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After a lunch of salad and two huge slices of cake in Laragh, I walked for an hour and a half, zig-zagging uphill and south and west along the Military road towards Carriginneen. I crested the pass at the Shay Elliot memorial. The day was bright, with high cloud, and cold.
I began casting left and right for potential spots to camp. The first likely-looking option among tufts of grass turned out to be a swamp. I continued on down into a beautiful wooded valley.
Around five o’clock, a wide Coillte forestry track forked off the road and along the contour to my left. It was level, dry and discreet. Above me, the tufted hillside stretched up steeply to a fringe of dark pine forest.
I had raised the basha on poles over my sleeping mat before realising that the gravelly track was too compacted to drive a stake into. The sun dropped towards the mountain on the opposite side of the valley as my anxiety levels rose. I scrambled up the hillside above the track, talking myself up but not hopeful of finding a campsite. I was in luck. The hillside was almost stepped. I lay in a likely-looking spot and squirmed on the boggy ground - this was going to work! I made a few trips down to the track to retrieve my rucksack and unpacked camping paraphenalia, spent a few minutes tripping cartoonishly over stretched guy ropes, and I’d arranged my bed for the night.
Dinner was several slices of soda bread decorated with chunks of butter and draped with salami. The evening turned the sky orange and pink as I glugged mouthfuls of cold water. After seven o’clock I clambered into my sleeping bag. I noted a few tiny insects bobbing against the apex of the basha. Despite the fading light, it was mild and the sky was open, with high cloud. Snug in my sleeping bag, with my eyes shut, I felt as safe as if I were at home in my own bed. I began to drift off.
A little girl stuck by a pin squealed from the edge of the forest above me, jolting me back to wakefulness. I had no idea what I’d just heard. I decided getting fearful would be counterproductive. After all, with my eyes closed I was snug. A minute later, and a little closer, a sound of creaking, splintering wood gave way to the girl’s squeal. This time, there was just enough information in the splintering-wood sound for me to guess with relief that I was hearing the call of a fox.
I’ve seen plenty of suburban foxes, but they’re always silent. Here, on the side of this unpopulated hill miles from any settlement, I was being informed that someone was already in residence. I stayed motionless, but saw no movement and heard nothing more.
