The Wicklow Mountains

Wicklow.  The name conjures up a sense of mystic adventure.  I've decided I'm going to have to create some kind of sinful dessert to call by the same name.

The Wicklow Mountains are situated 45 minutes or so outside of Dublin by car.  They are a series of beautiful, scenic miles encompassing mountains, lakes, bogs and marshes.  The town of Glendalough, which also sounds very majestic, is within the same region.  The town grew up around a series of Monastic ruins which are by themselves impressive.  Take into account the surreal beauty surrounding them, and you almost wish you lived in the small town back when it was isolated.

I walk through the ruins and cemetery, noting the stark contrast between the historic site and the people walking through it.  Neon sneakers, cell phones, and various cultures and languages mull around the church, the houses, the graves...  We are walking through people's homes, a civilization they broke their backs to build and maintain.  I wonder what the people buried here would think of the invasion of tourists, our current civilization both advanced and backwards at the same time.  As I watch the masses wind around, it occurs to me that we, the tourist population, are a bit like a plague.  There's virtually no place on earth you wont find us, even in the harshest conditions.  We will invade every sight of interest, take our pictures, and move on...most of us without real appreciation or consideration for the hallowed grounds we walk upon, and the stories they've seen, the lives they've captured. 

There were lakes nearby, and trails leading all around them.  To get to the upper lake, there were two possible paths, one longer than the other, and so as the hoards of tourists walked via the shorter trail, I turned off and went  for the other.  I didn't care whether it took me longer to get there, as long as I could do so in peace, appreciating the scenery as it might have been back when the people of Ancient Glendalough lived here.

The marshes and bogs were beautiful, despite their ugly names.  That's subjective, I know, but a "bog" just sounds like it would be unattractive.  These, however, weren't.  The path wound through the marshes and into the forest.  I really did feel as through I was a fairy, gliding through the forest of my mind's favorite fairy tale.  Talkative waters streamed through a babbling brook.  There were soft beds of inviting grass, and the hundreds of thin trees allowed rays of sunlight to illuminate the grounds.  I thought to myself that these are the landscapes where myths and legends are born.  I will let the pictures tell the story from here...let your imagination play.