Gear

By the time we finish the Wicklow Way, there's almost no fabric left on the inside heels of my shoes and my insoles are cracked. They weren't new when we started, but now they're too abused to carry along to Wales. We've also discovered that my rain pants, originally dating back to 2011 (I think) for my Chile trip, can no longer be described as "waterproof".

I mentally thank my gear for many miles and years of service, then move on to searching out shops in Dublin where I can replace them.

Much of my gear sustains hard wear, but because I've put it to such hard and specific uses, I'm very fond of each piece: a particular blue t-shirt I thrifted before Africa (2018) is now so thin I can count on it drying overnight when I wash it in the sink. A skirt I got in 2014 and have worn for more than half of my conference speaking is looking only a bit worn out, and rolls up very small in my pack.

My daypack is from 2016 and (at least according to Eileen) hideous with patching and mending. For this trip, the only thing specially purchased was my main pack, a 32 liter Osprey Mira as an early birthday present, because my very beat up and ill-fitting 2011 60-liter wouldn't count as a carry on for Aer Lingus.

Eileen and I reviewed gear with each other before we left. Most of the session, we pointed at each other's clothes and asked, "do you really need that?"

Swimming gear is redundant with a sports bra and shorts I'll sleep in. I relinquish my thermal tights, looking at the weather patterns where we're going. I don't keep the polar fleece because a wool shirt plus my down jacket layered with a raincoat should be good enough.

We pack lighter than usual, because we're not camping on this trip. We can count on a hot shower and warm beds at night. All told, I've got a sleep outfit, a walking outfit, and a clean set I can layer if it gets colder.

All of my clothes can be used for multiple situations: a blue silk-looking button-down is very small, nice looking, and a surprisingly good windbreaker. It will keep my arms from burning if it's sunny, or hold damp raincoat sleeves off my skin if we're hiking warm in the rain.

My one space/weight splurge is on socks and underwear, and Eileen has been stingy even here: I've brought a week's worth, but she has only a couple of changes. Both of us hand-launder the socks and underwear we've been wearing each evening, hanging them on the radiator and carrying them damp the next day.

The restraint in packing is a boon to our flexibility. Put another way, we notice every ounce we're carrying. Both of us measure out our gear, stuffing it in little bags we use as packing cubes, because we know what it is to be weighed down by things. If we can't leave our bags somewhere, we can still go exploring. If we need to get from point A to point B, we know our legs can carry us, even if it takes a while.

In Dublin, I find what I'm looking for. Mountain Warehouse is across the street from the post office, and I treat myself to new rain pants. We walk through Temple Bar to find the only running store in Dublin that seems to sell my preferred shoe brand (Hoka) so that I can hot-swap. I leave my old mud-stained sneakers with the ultramarathoner who owns the store, walking out on new Superfeet insoles and shoes whose rubber soles haven't yet been worn to a pronated angle.

Our feet are still sore from the walk, and our bodies tired, but today and tomorrow are travel days. We can rest a bit — and then we're off to Snowdonia so we can really wear the gear in.

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