in Black Valley Hostel by Amber V. '24

Magically eduroam⁠01 university wifi, typically found at universities, not hostels 20 km from the nearest grocery store is giving me one bar. It actually loads search results and sends email, so I’m not complaining.

I’m in Black Valley Hostel, a beautiful, cold little hostel about 21km south of Killarney, a town in County Kerry, Ireland. It’s the launching point to walk the Kerry Way, a nine-day hike around Kerry. This is also my only stop, as it’s the only hostel with beds below $70. Tomorrow I’ll hike as much of the Way as I can, then turn around and sleep here again.

my hefty yellow bag

I only caught the late train to Killarney. I hiked about 4 miles of the Kerry Way before it began to get dark, and my phone was dropping rapidly from 33% to 18%. It climbed to 23% when I charged it in the bathroom of an old abbey, and had fallen to 16% when I decided, fuck it, it was time to call a cab. The light was falling quickly now.

Uber didn’t work so I called one on the phone. This was the right decision — the fellow who picked me up was from a collective of ten-odd cab drivers. He was really nice, so warm, and had a fascinating life. He still bikes and hikes and hunts and fishes, even though his hair is white. He drives more aggressively with stick on tiny winding sheep-lined roads than anyone I’ve ever seen. He recommended a hike up the hill at the Killarney end of the Gap of Dunlow, which I might try for tomorrow. If not, then two days after — I could probably run there.

He worked in construction, structural steel, for thirty years — in many different places. Thirteen years, he said, alone in the Middle East. His children now are spread all over — Ireland, England, Australia. He bikes a 100-km loop around the Kerry Road on the first Sunday of July, when there’s a charity event for it. Folk come from all over the world.

He charged me at the top of the Gap, when there was still wifi, and when at the bottom of it we realized the fare was three euro more than I’d paid, he waved it off. Kind of him.

Sheep sprayed in bright pink, blue, or red kept jumping out of the road, or else hanging out just beside it. Cars went so fast, even though the Gap road is narrow and twisting, too thin for two cars abreast. 

The Gap itself was beautiful — dramatic rock with grass on top, hills curving down. I understood, again, why Ireland is praised for its landscapes. If fairies live anywhere, it’s among those stones.

When I got to the hostel, the woman welcomed me in and I realized that they only take cash. “You gave it to the cab?” she said, and I nodded, though I hadn’t. She said we’d sort it tomorrow — this is late for them. It was about 10:30.

I went to the room and I have it all to myself, which is a lovely lovely blessing. I haven’t slept in a room alone since… probably sleeping in the morning after I stayed at Kevín’s. A whole night? Not since I was in Tucson.

This is lovely, and I appreciate the beauty and people’s kindness in this place. The house is cute as heck — I love quaint maximalist European decor. All the same I am feeling guilty for not planning this day out better, so that I wouldn’t have needed to call a cab. I am also starting to notice the amount of money I’m so blithely spending — it’s really a bit much. Alas.

But no use wasting time on anxieties. I’ll get some work done tonight. But first I want to record the highlights of this day.

Lough Lane

This morning I said goodbye to Selena, and the beautiful Irish house in Dublin (an airbnb) that stressed me out because two other occupants were sick. Then I figured out which bus to take, with the help of a nice gay couple. One of them worked in finance. He had Buddhist principles — in Thai — tattooed on his inner arm, and more on his shoulder. His partner, he told me, had ink all across his chest. They’d spent two months in Thailand and went back every year — or few years? I don’t recall. 

On the bus, he told me highlights of Ireland, but was interrupted by a bald man with an accent so thick I could scarcely understand it at times. Dublin, he said, is full of — rubbish? Riff-raff? I remember the word starting with ‘r,’ the sense that it was a word you only hear this side of the pond. Be careful, the man warned me.

Then I left the bus and boarded a train. I spent the journey sleeping mostly, mirroring the older woman opposite me. The man with her seemed to be giving me strange looks, but maybe I was wrong, and after all I couldn’t blame him — me with my tourist backpack, my big coat curled over me like a blanket.

Then Mallow, a small town where I had an hour layover. I started walking to a café but passed a Bolivian flag (green, red, yellow) and Spanish music. I paused, looking between houses at the event. It seemed private, so I kept going, pleased that there were brown people in this teeny tiny town. But a white man at the event saw me looking and invited me in. It appeared that he’d invited himself, or perhaps he had friends who let him come. It was a bit awkward, because I didn’t want to intrude, and definitely didn’t want to do so in English. Everyone was friendly but I did feel like I was budging in. 

A woman asked me the typical questions — where are you from, how long are you in Ireland? — in Spanish, and I struggled to respond, but made valiant efforts. When I asked for a word, they switched to English. Someone offered me juice made with dried peaches, which has a special name and is common in Bolivia. Mocochinchi. A man with a beautifully embroidered shirt showed me pictures of this place that is a mirror of the sky in Bolivia, one of the seven natural wonders of the world. I think it’s ice.

Then the white guy started complaining about how white men get charged tourist prices in Latin America, which to me was wildly rude and out of touch. He started addressing the complaints to me. Not speaking Spanish clocked me in his head as whiter. I remembered reading about this phenomenon in an MIT class, how Latine immigrants who are bilingual are treated as ‘less fluent’ in English. 

I thanked them and left, making mental notes to myself to learn Spanish. I felt awkward about intruding but also so happy to have found this enclave of Hispanic people in the middle of  Ireland. We really are everywhere.

It’s called el Salar de Uyuni

Then I got back on the train, read some Neil Gaiman, and got off in Killarney. I fumbled for a map for a bit, realized my phone was at 33%, and well, you know the rest. I made some key mistakes here — not charging my phone on the train, not looking up maps ahead of time, not planning the train route ahead enough to get to Killarney early. Alas. 

I was stressed for parts of the hike but it was so beautiful. The lake with its islands is magnificent. The trees, the grass, all the plants — this is true hiking paradise.

Torc Waterfall

It’s near a bunch of roads, too, which meant that hikers of all ages were out and about. There were many families, and older couples, too. Imagine having this much beauty so close by.

There was a family of deer grazing in a meadow, not far from the path. Four different sets of hikers saw them and stopped. They noticed us too, one young buck taking watch the way geese do, but they didn’t seem afraid. They kept grazing. This is perfect, I thought. This is the dream.