I was told to find two stones at the bottom of the mountain, to carry them on the ascent.
That it was tradition. I remember the care I took finding just the right ones, squeezing my fists to ensure they were still there as we made our way up through heather, my offering to Queen Maeve whose cairn was at the summit. I was six.
It was my first trek up Knocknarea or any mountain, my first trip to Strandhill, Co Sligo, my first time to Ireland. I know that it was late October, that I had never seen heather, that it might have rained, that I was with my father because he had come home to say goodbye to his dying father, that the higher we climbed, the windier it was.
I was told to find two stones at the bottom of the mountain, to carry them on the ascent. That it was tradition. I remember the care I took finding just the right ones, squeezing my fists to ensure they were still there as we made our way up through heather, my offering to Queen Maeve whose cairn was at the summit. I was six.
It was my first trek up Knocknarea or any mountain, my first trip to Strandhill, Co Sligo, my first time to Ireland. I know that it was late October, that I had never seen heather, that it might have rained, that I was with my father because he had come home to say goodbye to his dying father, that the higher we climbed, the windier it was. But the clearest memory is the press of stone against my palms and the first sight of Maeve s grey stone pile as we came over the ridge.