Donard

Next morning it was necessary to get Internet access so we retraced yesterday's route to a local house generously offering WiFi access for all the passers-by; I wonder what they made of the campervan manoeuvring for best signal in the road. Business completed, we retired to the village where a sort of cake sale was in progress. Bought way too many delicious cakes, breads, scones, home-made preserves and goodness knows what else. Then set of in pursuit of a cycle race that seemed to be in progress.

Our goal was Glendalough again but as we approached it, there were even more people than the day before so we followed on the main road into the Wicklow Hills. I remembered this for our early days in Dublin when we had come up here one Winter's day with snow on the ground. I had not remembered the spectacular scenery though; we parked in a lay-by half-way up the hill to the Wicklow gap for lunch and enjoyed the silence looking down over the empty valley below. Cyclists were still going by, struggling up the steep hill before the drop on the other-side. There is something entirely decadent or perverse enjoying a strawberry tea while monitoring the cycle race as it passes by in the lowest of low gears. Or maybe we were filing this away as one of our many objectives for our own cycling careers... nah!

Donard Stone Circle

Down the other side and the landscape reverted to more standard fare reminiscent of stud-farm country surrounding Dublin. Our goal was Donard well off the beaten track; a passing MG - with its roof down - even stopped uninvited to make sure we were not lost and give directions. And when we did reach the site, it was at the head of what looked like a glacial valley - steep sides and a flat pasture bottom running off into the distance. Wonders of wonders was the stone-circle set right in the camping field.

There were quite a few vans and tents - even a solitary touring cyclist but somehow we hardly saw anyone. Instead we were beginning to relax properly, reading in the sunshine and watching the birds flit about the place. In the evening we dandered down through the village to one of the local pubs; it was a unexpected experience - full of local people who all seemed to know each other and chittered away. The odd thing was they all spoke with what seemed like broad Dublin accents; perhaps the Billsers are retiring down this way. Course it might be our ears are not tuned in yet.