One Man’s Path along the Cliffs of Slieve League

The wind rips up from the ocean 2,000 feet below, its Atlantic cold mashing you about like a ping pong ball atop the Cliffs of Slieve League in County Donegal. Four layers of clothes on and still I’m colder than a side of beef hanging in a meat locker. Everyone huddles over, arms tight around their chests, jumping from foot to foot to keep warm. Or warmer. Photos are quickly snapped. And then it’s a dash back to the van, out of the wind, the cold.

“Sure it’s a gale,” says Ruth. “Are you comin’?”

I tell her there’s something I want to do so I’ll walk.

“What? In this weather?”

Mad, yes, I know. But there’s something mystical here atop the cliffs. A trail to God’s backdoor. One Man’s Path, it’s called. A rock-strewn sheep trail, really, over the ridge with 40- or 50-foot drops on one side and a sheer 2,000-foot drop to the wave-battered rocks on the other. They say you should never hike One Man’s Path when the wind is blowing—and the wind is always blowing.

I decide to go anyway. And have the trail to myself. Which makes it feel even more mystical. Every time I lift a foot, I feel the wind pummel me, pulling me to the edge. One good gust and I’d fly over the edge like a kite. But it’s lovely out here. Wild and lovely.

I sit on a rock, facing directly in to the wind. Close my eyes. Hear a voice—“Hay-o!” Two young women, dressed as if they were planning to summit Mt. Everest, are coming up the path. They’re carrying backpacks and full camping gear. They stop to chat. They’re from Sweden, they tell me.

“Where are you going?” I ask.

They shrug. “Just along the trail,” they tell me.

“You’re not going to camp out here, are you?”

No, they say. They are traveling around Ireland. Like snails, they carry their homes upon their backs. Last night they were in a hostel, tonight who knows. They ask me to take their picture. I do. They continue on. Closer to the edge. I turn back. I’ve had enough of heaven for one day.