{"id":2712,"date":"2026-08-18T11:00:00","date_gmt":"2026-08-18T10:00:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/?p=2712"},"modified":"2026-08-16T15:19:29","modified_gmt":"2026-08-16T14:19:29","slug":"at-82-she-has-walked-the-howth-cliff-path-every-week-since-she-retired-%ca%bcseptember-is-when-you-get-it-to-yourself%ca%bc","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/at-82-she-has-walked-the-howth-cliff-path-every-week-since-she-retired-%ca%bcseptember-is-when-you-get-it-to-yourself%ca%bc\/","title":{"rendered":"At 82 she has walked the Howth cliff path every week since she retired \u2014 \u02bcSeptember is when you get it to yourself\u02bc"},"content":{"rendered":"

The wind<\/strong> has its own calendar, and on the headland above Howth<\/strong>, you learn to read it. Each step along the cliff<\/strong> is a small treaty with gravity, with weather, with the sea<\/strong> itself. She has kept that treaty for over two decades<\/strong>, boots on the path, mind on the horizon<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

She doesn\u2019t walk to beat a clock<\/strong>. She walks to feel what the shore<\/strong> remembers, to hear what the gulls<\/strong> argue about, to see what the light<\/strong> decides today.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Her weekly ritual<\/h2>\n

<\/p>\n

At first she timed herself, a brisk march past the gorse<\/strong> and on to the Baily Lighthouse<\/strong>. Then the increments fell away, replaced by a deliberate saunter<\/strong>, a gift to the body<\/strong> rather than a test. \u201cI retired and bought better socks<\/strong>,\u201d she laughs, \u201cthe rest took care of itself<\/strong>.\u201d<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

The path starts busy by the harbour arches<\/strong>, all coffee steam and fish-box clatter<\/strong>, but thins as you rise above the marina<\/strong>. She jokes the hill is her \u201cfree physio<\/strong>,\u201d each slope a polite request the knees still grant<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

What the path gives back<\/h2>\n

<\/p>\n

Even on blunt-grey mornings<\/strong>, colour leaks from the hedgerows<\/strong>. In May the thrift is a scatter of pink coins<\/strong>; by August the heather turns the hills mauve<\/strong>. Winter gives a metallic shine<\/strong> to the water, a clean-edged honesty<\/strong> to the wind.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

She names the birds<\/strong> like neighbours: razorbills, kittiwakes, a far gannet<\/strong> cutting the air with surgical calm<\/strong>. \u201cThey know the thermals<\/strong> better than we know our moods,\u201d she says<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Learning the weather<\/h2>\n

<\/p>\n

She reads the sound<\/strong> first, a low rumble when the tide<\/strong> swings heavy onto the rocks, a high shiver<\/strong> when the breeze skims the grass<\/strong>. The sky is a book in quick drafts<\/strong>, pages turning with a flick from Dalkey to Ireland\u2019s<\/strong> Eye.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

\u201cIf it spits at the carpark<\/strong>, it might sing at the summit<\/strong>,\u201d she grins<\/strong>. The trick is not to demand a forecast<\/strong>, only to accept a moment<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

September\u2019s quiet<\/h2>\n

<\/p>\n

By early autumn<\/strong>, the trail exhales, the chatter of high summer<\/strong> receding like a pulled tide<\/strong>. \u201cYou can hear your own footfall<\/strong> then, and the bay breathes in sentences<\/strong>,\u201d she says. The air holds that crisp, apple<\/strong>-clean edge, neither hot nor unkind<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Bracken browns to copper<\/strong>, and spider silk strings between blackberry prongs<\/strong> like invisible music<\/strong>. The harbour below feels closer, though the path has not moved<\/strong> an inch.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

People of the path<\/h2>\n

<\/p>\n

Over the years, she has gathered a gallery of brief companions<\/strong>: the teenager counting steps<\/strong>, the new parent rocking a front-carried infant<\/strong>, the painter balancing an awkward easel<\/strong> in the lea of a stone. No two days bring the same chorus<\/strong>, and none require you to stay for the finale<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

\u201cOn the cliffs you can be happily silent<\/strong> with strangers,\u201d she notes<\/strong>. \u201cOr share a sentence about the light<\/strong>, then part with thanks<\/strong>.\u201d<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

The long ledger of feet<\/h2>\n

<\/p>\n

She notices erosion<\/strong>, the path\u2019s tender ankles<\/strong> rubbed by weather and by us. Wooden steps appear one spring<\/strong>, a reroute the next winter<\/strong>, a fence where a soft edge grew too bold<\/strong>. \u201cIt\u2019s a living line<\/strong>,\u201d she says, \u201cand we are only one small entry<\/strong> in its ledger.\u201d<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Still, the bones of the headland<\/strong> hold: porphyry shoulders and granite knuckles<\/strong>, a geology that speaks in patient syllables<\/strong>. The sea revises, but the rock keeps the draft<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Little rules she swears by<\/h2>\n

<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n
  • Carry one warm layer<\/strong>, no matter what the car thinks<\/strong> the day is doing. <\/li>\n

    <\/p>\n

  • Pack water and a small snack<\/strong>; kindness to the body breeds kinder thoughts<\/strong>. <\/li>\n

    <\/p>\n

  • Step aside on narrow scrapes<\/strong>; no stride is worth a stranger\u2019s bad footing<\/strong>. <\/li>\n

    <\/p>\n

  • Look back now and then<\/strong>; the view behind is another kind of truth<\/strong>. <\/li>\n

    <\/p>\n

  • Say hello if you can<\/strong>, and thank the weather even when it stings<\/strong>.<\/li>\n

    \n<\/ul>\n

    <\/p>\n

    How the mind walks<\/h2>\n

    <\/p>\n

    She brings problems to the edge<\/strong> and leaves with lighter pockets<\/strong>. \u201cYou set a knot in the first kilometre<\/strong>, and it loosens two bends past the heather<\/strong>,\u201d she says<\/strong>. A ridge can be a decision, a cove a place to breathe<\/strong> twice.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    Grief has paced these metres<\/strong>, as has ordinary, peanut-butter joy<\/strong>. The path takes both with an even courtesy<\/strong>, returning you to town no better or worse, only more yourself<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    Small rituals, big years<\/h2>\n

    <\/p>\n

    There\u2019s a bench she taps with two fingers<\/strong>, an old joke with no known origin<\/strong>. There\u2019s a gull she claims as a regular<\/strong>, though she admits it is probably three different birds<\/strong>. There\u2019s a stone she never moves<\/strong>, and a gate she always closes with a soft click<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    Rituals do not freeze time<\/strong>; they give it a thread to follow<\/strong>. The weeks \u201cbead themselves,\u201d she says<\/strong>, and the strand is stronger than any resolution<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    What keeps her coming back<\/h2>\n

    <\/p>\n

    Not conquest, not mileage<\/strong>, not even the postcard view<\/strong>. It is the small, renewable surprise<\/strong> of wild thyme in a shoe tread<\/strong>, of a seal\u2019s head surface-slick as poured ink<\/strong>, of cloud light turning the bay to mercury<\/strong> and then to milk.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    \u201cYou walk out with your questions<\/strong>,\u201d she says, \u201cand return with better ones<\/strong>.\u201d On the bus home she watches the harbour masts<\/strong> twitch like metronomes, salt drying white on her jacket<\/strong>, legs pleasantly humming<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    Next week the path will be the same<\/strong>, and it will be radically new<\/strong>. That is the quiet bargain of the cliffs<\/strong>, and she intends to keep paying<\/strong> it.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":2769,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-2712","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-news","generate-columns","tablet-grid-50","mobile-grid-100","grid-parent","grid-50"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2712","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=2712"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2712\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2757,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2712\/revisions\/2757"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/2769"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2712"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=2712"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=2712"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}