saturdays were meant for tromping. this i learned from dad more than a dozen years ago as we sat on the back bumper of the car lacing up our hiking boots and swigging a preparatory dose of powerade before setting out for the trailhead. i’d scamper ahead, unperturbed by the seven books in my backpack (there’s nothing worse than being caught waiting somewhere without just the right reading material). dad strode steadily behind me, unaware of my literary luggage but still calling out, “pace yourself! pace yourself!” an hour later, he was serenely climbing on and i was brightly telling him every five minutes that my legs were fine, i didn’t need a break, well, ok, i was getting a little hungry and could we have some gorp? (there are innate rules about eating gorp. first almonds, then peanuts, then coconut flakes, then dried fruit chunks, then m’n’ms by colour, starting with whichever there’s more of with the exception of brown. brown is always last because everyone knows it’s more chocolatey.)

yesterday, i had no gorp, no powerade, and only two books — though impressively stout ones — in my backpack. nor was dad walking purposefully behind me, although i did hear his voice in my ear (“always stay on the trail!”) as i paused at the edge of the gravel road that winds between corrib village and the river. the problem with this gravel road is that a vast field of tall grass winds between it and the river, and the river was what i really wanted to walk beside. burbling water, tranquil swans, the occasional angler in a dinghy and all that.

well, i’m a rebel. what else would you call a six-year-old who, after being instructed not to carry any extra weight in her pack, promptly zips her two-pound stuffed swan into the main pouch? to my intense distress, dad caught that one before we left the car that morning; but yesterday, there was nobody in sight. i turned my face to the river and set forth. stepping from one tussock of grass to the next, i was soon enveloped in a disconcerting forest of brittle stalks which seemed to know things. and when i say enveloped, i mean that all i could see no matter where i turned was grass, unless i tipped my head all the way back and then i could see a little circle of sky.

it was incredible.

however, once the river presented itself, burbling away as expected, it seemed a foolhardy choice to continue on stalk-smashing and tussock-hopping along its banks. for one thing, i’d never make it back for dinner. so i set out for the gravel road at a tangent to the bank, and i wasn’t more than halfway there when one healthy-looking tussock unexpectedly gave up the ghost. i stepped right through it, into cold, cold water. how right you were, dad.

it seems that the corrib river is so full of riverishness that it can’t manage to contain itself. i’d stumbled right into one of its shallow arms, and despite my initial unladylike squawks, i soon saw that there was nothing for it but to trudge on through. the brittle forest full of dark secrets led straight through the mud, encroached on every side by a vicious forest full of blackberry thorns — and i’ll pick dirt and mystery over scratches any day.

[[fortified by a golden delicious apple with lots of pb, and then later angie’s amazing tacos and bourbon cookies which don’t contain bourbon, i’ve returned.]]

so, i splooged, laughing, through the muck. and gingerly surmounted a barbed wire fence. and beat down the blackberry bushes with a smallish stick that wasn’t as like a machete as might have been desired, but did lend itself admirably to my quickly emerging intrepid explorer aura. when at last i stumbled into the gravel road, it was with a wryly triumphant smile that i turned to survey the vista behind me. nothing i’d have plunged into of my own free will, that’s for sure; sometimes you’re better off seeing only the waving stalks around and the tiny disc of sky above.

my shoes themselves were doing a fair bit of burbling by this time, but it actually felt nice. a podiatric mud bath or something. anyway, i meandered up the road, past hedges and meadows and forests until the path broke out right on the edge of the water, and there, across the corrib, stood the crumbling remains of menlo castle.

ivy crawls over its walls and cows nose about its foundation, and i envied both of them their on-the-same-side-of-the-river-as-the-castle status. there was nothing for it but to plod along looking wistfully at it until i stumbled upon three gaelic football fields in quick succession and stopped to watch the college lads play out their game, stony-faced in their burgundy and white.

then, promising myself to explore the menlo side of the river next weekend, i walked up past the university sports grounds and back along newcastle road, slipping under the double arches of the quad and settling down on a wooden bench to read frank mcguinness’ carthaginians (the first of those impressively stout books) and feeling immensely collegiate. it’s hard not to when you’re sitting in here.

and then a wedding party came in to take their pictures, and the bride’s train and veil danced in the breeze and she never stopped smiling once. after finishing the mcguinness play, i dropped it off at the library and booked my flight to seattle, then trotted back home for a ginormous plate of pesghetti, which has been dad’s saturday specialty for as long as i can remember.

it was a beautiful day.