Leg 28, a walk of almost 30k through the start of the rolling hills that introduce the Sperrin Mountains. I walked from a spot just north of Gortin back to yesterday’s end point at the Ulster American Folk Park. In truth most of today’s walk might just as well have been on a stair-master in a steam room because, although not cold, the air was fat with an emulsion of mist droplets just fractionally too small to fall to the ground but happy to cling to the webs of spiders to my clothes as I pushed through the thick fug.
Given the number of anonymous dull if not boring little villages so far encountered on my walk Gortin itself has a surprisingly sprightly buzz, cafés, restaurants, and a garage prepared to put in the effort of constructing and painting a giant daisy from old car tyres. I wished I had started my hike a few kilometres earlier as I would have like the excuse to stop for tea in the place.
Gortin Glen has been pathed into a pleasingly pretty river walk which the mist too quickly swallowed. The sign at the glen entrance issued a very clear instruction and though I didn’t actually meet any walkers I was certainly prepared to caution them if I did – I though I would go for something quite generic like “Hoy, you! I’ll let it go this time but just watch yourself in future”. Or possibly something a little less brash like “Hey, careful with that walking pole or someone will get injured.”
The people highlight of the walk was meeting an entirely incomprehensible Tyrone man stationed to divert traffic away from a newly tarmaced road. He was extremely pleased that his allocated “spot” happened to be serviced by a little bus shelter which he had rather made his home with a bench lined with thermos flask, packets of crisps, and Waggon Wheels. He shunted his things along to give me space to have my own lunch. As I say, I understood almost nothing that he said but realised that if I kept him plied with sweets he would say something that I took to be “thank you” and then make a series of contented whimpering yummy noises that I am pretty confident were only onomatopoeic and not actually intended to communicate anything other than contentment. I had enough sweets to keep him engaged in non-conversation long enough for me to finish my own lunch, pack up and say my good-byes.
Later in the walk at a point where I was assessing the exact amount of discomfort I was feeling in my bladder I spotted a sign on a gate which I am sure was advertising the presence of a wishing well but I nevertheless took it as both an omen and advice for living.
The mildness of this autumn has let farmers take full advantage of harvest and most crop fields have been scalped and gleaned clean. But I was reminded of the old farming tradition of leaving a small patch of each crop un-cut to act as shelter and food for the little people over the coming winter, or suffer their wrath. The owner of the field had left not a stalk behind and his fence had snagged what I know must be a fairy boot on its barb. Full crop he may have but but he can this winter I think expect his roof to leak, his milk to curdle, his wife to scold and his dick to fall off – or some equally awful sequence of misfortunes. English fairies are all gossamer wings and “children need to believe” insecurities, Irish fairies are altogether more vindictive little buggers.
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