Five days in Killarney: a tourist town, and the mountains that made it one

Free, unfenced and open until six. The path from the town gate runs down through parkland and old oaks to the lake shore, and there are usually deer on the grass in the last hour of light.

The main street is where the town does its business, and standards are high because the competition is fierce. Book at the weekend in summer; walk in on a Tuesday in April.

A pub since 1891, wooden and dim, with a fire going most of the year and music that might be traditional and might be a rock band. Small enough that you will end up talking to somebody.

A Franciscan friary of 1448, sacked repeatedly and finished off by Cromwell, and roofless ever since. In the middle of the cloister a single enormous yew fills the whole courtyard. The graveyard around it is still in use.

Built in 1843 and done up in a hurry for Queen Victoria's visit of 1861, which nearly ruined the family. The traditional farms behind it recreate Kerry smallholdings of the 1930s, with working animals, and are better than they sound.

There is a decent cafe at the mansion and nothing at all at the waterfall, so eat here whether you feel like it or not.

Twenty metres of white water in a wooded gorge, five minutes uphill from the car park. Keep going another twenty minutes up the steps behind it for the view back over the lakes, which almost nobody does.

Every operator in town sells the same trip and the buses leave around nine. Book the day before, and take the walking option rather than the trap if the forecast is dry.

Eleven kilometres between two mountain ranges, on a road built for carts and still mostly used by them. Five small lakes on the way up, a stone bridge at each, and a long descent into the valley on the far side where the boats wait.

There is a cafe at the bottom of the descent and nothing before it, so carry something for the crossing itself. Sandwiches and soup, eaten outdoors, and worth more than they should be by that point.

Where the rivers from the upper and middle lakes come together under an old stone bridge, and the boat has to be poled through the shallows. Old oak woodland comes down to the water on both banks.

A fifteenth century tower house on the lake shore where the boats land, held by the O'Donoghues and then taken as a barracks after 1688, which is why it is still standing. Guided tour only, and the last one goes early.

Two hours to the far end, through Killorglin and Cahersiveen. Fill up before you leave town; fuel on the peninsula is scarce and dear.

About three hundred metres of near vertical coast at the western tip, looking straight out at the Skelligs. A small family charges a few euro at the gate, which keeps it quieter than the free viewpoints and puts the fence where it should be.

A single row of painted houses on the water at the end of the road, with two pubs doing chowder and crab. Boats to the monastery rock leave from here in summer, weather permitting, which it frequently does not.

A drystone ring fort at the head of a valley, up four kilometres of single track with grass down the middle. The walls still stand well above head height with stairways built into them, and there is usually nobody there.

The last stop before town, high on the Kenmare road with all three lakes below you. Named for Queen Victoria's ladies in waiting, who were brought up here in 1861 and evidently approved.

The estate house at the town gate, rebuilt from the stables after the original burnt down once too often. The formal gardens in front of it are open all day, and the view from the terrace is the postcard: lake, then mountains, and nothing else in between.

A small family restaurant in the middle of town doing Irish cooking without irony, and a good last meal before a long train. Takeaway too, if the timing is tight.