My Continuing Misadventures (Braveheart, Blackberries)

So.

My first week being through, I was released from my duties for a day. This remarkable occurrence happens weekly, and is almost guaranteed to be the source of all my misadventures. Duties, you see, are not adventurous. Let's imagine they are for a moment.

Our hero, finding himself in the laundry room, cautiously approached the counter, where he had last seen the bucket. It was still there, exactly as he had left it the day before. He reached for the bucket and took one long step toward the counter in the same motion, sweeping the bucket with him and arriving, unnoticed, at the sink. The bucket slowly filled. The water rushed from the tap like water, rushing from a tap. He added some Flash, a multi-purpose cleaner, and dipped the rag in, slowly. It soaked up the water quickly, without the satisfying little delay he enjoyed in other, thicker rags. It was time for the downstairs toilets...

Not convincing reading, really. I'm sure something will happen, like I'll set a spoon the wrong direction, or I'll wash the windows before I vacuum, or something crazy like that. But let's face it, I can't blog about everything exciting, so I'll stick mostly to my days off.

To begin my first day off, I decided to sleep in. This being accomplished in grand form, I stuffed my pockets with vitals (pb&j, apple) and set out for a hike. Rostrever is conveniently located at the foot of a "mountain" range, so hiking is very possible. I say "mountain," because that's what the Irish call these rather low and graceful hillocks. But not everyone grew up in the Rockies, and not everyone is quite as tall as I am, so for now I'll just go on calling them mountains.

There is a great stone about half-way up, the Cloughmore Stone, thrown there from Scotland by a giant, according to local folklore. It's not very big really, just an average rock, but Ireland isn't home to many boulders. To anything large. But I was determined to at least reach this stone and then see what was possible. Some picture taking was possible, as well as freezing in the wind. It was a beautiful place, and the stone did add something ancient to the mood. It is a rather odd place for a stone of that size and constitutions... there are no other rocks like it in the area. But, notwithstanding another boulder crashing down while one is there, there is nothing particularly thrilling to do once you reach the stone. I mean, let's be realistic, this is no Blarney Stone. Now that's a stone.

Fortunately, there was a more attractive option just behind me. Drumbeats began to echo in the hollow cavern of my skull, bagpipes whistled faintly in my knickers - yes, there was a sheep trail. And it led upward, toward to summit of a mountain on an island roughly located in the vicinity of that paramount of mountain-summit-sheep-trail-islands: Scotland. I Without hesitation I clapped my claymore (camera) onto my back, and secured my buckskin pack (small sized freezer baggy complete with twisty-tie and containing one pb&j, sliced) and set off at a brisk trot.

There is something very fundamental in me, and in most of the male species (I hope), which gets the greatest satisfaction in having climbed something, and having attained the summit, to lunch upon it. There is nothing like a sandwich to tell that mountain just how thoroughly it has been climbed. So I at my sandwich and apple, and raced on, for the sake of the tribes.

This lasted for some time, and if you are really interested to hear how I saved Ireland (and by extension, Scotland) from William the Longshanks, you will have to inquire after further details, or rent a recent blockbuster made in my honor, and under my name (with permission), at your local video rental of choice. Meanwhile it is the journey home that is of primary interest here.

You see. I'm fairly sure that William Wallace knew about blackberry brambles, but Lord knows he never told me about them. Oh I knew of their treacherous barbs and brambly nature - I just wasn't aware as to just how extensively they can cover the forest floor. You see, as I was fresh from proving my manhood on the highlands, I was sure that a little detour between the carpark and the lower trail was merely matter-of-course. It was a matter of hours actually, and many bad decisions and stubborn scratches later, I found myself in the middle of the forest surrounded by shoulder high blackberry brambles (and I mean, from ankle to shoulder - solid bramble). My only option (after climbing a tree to ascertain whether continued torture would yield the path) was two large stone walls, a field of blackberries and several pride-notches back to where I had started - the carpark. So, cursing and wincing, I scraped myself back and found the trail and accepted the pedestrian defeat of walking easily back to the main road.

All in all, a wonderful day off. A bath and a nap, and I was right as rain - and several ounces lighter, having left a considerable amount of skin with my friends the blackberries. Tomorrow I shall again brave the laundry room, and perhaps the leaves in the garden, but for that, there's another blog, and another day - cheers,