Why a Running Retreat Is the Perfect Way to See Ireland

Running up a mountain is always difficult — never as breezy and fun as it might seem when recalled from the comfort of a couch. The same thoughts crop up again and again: How is it possible that I’m still so far from the summit? Is it this hard for everyone? Should I slow down and walk for a bit so that when I start again later I can reach the peak in a single, uninterrupted burst of grace and speed? When I run trails alone, these questions cycle through my mind until, suddenly, I find myself at the top, looking back on my worries as if from a great distance.

But as I willed myself up the steep, rock-riddled approach to Djouce Mountain — one of the more accessible peaks within Ireland’s Wicklow range but, at 2,400 feet, still nothing to smirk at — I found I wasn’t being overtaken by the same old questions and doubts. Instead, I was looking around me at the other members of my group. 

Long-legged or petite, with cropped hair or blond braids, they were all experienced runners in their forties, fifties, and sixties who had signed up for a weeklong tour of Ireland with Run Wild Retreats. The travel company sets up all-women running trips in varied landscapes, from Moab and Banff to Bhutan and Peru. Our itinerary would take us from the drier — though still boggy — east of the country all the way to the misty mountains of the southwest, running for many hours each day. In bright-colored shorts and singlets, with wide smiles on their faces, my group cut a striking image against the slopes of brush and heather, which was deep green and on the verge of tipping into its famous purple bloom. These women made the ascent look fun — and as I listened to the steady sound of their feet against the gravel, it was easy to fold my stride into the collective rhythm.

When we finally reached the peak of Djouce Mountain, we paused to take selfies and look back at all we had accomplished. Lined with prickly yellow-blossomed gorse, the path wound down toward Lough Tay — which is also called Guinness Lake, and resembles a pint of the brew with its smooth, dark surface edged by white sand. But then it was back to work: we had four or so miles left to run. As we took off down the other side, one petite figure flew ahead with the ease of water flowing downhill. Jen Horn, an attorney and mother of three, as well as a classically trained clarinetist, was running for the first time in a year and a half after recovering from a severe injury. She had told us that jogging down mountainous slopes was “her happy place” — and now I saw this in action as she took the rocky path effortlessly, racing toward the runners who waited for us after choosing the flatter (and less sweaty) plain below. 

I remembered what Jen had said about letting gravity guide you — and then I tried it myself. It felt almost like dancing as I wove my way between the stones, zigzagging down until I came to rest near a pair of sheep calmly grazing in the soft grass. The cool wind on my face was exhilarating. I had taken inspiration from Jen’s joy and let it instruct my own — and by doing so, my world grew a little wider.

Though I have been running for three or four years, the social facets of the sport were new to me. I grew up the only child in an indoorsy family, the nerdy daughter of two nerdy professors who tended to find life outside too cold or too hot, too windy or too bright. I had spent much of the early pandemic hiking in Colorado — but then I moved to Rome, where I lived under the stricter Italian lockdown, often unable to travel outside the city or even outside my neighborhood. I began to run to try to recapture the ecstatic sensation of tired limbs and full heart that I found at the end of a long trail — and to my surprise, I discovered that I loved it. 

Running was a time when I could concentrate on my body and breath; it was a way to untie mental knots and wear out my anxieties. I loved the feeling of needing to breathe, the sensation of the road or trail under my feet, the ferocious appetite afterward. It was a thing I did just for myself, always by myself, because I didn’t have anyone to go with — and also perhaps because I thought I might be doing it wrong, with bad form and not enough dedication. But as my routine grew more regimented, I sometimes wondered if running solo was no longer an escape from habitual life, but another habit I had formed. Sometimes, as I ran alone in pouring rain or stifling heat, I’d find myself thinking that it would be nice to have someone to talk to, a distraction or a companion. Run Wild Retreats drifted into my search results at exactly the right moment, offering trail runs in foreign locales but also camaraderie, and a group of people to eat dinner with at the end of the day.

In his memoir What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, the Japanese writer Haruki Murakami declares that “writing honestly about running and writing honestly about myself are really the same thing.” On the first day of our retreat, I learned that talking about running can also be a shortcut to sharing what’s closest to our hearts. For our introductory meeting, our jovial group leader Jan Curl — a longtime fitness instructor in her early sixties who went from being a Run Wild participant to guiding retreats — gathered all 12 of us in a circle and invited us to share the desires and fears that had brought us on this trip. One woman spoke about how a friend at rehab had invited her running at the tail end of her recovery from alcoholism: having a new way to occupy her body saved her from old cravings. Others had competed when they were younger, but discovered they got more from a run when they did it for their own personal satisfaction, rather than external approval. Some spoke of running as a way to rebound from illness or divorce, or of returning to running with a new, wellness-focused attitude after injuries imposed limitations on their bodies. 

It became clear that there were as many different reasons to run as there were different bodies to run with. This is the central idea of Run Wild Retreats: founder Elinor Fish emphasizes mindfulness rather than feats of strength and endurance. A longtime competitive trail runner, Fish had noticed a different dynamic when she led all-women running retreats. “Women have to juggle more demands on their time and energy,” she told me. “But we really have a lot of points of commonality that help us understand one another and feel a sense of connection.”

An observer watching our first forays in the Glendalough Valley, an hour south of Dublin in Wicklow Mountains National Park, would have seen a loose and cheery pack of runners, with plenty of individual personalities on display. As we ascended the Spinc Loop, climbing through woodland toward a dreamy vista with a burbling waterfall, I tried to keep up with the gazelle-like strides of our long-legged Irish guide, Nicola Cleary, to ask her about her experience racing in her home country. We were on an old road built for mining and logging, clipping along above the bog on wooden boardwalks, when we saw a slew of velvety-antlered sika deer munching their way across the hillside. 

But it was a pleasure, too, to drop back with the other runners and join a merry conversation about children in college, partners met at workplaces, relay races and marathons and ultramarathons. One of my favorite positions was alongside a group of four outgoing Texans — full of fun and bubbling with laughter — who were all from the same town near Houston. They had raised their children together, run their first half-marathon together in homemade costumes of tulle and sequins, and now travel together on adventurous trips around the world. With their long hair and slim figures, they could have been a giddy group of high school friends. In this sense, our running pack was a sort of mobile cocktail party with electrolyte-infused water instead of stiff drinks: we could mix and mingle, searching for a conversation that best fitted our interests.

When we reached the end of the Spinc Loop, we learned that in the past miners would have taken the same route, walking all the way from the village of Glendalough before beginning a grueling day’s work. We all had the same reaction: awe, amazement, and gratitude for the fact that, instead of having to walk miles back to town, we could simply board a bus that would take us to a nice cheese sandwich and an ice-cold glass of lemonade, which we promptly did.

After surprisingly hot and sunny weather in Wicklow, I was hungry for some of the moody atmospherics I had expected to find in Ireland: the cool mist. I found them on our next stop, the Falls Hotel & Spa, in Ennistymon, on the western coast. I woke up early to join a run along a particularly stunning portion of the Wild Atlantic Way, a path that traverses 1,600 miles of coastline, past ancient monasteries and castles, with rocky islands visible in the distance. We arrived at the famous Cliffs of Moher in the pleasant chill of a thick, soupy cloud. It was almost impossible to see anything but the back of the runner in front of me, the delicate white orchids and fluffy tufts of sea pinks that lined the path, and the occasional rust-colored cow nursing a sleepy calf. 

We ran for two hours out and back, along a narrow packed-dirt road with the sea roaring next to us. But on our return the gray began to lift and we perceived, at last, the landscape in which we had been running: the edge of the majestic cliffs, where the waves crashed and the seagulls looked like little white ants, impossibly far below. Triumphant at finally seeing this famous site, we took photos and selfies standing a cautious few feet from the sheer downward plunge. 

But the landscape I loved the most was still to come. After a drizzly stop in Lahinch, where I ducked into Hugo’s Bakery and found a fresh goat cheese and vegetable sandwich on astonishingly good focaccia, we hopped onto a ferry and crossed the strait between County Clare and County Kerry. Next, we drove south to Killarney National Park, a UNESCO Biosphere Reserve and home to the only indigenous red-deer herd on the mainland. The Lake Hotel, where we stayed, backed onto an exemplary vista. In the early mornings I strolled by Lough Leane and spotted songbirds flitting around the picturesque ruin of a small stone tower.

Our first Killarney run combined the fervent greenness of the previous day with the impassive steepness of our earlier outings. We jogged up the striking road that snakes its way through the Gap of Dunloe, its sharp curves vanishing from sight between the mountains. We hauled ourselves through dazzlingly lush pastures, where we passed sheep striped in the bright purple, orange, red, and blue dyes that the farmers use to identify them as they wander and intermingle across long distances. From time to time, we huffed and puffed as a “jaunting car” — a horse-drawn carriage carrying tourists — squeaked past us, part of a tradition begun in the 1860s, when Queen Victoria visited Ireland and made touring the land a craze among fashionable English travelers.

Halfway up the road it began to drizzle, then pour — a development that could easily have sunk our collective mood. We were all getting soaked. I thought of seeking shelter beneath a hospitable rock, but when I got closer I saw there was already a damp sheep occupying the space beneath the overhang, its lamb huddling beneath it. Both creatures eyed me with a mixture of possessiveness and suspicion. Then our local running guide, Catriona Doolan, whooped and cheered us on, and we rallied. Kristine Self, a Canadian ultramarathoner whose goal was to run at least 10 miles a day — which meant that she often logged additional runs before and after our group outings — cinched the drawstring of her windbreaker and propelled herself upward, inspiring us all. We sprinted toward an abandoned stone hut, where we clumped together beneath an old tree, laughing at having finally encountered the stereotypical Irish summer weather. Then we tightened our laces and continued on, to a quaint café in a historic cottage for hot chocolate and coffee, through serene estates and sedate woods, racking up 10 miles or so by the time we arrived back at the bus.

Later that day, at the Spa at Muckross, housed on an estate that hosted Queen Victoria back in 1861, I sank my tired limbs into a hot tub and let a skilled massage therapist wring all traces of exhaustion from my tight calves. Sitting down to dinner that night at the Killarney Park hotel’s handsome Garden Bar, we felt like returning war heroes, even if we had only done battle with the elements. 

By the end of the week, I had run more than 50 miles and learned that I was capable of much more than I had imagined. I could run six days in a row, and I could throw in another short run even after finishing a long one. But the most valuable lessons had come from my fellow runners, who taught me things I didn’t even know I didn’t know. Kristine showed me how to properly set up my hydration backpack so I wouldn’t be plagued by loud sloshing with every step I took. Kirstin Shrom-Rhoads, a former summer-camp director from Maryland, told me some things she had noticed about my gait, and suggested some exercises. 

Women gave me recommendations for trips I should take, places I should run, races I could do without too much additional training. The care and consideration they showed me — and one another — encapsulated a certain ethos that I found on every run: we were a loose pack supporting each other on our own individual paths, helping each other move with more freedom and joy. When, on the bus back to Dublin, everyone began spontaneously composing limericks about our adventures, I saw that some alchemy of exertion and support had knit us into a group that would stay in touch, sharing photos and tips, long after we had boarded planes to separate destinations.

When I checked in to the stately Westbury hotel, with its luxurious fabrics and polished brass, the diners enjoying high tea in the lobby signaled that I was in the embrace of civilization once again. In my suite, the bathroom’s heated marble floor soothed my aching feet. I sat in an armchair and had a cup of tea. And then, having finally attained maximum comfort, I gave in to the temptation to look at the photos I had taken on our runs. In shot after shot, joyous bodies bounded through stunning vistas, small figures with their arms raised in triumph. I thought about how much better a landscape looked with a human to give it scale: on its own a cliff was merely high, but with a row of runners along its edge, I could suddenly feel the tension, the exhilaration, how the body skirts the edge of danger to emerge whole and victorious. 

When I looked at the faces of the women, I was blown away by how happy they looked, despite their tiredness. It reminded me that I hadn’t yet gone for a run that day, though I had passed a lovely-looking park — the sort that begs to be explored at a pace faster than walking. Thinking of my role models, the sprightly women I had come to love over the past week, I laced up my running shoes and headed out the door. 

How to Book

Run Wild Retreats 

Run Wild Retreats leads small-group running and wellness tours around the world for women of all ages and fitness levels. The next seven-day Ireland Trail Running & Wellness Retreat begins May 17, 2025. The itinerary includes stays at the Wicklow Heather House, in Laragh; the Lake Hotel, in Killarney; and the Falls Hotel & Spa, in Ennistymon.

Getting There

The Westbury 

Runners fly in and out of Dublin. The Westbury hotel is perfect as a first or last stop, thanks in part to its central location off busy Grafton Street. Its 205 spacious rooms and suites are decorated in subdued colors and plush fabrics.

A version of this story first appeared in the November 2024 issue of Travel + Leisure under the headline “Runner’s High.”