Daniel Anker, the Swiss Alpine journalist and climber, wrote of him: "He came, he saw, he conquered - and disappeared forever from the mountains, back to Ireland to pursue his passion for horse racing. Diarmaid Ó Muirithe writes.
" Bringing with him the most primitive of climbing equipment, Charles Barrington, an intrepid 24-year-old amateur from Fassaroe, Co Wicklow, arrived in the village of Grindewald in August 1858 and hired two of the village's best guides, Christian Almer and Peter Bohren, known as Peterli, the Wolf of the Glaciers, to tackle the most sinister, the most deadly of mountains, the unclimbed, and it was thought, the unclimbable 13,026 feet Eiger. Barrington is still spoken of with the greatest of respect in the village haunts of the mountaineers and in the farmhouses at the foot of the ogre of the Alps.
He was, according to local lore, popular with the ladies, and loved to play cards with the men. He spent some time getting accustomed to the glaciers, on his way to the summit of the 13,642 feet Jungfrau. The year before he came on his memorable holiday, the ascent of the Eiger had been unsuccessfully attempted by Europe's most famous mountaineer, the Viennese Sigismund Porges, who had already conquered the 13,449 feet, hitherto unclimbed Mönch. Twenty four years went by before the happy-go-lucky Barrington wrote an account of his famous climb of August 11th, 1858, in a letter to his brother Richard, by then a famous Alpine botanist who had himself climbed the Eiger with Peter Bohren as his guide. The typically modest letter was published by the London Alpine Journal.
"My dear D., You will bear with me for not writing a description of my ascent of the Eiger. I have been looking over my papers, without success, for an account I wrote shortly after. But the facts are these: On Thursday August 5, 1858 I left Grindewald at about 4 p.m. and walked up the glacier to a small hut, in which we spent the night. It was occupied by a goat-keeper. I was eaten up with fleas. Next morning we started with my two guides, Almer and Bohren, and a French gentleman, and crossed the Strahlegg to the Grimsel, where we arrived on Friday evening, the 6th.
"On the 7th I started with the same two guides, and walked to the Rhone valley and up to the Eggischorn hotel. On Sunday, the 8th, I slept at the hotel and in the evening started with Almer and Bohren, and two men to carry the provisions. Had about four and a half hours' walk to the Faulberg, and slept in a small cave.
"Started early Monday, and got to the top of the Jungfrau, and walked to Grindelwald, where I put up at the Bar-Hof. Here I met some Alpine men whose footsteps I had tracked down the glacier.
"Talking about climbing, I said to them I did not think much of the work I had done, and was answered, "Try the Eiger or the Matterhorn." "All right", I said. Slept with a beefsteak on my face.
"In the evening of the next day, the 10th, I made a bargain with the same guides for the Eiger, and walked up to the hotel on the Wengern Alp, stopping to play cards for an hour on the way, and found it quite full at midnight. Threw myself on a sofa, and started at 3.30 a.m. on August 11 for the Eiger. We took a flag from the hotel.
"When we came to a point where one descends into a small hollow I looked well with my glass over the face of the Eiger next us, and made up my mind to try the rocks in front instead of going up the other side, which had been tried twice before unsuccessfully.
" Almer and Bohren said it was no use, and declined to come the way I wished. 'All right', I said; 'you may stay; I will try.' So off I went for about 300 or 400 yards over some smooth rocks to the part which was almost perpendicular.
"I then shouted and waved the flag for them to come on, and after five minutes they followed and came up to me. They said it was impossible; I said 'I will try.'
"So, with the rope coiled over my shoulders, I scrambled up, sticking like a cat to the rocks, which cut my fingers, and at last got up say 50 to 60 feet. I then lowered the rope and the guides followed with its assistance.
"We then had to mark our way with chalk and small bits of stone, fearing that we might not be able to find it on our return. We went up very close to the edge, looking down on Grindelwald, sometimes throwing over large stones to hear them crash down beneath the clouds.
"We got to the top - the two guides gave me the place of first man up - at twelve o'clock, stayed about ten minutes, fearing the weather, and came down in four hours, avoiding the very steep place, as, looking down from above, we found out a couloir \, down which we came, and just saved ourselves by a few seconds from an avalanche.
"I was met at the bottom by about 30 visitors, and we went up to the hotel. They doubted we had been on the top until the telescope disclosed the flag there. The hotel proprietor had a large gun fired off, and I seemed for the evening to be a 'lion'.
"Thus ended my first and only visit to Switzerland. Not having enough money with me to try the Matterhorn, I went home. Nothing could exceed the kindness of Almer and Bohren. I am sorry to hear the latter has passed away.
"Both were splendid mountaineers, and had I not been as fit as my old horse, Sir Robert Peel, when I won the Irish Grand National with him, I would not have seen half the course.
"I may add that when leaving Grindewald for the Eiger I was surprised to see the families of the guides in a state of distraction at their departure for the ascent, and two elderly ladies came out and abused me for taking the guides to risk their lives.
"Your affectionate brother, Charles Barrington."
Two years after his famous climb he married Sarah Leadbeater, a Quaker from Ballitore, Co Kildare. They had three children.
He lived quietly in Fassaroe, making the local headlines only once, when he donated a gold watch for a race up and down the Sugarloaf in 1870. A Tom Hill was the winner.
Barrington died on April 20, 1901 and was buried in Mount Jerome cemetery. His will described him as a merchant.
In the Heimatmuseum at Grindelwald, its curator, Samuel Michel, has drawings of the local guides who followed Barrington up the mountain.
He has kept a place of honour for a picture of the Irishman, and, as I write, his kinsman, Ron Barrington of Greystones, is searching the many old trunks in his attic for one.
Herr Michel would also like to see a plaque to the great Irish sportsman, practically unknown in his own country, either in the village, or higher up, at the hotel in Kleine Scheidegg, behind which he started up the first rockface.
That, I am pleased to tell him, is being taken care of.