In my last post I mentioned in passing that I had visited the Mournes wearing a rather nice shell jacket, but left the Mournes somewhat less well jacketed. I laid the blame squarely on an unnamed dishonest hill walker but of course there could be other explanations. For example, the jacket might have been left behind in Tollymore Outdoor Center by a careless twat easily distracted and cavalier about his possessions. If it was the thief I will never see my jacket again, if it were the twat the jacket would likely be returned by Tollymore… I can report that the jacket and all its contents (including the opened packet of Harribo Tangy Monsters) are now in my cupboard – draw your own conclusion.
Back to my training program. All long distance walks necessitate coping with obstacles. Soaring peaks, torrential rivers, unforgiving weather, these are the meat and drink of epic journeys. However, while a 4-seasons-in-a-day hike up Culliagh may feel majestic – and I have no doubt that I will recount it as such – “touching the void” it ain’t. So while the Camino has relentless roads, the Pacific Crest Trail has desert and mountain, and the Inca Trek penetrates dense jungle the Ulster Way’s challenges are so much more subtle than mere geography, it has people… Irish people.
Last week I took a walk in the hills of Donegal checking out a route for a future walk. A topographically straightforward route brought me past the door of a farm house outside of which sat a dog… Now I don’t do well with dogs – those of you who know me and may have seen me walk with my own dog (Oscail, my loyalty deficient Irish Red and White Setter) may find this an odd statement but that’s a story for another posting. Suffice to note that I am wary of dogs and so will choose a cliff face abseil over a farmyard crossing every time.
My anxiety was raised when the collie approached me with intent, much in the way a hyena might approach an injured wildebeest calf. I did have my stick to hand but “White Fang” was unfazed by this, I suspect he thought we might have an appetite stimulating game of fetch before he devoured me. My relief at a “down boy” call from the house gate was tempered only by the fact that “boy” seemed to pay it no attention whatsoever as he circled behind me and herded toward the house where I met Paeder. His “they’ll not touch you” made me think (1) this is the usual assertion made by all dog owners in the mistaken belief that it offers reassurance – which it doesn’t, and (2) “they?” would imply that White Fang was not alone. Paeder’s jolly claim that “I’ve 4 dogs and not enough work for one good one” was immediately followed by his hushed whisper “just don’t let them see your afraid, they can smell fear…”.(actually at that moment people as far away as Kerry could have smelt my fear). As there was no one else around and as I was standing right beside him I wondered why he was whispering, then it struck me – it was so the dog’s wouldn’t hear! Possibly Paeder was the only one left. God knows how many siblings, neighbours and travellers he had lost over the years as their fear betrayed them and the dogs moved in.
“I’ll send them for the sheep” said Paeder nodding his head toward the large expanse of Donegal mountain facing his farm house. I followed his gaze and saw, a single forlorn sheep absently grazing half way up the mountain. Now those of us who have seen “One Man and His Dog” know what happens next; a hushed “Come By” command sets the dogs on a purposeful synchronised parabolic trajectory toward their target, their almost mystical instinct for herding bent to the shepherd’s will via his use of urgent obscure whistled commands. Paeder clearly has no TV. His method was somewhat different. He pointed toward the single sheep and bellowed at the top of his voice to the dogs “GET THE SHEEP”. The command while it startled me had almost no discernible effect on the dogs, though one did sit down and start to lick its balls with some vigour (well, you would if you could). The sheep, however, snapped its head up like a startled Serengeti antelope and immediately started to urgently climb the hill in the general direction of ‘away’. Paeder repeated his command with even more gusto “GET THE SHEEP!” this time repeatedly lunging his body forward as though about to start a sprint by way of demonstrating to the dogs the sort of reaction he is seeking from them. Ball licker spotted the retreating sheep, stopped his oral ministrations and ambled to the opposite wall. The other three dogs though apparently mesmerised by Paeder’s now almost frenetic pantomime sheep hearing dance break the spell and also retreat to the wall.
I take my chance, a hushed “Thanks” and a sneaky but studiedly nonchalant and not one bit frightened stroll got me around the corner and away. 10 minutes later I was safely across a wide river and climbing toward an upper mountain lough, though I thought I heard a distant voice from somewhere below carried on the breeze … “ahh come on boys, get the fekin sheep”…
If Paeder ever reads this, thank you. Its too late to rescue your dog savaged siblings but you can help Huntington’s sufferers by donating a few quid at http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/BrendanMajor
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