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Timothy O'Sullivan Throughout the night the wind roughly manhandled the tent, giving it a violent shakedown, trying to uproot tent stakes and send us for an impromptu raft ride onto the lake. In the morning we lay listening to the rain beat a stiletto on the taut fly. At times the rain pounded down so hard, we couldn't hear ourselves think. The persistent staccato would build from a whisper into a great fortissimo Mannheim crescendo, then, with careful diminuendo, the Great Conductor varied the wind velocity back to a soft breath, only to perform the plainsong's antiphon with equal excitement afresh in the next few moments. Later, Mr O'Sullivan came down to assess our situation. In his sweet Irish lilt he said, "I was jes' checkin' ta see if you'd bin a'blown inta the lough overnigh'." We admitted it had been close. Mr O'Sullivan was a dear man with a calm and caring manner about him. Many of the Irish we had spoken with seemed to possess a quiet strength of character. Their steadfast eyes spoke of witnessing "many a strange comings and goings." They politely endured all--and then went back to their farms and the way of life they had always known. Mr O'Sullivan's flock consisted of five hundred sheep; the infamous blue-backed variety was his. He told us the farmers spray painted their flocks different colors so they could tell them from the neighbor's. We had seen blue, neon pink, fluorescent orange, yellow and even the elusive greenback. I bet that farmer was either new at sheep ranching, or had last pick of colors. Mr O'Sullivan also owned a few cows and some chickens. He was training Sailor, still a pup, for rounding up the sheep. I watched as he practiced giving Sailor commands. The stealth command was particularly entertaining, where Sailor crouched on his haunches and sneaked along. Across azure Cloonaghlin Lough, a long cascading waterfall tumbled over the mountain's rocky ledge. I was sure the waterfall's source was in those black clouds perpetually overhanging the peaks. If it wasn't for our lack of food we would have happily pitted in for another day. A few fishermen came down to the lake to try their luck. I was so hungry I felt like putting in an order. Instead, at three o'clock, we grabbed our launch window and quickly packed to head for the nearest store. It turned out to be twenty-five kilometers away on the opposite side of a mountain pass. The road veered sharply up as we hit the pass and snaked through forest where small streamlets crossed the road every few hundred meters. With the recent heavy rains the streams surged wildly and water flowed fast in the road side ditches. Over rocky bluffs, cascading waterfalls covered mountain sides like bridal veils. Because little water was absorbed into the rocky terrain with a handful of topsoil, the rains had nowhere to go but down. The only vegetation the slopes sustained was a sparse covering of grass. Only on lower slopes did trees exist. Although the views were captivating, the climb was not a pleasant one. My stomach ached--crying out for food to fuel my straining muscles. Sweat dripped in my eyes and soaked me as I exerted in the humid air. Worst of all, flies tormented me relentlessly as I inched up the pass. The annoying gnats returned repeatedly, despite my constant effort to brush them away. Aggravated I couldn't pedal fast enough to leave the pesky flies behind, I cursed them. Finally, I crested the top and a wide valley stretched before me. The valley floor was a maze of peat marsh and river. The river dissected the otherwise uninterrupted expanse of rolling peat bogs. I flew down the pass--braking hard all the way. It was a rough descent as gravel littered the broken pavement. In several places along the highway, bags of peat sod were stacked in huge mounds. Eleanor had mentioned some of the Irish still spent their entire summer cutting and digging sod to burn for the coming winter. |
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