A couple of weeks back, in appalling conditions, thirty-or-so Drogheda innocents were lead off the Mournes by the Rescue. Some sneer; some not and some are glad no one died.
There is not one of us who has not had the bejasus scared out of us at some time by ……. absolutely nothing. Not kiss-close crags; not sand-blast hail; neither distance nor danger.
It’s that “absolutely nothing” - the blind bog in the black mirk that does the trick.
Of the 15 odd years in the Scottish Hills and now nearly the same in the Mournes and beyond, there are only 2 spots fill me with quaking apprehension every time I beat myself into them.
The knife ridges of Aonach Eagach? The wicked black airiness of Mweelrea? The lepping lottery of the Devil’s Coachroad?
Nope - two black-hearted bogs: South of Mullwharchar in the Galloway Hills and The Red/Castle Bogs: out of Hilltown, out of sight, out of mind.
The latter as I understand is where a third century of terrified youngsters were tracked down by the peak police.
This is a very bad place.
As soon as the mist comes down, two things happen: coming off Eagle, you play safe (to avoid nowhereland) by bearing too far South - problem 1. And now problem 2, navigating what is actually a “flow” - the best of us find ourselves knee-deep in bog with not a stone for a visual ref and the prospect of death exhausting us.
Dragged up on to Pierce’s Castle, you feel like a cormorant come out of an oil slick.
Going the other way ….., alas I have to go with the first opinion above - and were it such, thanks to various saints they never got a-top Eagle or they might have gone a-bottom.
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