Winter Solstice Hike: Finding Light on the Enniskerry Ridge
What do you do when the year ends, and you’re not who you wanted to become?
Trail Facts & Stats
Route: Enniskerry to Glencullen.
Distance: 20 km (approx).
Time: 4 hours.
Difficulty: Moderate (forest trails and open mountain ridge).
Best Time: Late December (Winter Solstice) for the full effect.
Food/Drink: Finish at Johnnie Fox’s Pub in Glencullen.
That question arrived for me on the darkest day of the year. I didn’t find an answer… but I found something else.
The Route: Hiking from Enniskerry to Glencullen
Just above Enniskerry, there’s a ridgeline I’d never walked. It’s the kind of path you save for a particular sort of day.
This year has slipped through my hands, quieter than I expected and heavier than I’d like to admit. Plans unraveled, and it feels like effort just vanished into silence. And maybe I’m not the only one. Maybe you’re carrying something into these last days of December too… some ache, some quiet weight you haven’t quite named. If you are: walk with me, as there’s something I’ve been turning over in my mind… something my ancient ancestors here in Ireland knew about days like this. Something we may need to remember.
I didn’t come into this year with vague hopes. I came with plans. Not castles in the sky, but grounded, carefully built things… goals I’d work for that felt structured, sensible, and honest. And I gave it everything. But somewhere late in the year, I looked up and saw that it wasn’t working. The thing I wanted to build wasn’t taking shape. The hours I’d poured in… were not returning my effort..
You might know the feeling. You feel like you’re doing all the right things and still, you’re stuck. You start to wonder: was it the plan that failed… or was it me? There’s a particular quiet that comes with a question like that. A kind of static buzz behind your eyes and between your ears. It doesn’t feel like a crisis… it feels more like a fog. And in that fog, I walk these hills.
The Mental Health Benefits of Winter Walking
There’s something about a ridgeline. You’re not climbing anymore. You’re not arriving. You’re just suspended between the two… between effort and outcome, between what was and what might still be. The path rises and falls. You think you’re past something, and then you’re in it again. That’s what this year has felt like. That’s what December feels like.
So… what do you do, when the year ends and you’re still not who you wanted to become? I’ve been sitting with that question, and the truest thing I can tell you is: I don’t know. And there’s weight in that not-knowing. Because if effort isn’t enough… what is? Do you re-plan? Do you let go of what you wanted? Do you give up?
I don’t have a great answer. But I have learned this over the years: when thinking runs out of road, you keep walking the trail. One foot, then another. Maybe that’s always been the way. And… that's not new. People have been walking into this same winter light for a very long time, asking the same questions.
Five thousand years ago, not far from here in Newgrange, people carved a passage into the side of a hill. A tomb. A prayer in stone. They aligned it so precisely that on the Winter Solstice - this exact weekend, just once a year - a single beam of light would travel through the passage and touch the back wall. Not to fix the darkness. Not to chase it away. But to mark it. To say: this is where we are. Not why. Not what’s next. Just… here.
And maybe they understood something we’ve forgotten. That the darkness does not respond to force, and it doesn’t yield to effort. It responds to time, only. It turns when it turns.
I stopped for a moment here, just listening to the wind. No answers. Just the sound of my own breath. I couldn't name where this year was going. But I can name where I am. And maybe that's enough. Not because the darkness means anything... but because I'm still here. Still walking.
Finishing in Glencullen
The path turns down toward Glencullen, and the year turns with it. I used to think winter was a thing to survive - to bear, and move beyond. But now I think… maybe winter is a place. A place you learn how to stay. Tomorrow, the light begins to return. By minutes… two, then four. So slow you won’t notice. But something shifts, quietly. The way real things do, when you’re not watching.
A Final Thought on the Solstice
I don’t have a resolution. No grand lesson. No bow to tie it all together. The year is ending, and I’m still in winter.
But here’s what I’ve learned from those ancient builders, standing in their own long night: The darkness isn’t a verdict. It doesn’t mean what you think it means. It says nothing about your effort, your worth, or whether you tried hard enough. It’s just where the year has turned. It came before you. It will leave without asking.
You don’t have to fix it. You don’t have to understand it. You just have to stand in it long enough to say - This is where I am.
And then you keep walking. Not because the path promises anything. But because that’s what there is to do. One foot, then another. The same way people have walked through winters for five thousand years.
May this turning find you gently. And if you're still in the fog, still on the ridge, still putting one foot in front of another - that's enough. That's always been enough.
Practical Tips for this Hike
The Terrain: The trail can be very muddy in winter, so good boots are essential.
Parking: There is parking near the gap at Enniskerry or at Johnnie Fox’s if you do the route in reverse.
Safety: In December, the sun sets by 4:00 PM. Bring a headtorch if you are starting after lunch.
