Driving south through counties Donegal, Fermanagh, Leitrim, Sligo and Mayo, I handrail the coast, staying close to the sea. Coming onto Achill feels like going out on a limb, further away, it’s a feeling I like.

My only concern is that I’ve booked a hostel and will sleep in a bunkbed for the first time since I was 8, now I’m 51. I haven’t shared sleeping space for a long time, partly because I’m single, partly because I have sleep apnoea, so the noise I make goes beyond snoring. I stop breathing, snort loudly and gasp for breath, repeatedly. A sleep deprived ex- partner once recorded this concert for my listening pleasure, then he left. Since then, I’ve avoided sharing a room with anyone, paying money I don’t have for single rooms while traveling.

Now I have mouth tape, a simple and effective solution that forces me to breathe through my nose. Problem solved. Too late for that relationship, but anyway, it means I can travel more by sharing a room, paying less.

The bottom bunk is cozy. I share with four other women who, at different ages, are all seasoned travellers. Like me, they’re here to hike and swim, explore and create, so the drunken rowdiness I’d dreaded doesn’t materialize. Instead, there’s an unspoken dorm etiquette. Creeping to bed quietly, using only small lights, personal space respected between beds two feet apart.

I live alone and have travelled solo far and wide. Usually, I house and pet sit, so have the quiet companionship of animals. Humans can be the same, quietly companionable. Not speaking or interacting, just the occasional sound of movement or breath, enough to know I’m not alone. There’s something nice about sharing space in this way.

Breakfast in a dining room, people sit in groups, couples and alone. Routines return, tea or coffee? Cereal or toast? I’ve eaten slowly and take a coffee to the quiet sitting room to write morning pages. Three young German women file in and sit in a line on the sofa opposite, chatting, chatting, chatting. Six legs crossed in the same direction, three feet bobbing.

Rain pelts the window behind me. Not bringing my dry robe was the first mistake, assuming there would be a freezer at the hostel was my second. The food I’ve brought won’t last long. I’ll have to adjust. That’s how I move easily through the world, I adjust.

Time now to boil water and pack lunch. I’ll drive around, over and across Achill today.

To the west of the island, and Keem Bay. Like a snail with house on its back, I’m completely self-contained. I have food, water, swimming stuff, hiking stuff, books and a bed with me, wherever I go. I need flexibility and don’t work well with a fixed itinerary. This is the freedom of the solo traveller, or is it a kind of selfishness?

From a high coastal road, the stunning horseshoe bay comes into view,. It’s breathtaking. I park on a height, overlooking the beach. I’d rather see the Atlantic, distant islands, cliff faces and all the space in between than cars, motorbikes and people.

I prepare to hike the Croughan Cliffs, the highest sea cliffs in Ireland, alone, with some trepidation. Does this make me a trepid explorer? Up the steep side, heart pounding, sweating. Unsure that I’m even going the right way, but knowing for sure that I’m going up, climbing, somewhere on the 2,257 foot ascent.

Wet slippery ground,

and sound

of crashing waves.

There’s a tower ahead, and dots of people picking their way towards it, so I know I’m generally on the right path, if a little off-piste. Logically, I have everything I need, including first aid, a map and 2 phones. I’m excited by the fact that I’ve never been here before, nothing is familiar, it’s all new to me, yet I know I’m able. It’s a good feeling.

Rolling, swirling, swishing, crashing, hissing, always moving.

There’s something about hiking alone, taking each step in silence. Ageless mountains remind me how small I am, their majesty remaining, with or without hikers. Everyone else turns back from the tower, having seen the beauty and taken the photos. I forge on alone, against strong winds, following the coastline on a thinning path, barely visible. I’m a real trailblazer now. A real adventurer! Then I realise there’s a family behind me, French or German I assume. Dad has a child in a rucksack on his back. So, every laboured step I take, he takes while carrying another person. Mum walks with another young child, for each of my adult steps, her wee legs take two, without complaint. Maybe I’m not as out in the wilds as I thought. Perspective.

Head towards Benmore Cliffs between the rolling, ever moving Atlantic ocean to my left and the solid stillness of Croughan Mountain to my right. Two lakes glisten below me; the ground is wet and boggy under foot. Mist thickens and meets clouds, visibility fades. The drenched valley gets wetter. I’ve veered from the coastal path, partly blown by the wind. I’m on the leeside, as far as I’ll go before turning back. It’s been two hours, I’m tired, getting hungry and grumpy. Now’s the time to rest. The mountains teach me another familiar lesson. I’ve started the hike, so I have to finish it, no matter how tired or grumpy I am. What else can I do? Huff? Stamp my foot on the mountainside, stick my bottom lip out and declare to sheep and seabirds that I’ve had enough and don’t want to play anymore?! They don’t care. I’m not that important.

In waterproofs I hunker down on the leeside, sheltered from a prevailing wind, amongst sheep shite and heather. Flask of hot tea, a banana, nuts and chocolate. The lunch of champions, and intrepid explorers! Alone. Not another person as far as the eye can see. Breathe in silence. Solitude pools in the pit of my stomach. For a moment, vulnerability creeps over me. I’m off the beaten track. What if? Logic kicks in again, map and phone are checked. I know the way back, but it feels like a long way. Relief to see a blue jacket above me, taking photographs in the other direction, over the cliff edge, towards the ocean. Other figures appear from the mist, Mammy and the wee girl. Notice the shape of the blue jacket, baby still being carried. The family of four have hiked as far as me, but hiked a smarter trail, staying up on the path, out of boggy wet ground.

On the way back, I too stay higher, following the smart family’s line. I’m too tired to deviate, and don’t want to get stuck again in dense fern that forces tired legs to lift up as well as forward, with each step.

The family that kept me right, without knowing it.

Finally, off the mountain with a big exhale, accomplishment and a burning need for water. I’m well hydrated and not thirsty, I need water on my skin, on the outside. Boots off, I peel sodden, sweaty socks from heel to toe, rejoicing in fresh air on feet. To the beach in flipflops, waters edge in bare feet, greet the sea, ask permission, and submerge, falling into the crystal-clear blue. Aaaah! Cold waves caress sore muscles, exhaustion washes away.

Back up to the wagon, I’m pleased with my location and set up. A chair, tuna salad, tayto crisps, and more hot tea from a second flask. Hiking and swimming things are laid out on rocks around me to get air and sun. A sea gull the size of a chihuahua stands sentry, commanding the area, uncomfortably close, watching every bite I take with grey side eye. I face away to eat. It’s the first time I’ve felt uneasy here.

Whoosh! From stillness and sunshine, a strong wind gusts, lifting and rattling all in its path. My favourite hessian bag shoots up in a vertical line and is flung seaward, over the edge. I jump up and peer to the rocks below. The tide is almost full. Even if I could scramble down to look for it, I wouldn’t get back up in time. Pangs of guilt that the bag will be in the ocean. Is it better that it’s not plastic? How much harm will it do? I check for purse, phone, keys. All still here. What was in the bag? Shit! It was my second coat, the coat I’d wear while my first coat dries, even more important with the absence of a dry robe. So, now I’m down to one coat and no way of drying wet clothes. Not great!

My dinner is finished. The seagull has gone.

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I’m leaving Achill in relentless, sideways rain from a dark low sky. Everybody and everything is wet. It’s the kind of rain that waterlogs your bones and makes you heavier. A picturesque holiday island in the sun yesterday, Achil is a harsh place today. I think of the business owners here who depend on summer trade and good weather. In twenty-four hours, their potential earnings have been obliterated. The merciless Atlantic swells and batters the island regardless.

Ach Achill, you’re a kind of special

Rambling ‘round Ireland - because I can.

Mid life chrysalis