The path upwards has taken a left (to cross Donard Bridge), and then a right to stay along stream on a rough and rocky track. On reaching the next bridge reverse the order, right to cross then left to continue along the river. One needs to cross the track at the next bridge to reach a gate a little higher up and to clear the wood. Once passed the ice-house, (now visible on the river’s left bank on way up) one sees the mountains and the saddle ahead. The path is easily discernable, and eventually crosses the river again to lead the walker to a rocky staircase straight ahead, up the side of the saddle. It was on the way to the ‘stairs’ at a rock larger than any other in its vicinity, we met the pair of mountain guardians, putting the place to rights again. This rock is obviously a stop off before the tougher pull up. Folk appear to ‘do’ lunch or a water stop judging by the empty bottles and wrappers the young pair gathered here. Contrast this with Tollymore Park where the streams, rivers and trees have been developed so that the area is protected, ‘paved and pretty’ I think is the term of choice. Litter is facilitated for. It is a contrived and organised world and in its own right really quite special and beautiful to stroll through. How few places there are where the eye is not met with wilful contrivance or jarred with our modernity? What does it take to keep the beer swillers, and litter louts out, if not managed? CCTV on the way in supervised by guardians with some clout, and I mean batons here or stun guns aimed at derrières. I empathise, marymac and your encounter with the abandoned gas cooker. By the time one reaches the ice-house, and peeps into its igloo belly, one realises how cowardly our breed have become. The climb up to the saddle restores balance, the vista just visible, before the ten minutes it took heavy cloud to swallow Donard and Commedagh both. And then someone remembers arranging the fleece and waterproofs in neat rolls on the bed for the backpack they never reached, and while I zip mine to the eyelids, yes, even past mine gob, we race the clouds back down to the pub, and breathless, I have no more to say about taciturnity.