THE BEASTS OF GLENMALURE.. · IRISH STORIES & MYTHOLOGY

THE BEASTS OF GLENMALURE..

Now my skool friends, im here with a story of my own, not ancient in recount, but of an ancient landscape, a beautiful landscape of deep cultural historic roots, glenmalure is a beautiful part of the country for hiking and sightseeing, and id encourage you to take a trip if your ever in this part of the world, I may even come along if asked 😉!..

...I was only in my very early twenties when I headed up through countless back roads and walkways into the wilds of Glenmalure. Didn’t have much sense, but I had strong legs and a stubborn streak. I thumbed lifts most of the way — back when that still felt normal — standing at bends in the road with the Wicklow air cutting across your face and not a care in the world.

Stan was with me. Big black fella. German shepherd crossed with greyhound. Fast as anything and sharp in the head. Gentle with people, but you always knew there was something watchful in him. He didn’t waste energy. He measured things.

We got dropped at the last stretch of mud road, and from there it was just boots and breath. Rivers to cross. Old ruined walls half-swallowed by moss. You’d come around a bend and find the skeleton of some long-forgotten cottage sitting there like it had just given up waiting.

We hiked for hours.

And I remember thinking at one point — we’re far enough now that if something goes wrong, it’s just us.

No phone signal. Back then especially, nothing that far up. No hum of a road. No distant tractor. Just wind moving through trees.

Every now and then I’d catch something in the tree line. Not clear enough to name. Just movement at the edge of sight. You know that feeling? When your eyes tell you something shifted but your brain can’t confirm it.

Stan would stop sometimes. Freeze. Head up. Ears forward. Not barking.. ahh he was a great doggo.!

That unsettled me more than any sound could have.

By the time evening came down, we found a clearing near a gorge. River running not far off. Seemed as good a place as any. I got the tent up, fire going, food on, steaks. The food was probably the reason Stan willingly came with me haha. BUT,

the whole time — there was this presence.

Not evil.

Not threatening exactly.

Just aware.

Like something knew we were there and hadn’t decided yet what to think about it.

Then the mist rolled in.

And I don’t mean a light haze. I mean thick Wicklow mist. The kind that turns twenty feet into a guess. It flowed around the clearing like water. I looked out of the tent at one point and it genuinely looked like a river of grey moving past us.

That’s when the noises started.

Branches cracking. Heavy ones.

Low guttural calls from deep in the forest. Not sharp. Not wolf-like,And not that there are wolves in the mountains anymore. More… ancient. They’d rise, then stop. Closer. Then further. Then low again, somewhere beyond the mist.

I told myself it was animals. October. Breeding season for many animals.

But when you’re alone in a clearing, fire dying slowly in the light rain, and there’s no signal, and something is calling out in the dark — your imagination doesn’t stay reasonable.

Stan was unsettled now. Not panicked. Just charged.

I opened the tent zipper.

He bolted.

Straight out into that mist.

I called him back — once, twice — but he ignored me. And that wasn’t like him unless he had reason.

He began circling the tent. Tight arcs. Over and over. Guarding. Marking. You could barely see him — just a dark shape cutting through grey. The fire was down to embers at that stage, rain lightly hissing against it.

The sounds shifted.

Less bold.

More distant. And into the trees further out, up and outwards.

It might have been coincidence. It might have been nothing. But I felt something change. As if whatever was out there reconsidered.

I lay back down but I didn’t sleep much.

Every crack of wood felt amplified. Every gust of wind sounded like breath.

Eventually the howls stopped.

The mist thinned.

And morning came in pale and ordinary like nothing had happened.

I stepped outside and there he was.

Stan.

Curled beside the dead fire. Not in the tent. Not seeking warmth.

On watch.

I remember feeling this wave of gratitude that I didn’t have the words for at the time. Just relief.

We packed up fast. No heroic lingering. Two hours walking down through the valley with wet boots and stiff legs.

When we reached that old hunting lodge, now called the glenmalure inn — 17th century place turned pub and B&B — I went straight in and ordered a full breakfast.

Two of them.

The woman behind the counter looked at me and said, “You’re spoiling that dog.”

I told her what happened.

She nodded and said, “Ah sure, it’s the stags. They can roar fierce this time of year.. the rutt."

Then she leaned in slightly and added, “But I’ve heard stories like yours in every month of the year.”

Didn’t smile when she said it either.

Stan got his own plate. Bacon, eggs, the lot. He earned it.

Later a couple gave me a lift back toward town. Ordinary life creeping back in. Cars. Roads. Conversation about weather.

But I’ve never forgotten that night.

Was it deer? Yeaaa probably, .

Was the mist playing tricks? Was the isolation amplifying every sound?

Of course.