig loomed up from the snow, nearly there, nearly at the summit, the magical twelve within my grasp. Trig looked well sprinkled in snow, standing proud, reminding me this mountain was unbowed even during the last Ice Age, keeping its summit above the snow.
Horizontal icicles on the nearby sign reminded me of the power of the wind that Lug usually keeps close to warn visitors not to stay too long.
I was alone with Lug, the summit felt more hospitable and welcoming than ever. I passed some time there, happy, just happy to be there. I posed for my selfie with Trig, twelve selfies now.
Then Lug, as Lug does, reminded me of where I was, of the power of the elements at his command, the clouds dropped so close I felt I could reach up and plunge my hand into their depths, and the world truly seemed to be a magical place.
I took my leave, promising to return, tempted to extend my challenge for another 12 months but knowing in my heart that Lug would not approve, move on, he whispered, move on, but visit me again.
The mountain was so beautiful I was tempted not to run back down but a deal is a deal and the deal was to hike up and run down if at all possible. So I took my first step and then another and the ground was perfect under my feet and I moved swiftly, ran a polite person might say, down Lug’s flank and across the adjoining mountain and on and on until I reached the snow line again. There I paused, turned back, saluted Lug once again, expressed my love, and then set out to enjoy the fun of running, squelching, through the bog, softened now from the weak rays of the winter Sun, and the years rolled back and I was a kid running through the bogs of Coolrecuill, just a kid running through the bog.
It had been a party, even the tough times had been a party.
I arrived back at the carpark at the same time as the hiking quartet and again we exchanged expressions of wonder, hiking in the mountains is beyond wonderful, running mountains though is on a different planet, a planet inhabited by such gods as Lug.
Namaste my friends,
enjoy the party.
Track or Cushion 