I enjoy Rugby, Golf, (actually most sports although I can’t play any except a little Golf), Music, Space, History, Travel, Film & Writing.
I hope to record some thoughts in my blog of times gone by and one’s still happening. Enjoy and contribute. (inshin.wordpress.com / @inshin)
The Slaughtered Lamb
There are times when real life and fiction can blur into one. Sometimes this is good, sometimes its unwelcome. In the younger days when I would walk in the Wicklow hills with a friend, one such incident happened. We weren't exactly your typical hikers and tended to plan our trips the night before in the pub, or the week before, in the pub. We also didn't exactly stick to the plan either, and this was one such occasion.
Our hike was to take us from Glendalough, Co Wicklow, to Drumgoff Bridge and on to the hostel at Glenmalure. We had done this before, using the youth hostels in both places to stay over. Its not a significant hike by road, only 6.7 miles, but as we were to learn, mother nature can cast it's dramatic wrath on those who foolishly tempt fate.
Of course, our plans, as ill-conceived as they often were, also tended not to be adhered to. On arriving in Glendalough, we promptly found the nearest pub and settled in after our long bus journey, all of forty five minutes. One of the main issues we had neglected to consider was the time of year, it was October, and while the day seemed reasonable, the day light was significantly shorter than our last visit, something we hadn't quite recalled.
After a quantity was consumed, we realised that the light wasn't great and decided we should hit the road. We were probably less than two miles from Glendalough when the drops started to fall. With the light almost faded, and the temperature dropping, we remembered we had brought no wet gear.
Although we travelled by road, it definitely felt like climbing, and after a while we reached a severe bend which allowed us to look back at the lights in Glendalough. From then on, the lights were few and far between, and the drops started to get harder.
We were still reasonably cheerful when the rain started to become more persistent. As we moved on, I realised denim had it's uses but wasn't great when it came to water. Gradually the trousers became heavier and much colder, and as the heaviness started to take it's toll, tiredness slowed the pace significantly. Do you know that in the pitch dark you don't actually need a torch, your eyes just re-adjust. One thing we did bring was a torch.
We kept going, and after a while a total sense of desperation kicked in as rain, cold and darkness had a strange dis-orientating impact on our exploring experiences. In the distance from time to time we could see a light and thought of leaving the road to get there. Once however we could see that the light was clearly a barn of some sort and decided the likelihood of the others being more than that, remote.
It seemed we were always walking up hill. I knew from the past that it was up so far and then down, into the valley. But this night seemed to be up hill for ever. Nature's other friend the wind had decided to join the attack and before we reached the top we were battling the the driving rain and incredible push of the wind trying to stop our advance. I remember thinking to myself, what the hell did we do ? The attack seemed relentless and gradually wore us down to almost total desperation.
We talked to each other about what was happening and although we knew we were finally descending, we had no idea how far we had walked or how far we had to go. We knew we were in trouble. None of the distant lights provided us with any comfort and the cold of the heavy wet jeans was now hurting and weighing a tonne.
Finally we had had enough. We hadn't heard or seen anyone for hours, we were exhausted, cold and wet and hadn't a clue how far we had to go or if it was possible to turn back. Gradually we heard a car somewhere behind us. The first sound of it's kind in several hours. We grabbed our torches, finally, a use for them. But a thought came to mind, a car on this road might not stop with two lunatics flashing lights at it. For all they knew we could be an IRA training unit, not unheard of, although surely better prepared. The thought didn't last long. We stood in the middle of the road flashing the lights desperately and flay-ling our arms madly.
The car slowed down and then stopped a bit away from us. The drivers door opened slowly. We could see there was someone in the passengers seat. I remember the voice, 'Have ye a problem ?' Not now I thought.
We explained our predicament. He offered a lift to Drumgoff Bridge with a peculiar smile that made me a little embarrassed about our great adventure and hardships to date. I knew soon enough the reason, as we had only become somewhat comfortable in the back seat behind the driver and his young daughter when he chirped, 'Right now, here we are.' And sure enough, 100 yards down the road we were at Drumgoff.
The driver and his daughter were both giggling as they exited the car. They walked away into the Bridge Hotel, which was the only recognisable structure there and was really just a pub. We followed sheepishly. As we entered the bar, the 4 or 5 men sitting at the counter stopped talking and looked at us. What amazed me was that within the few minutes the driver had left the car and entered the bar, he had managed to tell the whole story before we walked in.
It was a bare plain square room, with the men at the bar and no one else, not even behind it. We turned away and sat down as far from the counter as we could. After a while the conversation started. There were recollections of the great snow and storms of different years and the hikers and travellers that were lost or rescued at different times. We so wanted to be out of there. But I remembered that the place was called a hotel and asked was there a room. No, not for many years. 'The Slaughtered Lamb' I thought. That scene from a wear-wolf horror film, when the star walked in and silence descended as the congregation eyed him up and down.
Finally our rescuer decided to leave. 'Want a lift back to Glendalough ?' he smiled. We asked would he be so kind as to run us up the rest of the mile or so to the hostel. 'No!', was the quick retort. 'No-one there this time of year, it's back to Glendalough or nowhere'.
We looked at each other. The time had come to concede it was a complete failure of an expedition, and take the small mercies that were available. We headed back. En route there was one last stop. In the middle of no-where, the driver left the car and walked to another car stopped, still with lights on.
Wow, two cars, what happened a few hours ago when there were none ? There was a quick exchange of something, a brief conversation and then he returned. We continued on silently back to our hiking start point.
After negotiating with the manager at the full hostel in Glendalough, we were allowed stay the night, sleeping on the floor in front of a roaring open fire. A real win, as the gents accommodation was over-run by boy scouts.
As I lay there aching and falling asleep I thought, never again. But I did.
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