Having walked outside Dingle, we encountered our old 'friend', the Conor Pass.
But instead of walking up the long winding mountain road, we veered right somewhere near the bottom, passing a farm, and crossing over a small bridge.
The scenery was luscious green and rugged, plus my friend pointed out that old farming and defensive settlements could be seen in the landscape.
Sometimes, the uniform greenery was broken up by bright coloured flowers:
At some point, we found the main road for Inch over the top of some hills.
But by now, we were literally inching along. We were knackered with our heavy rucksacks on, the sun was beating down. Our exertions on the Slea Head Way the previous day were taking their toll.
Then, literally out of nowhere, a young lady stopped in her car, and offered us a lift to Inch. We jumped at the chance, we didn't need to be asked twice.
On the way to Inch, we told the young lady about our adventure on the Great Blasket Island:
"We saw about 1,000 seals come onto the beach, the bull seal called them all in".
But the young lady recalled a macabre tale:
"Some local fishermen hated the seals so much that they beheaded one, and pinned
the head to the gate of a seal sanctuary not far from here. It was really awful".
As the kind young lady was dropping us off, she advised us to visit the Italian restaurant in Inch for the lasagne there, but we were thirsty, more interested in the beer:
Feeling fully refreshed, we set up camp for the night:
And lo and behold, the campsite manager was a Pakistani man from Birmingham. Who would've expected that?
The mist over the mountains was beautiful the following morning:
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