Mountain goats

So, on Saturday, because I sometimes don’t think things through, I climbed a mountain. Up, up, up I staggered. Down and down I sprang.

My sister had been mentioning that she was going to climb the tallest mountain near us at some point this summer and I’d casually thrown my name into the hat to be part of the mountain goat gang. Ireland doesn’t specialise in particularly tall mountains and I thought it’d be good to add some outdoor country-air exertion to my new active life. Ireland may not have very tall mountains but it still meets mountain classification and it is the 2nd or 3rd highest in the country.


And so, on a mixed and blustery day, I picked up two friends from town and met my sister and her gang of goats at the foot of the mountain. 5 minutes later we took a break and wondered if we could call this the top. Well, kind of. But in no time at all my body had adjusted to this upward motion and I was making great strides forward (up). Upward we went for two hours, taking breathers when necessary. Finally we paused and eyed the ever thicker mist blocking our final ascent. Rather than get lost horribly in the mist, we decided to declare that point “our” top and to eat our sandwiches. Munching ensued and when the mist rolled down over us and I began to shiver I announced it was going down time.

And how much easier that is; once you can keep your surefooted stance. My knee began to object towards the end but the pub and a seat out of the mist beckoned and I soldiered on to the end. My sister fell on her head. Luckily that was on moss, and not a stone!

Today, it’s not my knee that’s objecting any more. It’s not even my legs. Rather inelegantly my backside is seriously stiff. It does not make a sexy walk.