The Slough of Despond
 For the second hike, it still rained something fierce in the morning, but the afternoon cleared up nicely.  This was the hike where I discovered there is very little dry ground in Ireland.  I originally called this hike 'The Death March' but Judith came up with a more appropriate title from "Pilgrim's Progress."  Good thing, too, since, as you will see, I needed to save the original title for a later hike.
    

Starting out.  It looks more than a little like a
hike in the Adirondack Mountains.

  

  

  
Once the sun appeared, the scenery was beautiful.  For a little while, we walked on country lanes, giving me a false sense of security.

  

Punk sheep.  If you look closely, you'll see their coats spray painted different colors.  This is the farmer's way of branding their sheep.

  

  

  
Hiking trails in Ireland tend to cross private lands, which provide a variety of obstacles.

  

Where we came from.  This is the view looking down the mountain we just climbed.  It was a long and difficult trek due to the wet ground.  Up until then, I had associated high ground with dry ground.  Not any more.

  

  

   

   

  

  
Where we are going.  This is the other side of the mountain, the lake we need to hike around and, in the distance, the Slough of Despond.  The entire walk will be treacherous and soggy and a large portion of it will take us through a peat bog, which was a lot like trekking across a soggy, brown desert.  It was not a fun or relaxing afternoon, as evidenced by the fact that, after this shot, I didn't take any more photos, I was too busy trying to keep upright.

  

Journal Excerpt:  . . . People slid, people fell, people-one by one-joined "The Wet Bum Club."  My knee began acting up badly due to the descent and terrain until I was forced to accept help from Shonagh in the form of an ace bandage and some chewable Ibuprofen.  It did little good.

     . . . [the bog]  was firmer than it appeared—which was fortunate or we all would have disappeared into the mire—but it was still like walking on sopping, brown sponge.  The only way across was to put one foot ahead of the other.  And this I kept doing.
     Eventually, due to my knee, I fell to the rear of the group with the rest of the "walking wounded."  
After what seemed an interminable time, we emerged, only to find even more wet and treacherous grasslands.  It became like a military maneuver, where the point man would stumble into an ambush or onto a land mine.  We walked in single file, then the point would momentarily disappear from view and we'd hear the cry, "Hole!" or "Slippery bit!"  The point would join "The Wet Bum Club" and the rest of us would avoid the hazard.

   

         
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