Stuck in the Mud
It is indisputable that the gentle descent of a summer’s sun in the West of Ireland is nothing short of stupendous. Captivated by such a moment I determined one evening to chase those last long lovely rays and leaped, slipper-shod, into my car, pootling off to wherever the light might take me. Wending down the lane I went, Newbrook House receding in the rearview mirror and in front to the right another lane, seemingly smaller due to its brambled hedged hedges. On and on I drove delighting in the glory of the wondrous play of light stroked fields, animals nonchalant and contented in their grazing. And then, all too soon, the advent of twilight signalled that it was time to return home to the warmth and welcoming arms of the granary. And that is when things came to an abrupt halt.
It was getting cold and I had determined that the most expedient way home (admittedly thoughts of a steaming cup of tea might have clouded my judgment somewhat) was to effect a three-point turn forthwith. So focused was I on the task at hand that I failed to notice (nor indeed how could I?) that the back left wheel was hovering precariously close to a well disguised ditch filled to the brim with mud and a most clever overlay of brambles, moss, long grasses and lichen. Even a surveyor on his daily perambulations would have failed to discern such a superbly camouflaged channel of doom. In the blink of an eye the back wheel had fallen into the abyss and the car was now in a deep and meaningful relationship with the mud filled menace.
The sun, my friend and ally, had completely abandoned me, disappearing behind the holy mountain of Croagh Patrick, and in its stead a damp, chill night air promised to pervade every pore of my being. "Not a problem" thought I, hopping out of the car and promptly sinking into the mud. Slippers are not the most convivial footwear for these types of situations. Heavy black safety boots calf high, laced and zipped, soles ridged like tractor tyres, the type a winchman wears when throwing himself out of a helicopter to rescue a damsel in distress. Or an idiot who is stuck in the mud. What on earth was I thinking? A little push here, a little shove there would somehow magically extract a two tonne vehicle from the claws of Mother Nature's grasp? Clearly I was labouring under a misapprehension that I was one of those Marvel characters, a County Mayo Carol Danvers.
Disengaged now from my disbelieving reverie, I cast my mind back to a time when the dizzying pace of inner city living, packed bag ready to jet off to any far flung destination at a moment’s notice, was the norm. How did I now find myself trapped in the countryside, sporting the most supremely inadequate footwear with not the merest hint of a single bar of a telephone signal? But even if I had been able to connect with a knight in shining armour and even if I had been able to persuade them to gallop or winch me from what was guaranteed to be a slow and unenviable doom, I had no means of directing my would be saviour to the place of my distress.
“Oh hello, rescue service? Yes, I’m in a field in County Mayo. Not too far from Newbrook House. Landmarks? Um, lots of cows, not as many sheep. I think I passed a grotto. Well, several grottos. No houses, just a few stone sheds. Sorry I can’t be more helpful.”
And that’s pretty much how the conversation would go. And the mud of my oblivion would claim its prey with only the lovely adoring cows and sheep to bear witness to my inevitable demise.
