Hedonistic weather conditions worked themselves into a frenzy Saturday last, and fired off rain and hail of ballistic proportion mistaking the Magillicuddy Reeks for Poseidon’s realm. Levels of discomfort endured by those on the Scavvy Six explain why the dol unit was proved useless and dropped. Did it deter? Not in the least. Hill walkers, apparently, have some type of weird immunity to the detrimental; it must be down to due caution and necessity. Scotchie has no sensation in the tip of one finger two days later but the remaining ones still tingle with buzz sufficient to keep him fully digitalized. Hill walking endows folk with the strangest abilities. Deserved kudos goes to Jackill, dbloke and dBleck who led from the front, the middle and the rear. Caretaking twelve up, over, along and down this horseshow route, given the degrees of variance, brilliance, dalliance, and apparent flattening of the dome of the sky, is no mean feat. Given that they too got the weather from their zeniths to their horizons, no less than philosophy, numeracy (how many coats one could wear at any given time under a backpack, over a backpack, and across the Beenkeragh), fashion faux pas and risqué, (shorts, shorts no less, (No matter how fine the legs!) in Ireland in April in the Reeks!) and if I recall correctly snatches of Black Adder sketches re-incarnate was par for the day. For folk who operate on the scale of maglev, elders and newbies amongst them, sauntering is a patient art and am I glad they indulged. Thank you to all mountainviewers and friends for their splendid company and kindnesses day of Scavvy Six into night into day after, including the emergence of Captain Vertigo from the far side, and the fine dining and wining. Oh and all hallows to Mother Nature and our Kerry playground. The Reeks are poetry incarnate, from her little haikus to her greater works as terrifying in proportion as the nurse’s breast in Brobdingnag, poetry, pure poetry from beginning to the full stop.