Trekking Through Ireland’s Wild, Isolated, and Rugged Dingle Peninsula

I'm not sure how we'll make it to dinner, I remarked to my husband, Taylor, as we navigated a rocky hill, with the North Atlantic at our backs. We were 13 miles into a 43-mile, three-day journey across the Dingle Peninsula, the westernmost tip of Ireland.

That morning, we departed from the lively port town of Dingle, hiking towards Dunquin, a quaint village overlooking the Blasket Islands. Just before lunch, we strayed off the trail to explore the remnants of a 7th-century monastery and lost our way a bit on the return.

We were now delayed in reaching the crest of the peninsula. Over the ridge, we glimpsed Mount Brandon, a 3,000-foot-tall pilgrimage peak, once thought to be the edge of the known world. Below, inviting scalloped beaches awaited. This beauty was overshadowed by the fact that we still had five miles to go before we could rest, and the only year-round restaurant in Dunquin might close before we arrived.

We were hiking the Dingle Way to celebrate our 15th wedding anniversary. While our years together had been filled with joy and luck, the pandemic had brought illness and disappointment, with our kids home for a year and a half and California wildfires raging nearby. It felt like the perfect moment to reset and reflect on our lives.

The day before, we had arrived in Dingle feeling worn out and frazzled. As we set out that morning along the busy road, I questioned whether this was the right way to celebrate. Wouldn't it have been better to simply relax? But soon we found ourselves walking down blooming hedgerows and meandering through sparkling pastures, admiring the village of Ventry and enjoying lunch on a deserted beach.

Now, in the late afternoon, as we traversed the rugged hills toward Dunquin and watched the sun cast shadows over the rocky ridges, I reflected on how hiking here was inviting us into a different rhythm—one where we could contemplate time on a scale of centuries and experience space at the pace of our own feet.

It felt deeply personal to follow paths that had been walked by people for thousands of years. A few miles back, we had passed beehive huts—round stone structures where early Christian hermit monks had lived in solitude—overlooking the water. Not far off, there was a prehistoric henge nestled among the hills.

The stones began to resonate with me. They bore witness to a continuous, intentional effort: to provide shelter, to serve as places of worship, and to ensure survival. Much like the grand cathedrals of Europe, the henges and huts surrounding us were remarkable, anonymous achievements of collective labor across generations. Even the stone walls of the pastures we walked beside, marking a distant hillside, had likely stood for centuries, now adorned with bluebells, gorse, and orchids—holding within them lives upon lives.

I pondered all the individuals who had labored here, lifting one stone at a time. What if this was the entirety of your life’s work? I asked Taylor as we scaled another stone wall on a precariously high rocky slope. To raise some sheep, to repair walls that would outlast you?

We listened to the gentle murmur of a fern-laden stream. Then Taylor joined me, redirecting the conversation to our own lives: If you could only move a few stones in your lifetime, which would they be? What walls would you like to mend? His words lingered in the air.

Just before 8 p.m., as the light began to fade, we arrived for dinner—an unremarkable yet immensely satisfying fish and chips at Kruger’s Bar, proudly claiming the title of “Ireland’s most westerly bar.” We watched the marigold sun sink behind dark islands. We slept soundly, like stones, and upon waking, we surprised ourselves with a readiness to walk once more.

The following day was gentler, with fewer hills. We meandered along a winding beach, spotting lapwings and sea thrift plants, grateful for a shorter trek—just 10 miles. By afternoon, we found ourselves enjoying cider in Ballyferriter, closer to Mount Brandon's base, celebrating our day’s journey with delicious salmon.

On our final morning, we faced a 15-mile hike, this time up Mount Brandon. Before the ascent, we stopped at the Gallarus Oratory, an ancient structure about a thousand years old, possibly the best-preserved early Christian church in Ireland. Its design is elegant and minimalistic, with stone walls tapering to a steep, improbable peak and a narrow door leading into a cell with a single window.

When we arrived, the window cast a beam of morning light, landing just where a visitor might kneel. Taylor and I admired the finely crafted stone, entirely free of mortar. We discussed the effort involved in creating something that endures beyond individual lives—this room serving as a space for hope, prayer, and light.

We departed the oratory as the sun rose higher. We began our ascent of Mount Brandon, which proved steeper and rockier than it appeared. Up on the slopes, the wind howled in my ears. I recalled how people had journeyed here for centuries to honor Brandon, a 6th-century saint rumored to have sailed toward what is now Iceland. Before him, worshippers had honored the Celtic god Lugh. The climb was grueling; for long stretches, my mind felt blank. The elevation seemed never-ending, and at the summit, a fierce gust snatched my hat away.

What I cherish about days spent walking is this: the body finds its rhythm. From this rhythm, the mind becomes clear. Throughout the hike, I caught myself reflecting: What are the walls in my life that need repair? How can I leave something resilient and beautiful for the future? What is my purpose? What is my contribution?

These questions turned into a mantra. As we made our way down the mountain and the wind calmed, I hoped that clarity also had a smooth, tangible form—a weight I could grasp and carry with me into the future.