Leg 23, 34k from Lough Navar to Belcoo. All day on forest track apart from a few kilometres of road in the middle and into Belcoo. Hard on the feet and to be honest it’s a bit boring to walk through quite so many identical spruce trees. However, I met only one man and his 2 children out for what, from the look on the teenagers faces, was a forced march constitutional hike. So an ideal time to pop in the earphones and sing-along to oldie hits (attempting all the voices in Bohemian Rhapsody, and making all the “dwang” sounds of the most iconic guitar solos – a chance to put the map away and really give that air-guitar a good thrashing. Thinking back it’s entirely possible that there were many more people out on these forest tracks but who on seeing a wind-milling, falsetto wailing, “dwanging” bloke with a rucksack approaching opted to take a detour into the trees. This could explain the Blair Witch Project like message “FEAR” with direction of escape arrow I saw scrawled more than once on the road.
I started the day walking in heavy mist which burned off by lunchtime, actually I’m not sure which of these environments I prefer. When there is little to see the mist has a comforting cocooning quality that emphasised aloneness without any overtone of loneliness. That said, when the mist cleared the route does take you past a large number of exceptionally pretty streams and loughs.
I came across a wonderful example of a gate that has been what my friend Karn calls “Farm fixed”, there are times when boddging reaches beyond the lazy or mundane and becomes something like a de Bonoesque triumph of lateral thinking.
As I neared Belcoo, just before I hit the main road, I spotted a bench beside a little pool of water a few meters in diameter and no more than a few inches deep bubbling over a shallow stone weir. In front of the bench was fixed framed photo of a young boy, the photo was inscribed to his memory noting that he drowned last year! The sadness and poignancy of the artefact was clear and seemed to me to prove once again that even the genteelest and shallowest of water can still pose a danger; horseplay gone wrong or a stumble and head strike against a rock or onset of an epileptic fit when paddling. Satisfied that I had explained the likely tragic story I got up to leave, 2 meters further along another notice pinned to a post recording a tragic and fatal road accident, this is some unlucky corner I thought best get away when I can. As I turned to leave I spotted yet another notice “Cancer took her from us”. The voice in my head was now shouting “What sort of weird vortex of misfortune fucking watering hole is this? The answer was provided by the next sign; a brass plaque welcoming the traveller to Saint Patrick’s Well and shrine. My mix of incredulity, embarrassment, relief and desire to move on meant that I didn’t even take a photo of the place. But I know that you can all get your own photos because that saint travelled all over Ireland and if the number of Wells and Chairs named after him are any indication he never got thirsty or had to sit on the ground.
Also just outside Belcoo there is a jostle of road signs doing that peculiarly Irish thing of pointing to the same place but along two different roads. This particular instance caught my attention, partly because it turns out that the direct and the scenic routes to Garrison are exactly the same distance, 12 miles – unless you decide to cycle in which case it will be 14 miles? Sustrans will be informed of the blatant victimisation of cyclists.
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