Rougher than the Devilʼs Ladder and half as busy the Coumshingaun ridge in Waterford is Septemberʼs honest climb

The Comeragh Mountains don’t whisper; they tell you exactly how the day will go. On the rim of Coumshingaun, the air tastes like slate and salt, and the path demands your attention. This is an honest climb for early autumn legs, a clean line on a high corrie where the lough below looks carved with a black chisel.

Why September Works

September in Waterford feels like a pact between weather and walker. The heather is spent but fragrant, the midges mostly gone, the Atlantic still mild yet less moody. “You get that clear light and shorter shadows, and everything feels closer,” says a local ranger who swears by shoulder-season starts.

The days are long enough for an unhurried horseshoe, yet short enough to encourage purpose. You’ll meet fewer boots on the ridge, and more wind, which is the better company here.

The Lough and Its Walls

Coumshingaun is a textbook corrie, a glacial scoop with edges that rise in basaltic seriousness. The water sits ink-dark, catching the weather like a signal mirror. On the rim, the ground frays into hummock and edge, and the drop to the lough is just steep enough to lock your stride into focus.

To the south, the Copper Coast glitters on clear days; to the north, the Comeragh plateau rolls away in peat and sky. Ravens hinge on the thermals and laugh at your footwork, which is fair; they’ve seen everything.

The Scramble’s Character

Compared with Kerry’s famed gully, this line is less a chute and more a jagged staircase stitched to the rim. It’s grippier, with quartzite ribs and handy boulders that invite hands without insisting on them. Grade-one scrambling at most, but the exposure is honest, and the wind can shift from playful to petulant in a heartbeat.

“Take it slow, three points of contact, and enjoy the stone,” says a regular who treats the ridge like a weekly ritual. The rock is credible under boot, but loose chippings gather in the gaps; test before you trust.

Route Notes in Real Terms

Start from Kilclooney Wood, where the track noses you through trees and out to open moor. Aim for the north spur, following a blunt shoulder that suddenly becomes the view. The rim path cants right, then left, sketching a gentle horseshoe that feels anything but gentle when the gusts rise.

Time-wise, think 3–5 hours depending on pace, photos, and how often you pause to listen to the wind tell old stories. Elevation sits around 600–800 meters of gain, with a distance close to 7–9 kilometers if you close the loop.

Reading the Weather, Reading Yourself

Cloud can pour over the edge like cigarette smoke, quick and quiet. Navigation is simple in sun and suddenly serious in mist, especially on the plateau where lines feel duplicated. Bring a map and compass and the habit of using them before you need them.

Phone coverage is patchy; your best signal remains your own judgment. If the wind bites, take the lower lines; if the rock feels greasy, delay the drama for a drier day.

The Gift of Fewer Boots

This ridge is often quieter, not empty but civil, the way a good pub hums without shouting. You’ll trade queues for eye-contact nods and the occasional chat about sheep, ravens, or distant rays punching through cloud.

With that quiet comes responsibility. “Leave it clean, take it slow, keep it kind,” says a note tucked under a stone near the car park. It’s folk wisdom, and it works.

What to Bring, What to Leave

Pack light but smart, and remember the ridge makes decisions for you if you don’t make them first:

• Waterproofs, even in sun, plus a warm layer
• Grippy boots, not fashion, with real soles
• Map and compass, and the skill to marry them
• Water, simple food, and a spare something
• A headtorch, because sunset races can end in shadow

Small Moments, Big Memory

There’s a bend where the lough drops out of view and the sea walks into the frame. There’s a quiet patch of bog cotton still holding a few threads, and a quartz vein bright as a held breath. These are the reasons you came, and they arrive without announcement.

On descent, the forest smell returns—wet bark, late fern, the day’s salt brushed from your skin. Your legs feel used, not spent; your mind lighter, not empty.

Make It Your September

Pick a morning when the forecast is more promise than threat. Go early, step carefully, and listen for the little click when your stride and the ridge fall into rhythm. The Comeraghs will meet you halfway if you show up honestly and move with intent.

“Go well, come back better,” an old climber once said, tightening a battered gaiter. Up here, with wind in your ears and stone under your hands, that sounds perfectly reasonable.