A cautionary column…

Sitting down to the keyboard to tap out this week’s column, I had initially intended to rub your nose in my recent ten days off, the zenith of which I spent in Krakow, Poland, a city of yesteryear, where nuns still stroll the streets and the pints still cost a pound.

However, just as I was about to begin comparing the joys of my recent life to the presumable drudgery of yours (aye, I know it was sunny, but just let me have it), I remembered a close call I had in the days that fell before my eastbound flight, and, thus, the winds of my conscience have steered me upon a more noble path. This shall be a cautionary column.

It happened up a hill – and a quare hill it was too – in Co Sligo, at a place known as Diarmuid and Grainne’s Cave.

Right, first of all, that’s it over there. See the big picture? Right. Well, see the wee black hole towards the top of the near-vertical-looking slope? That’s Diarmuid and Grainne’s Cave.

Crucial point: This is not the photo by which I was introduced to Diarmuid and Grainne’s when a friend told me about it a few months ago.

In the image I was originally shown, it looked like a tough but totally doable climb. I’m not sure how the photographer managed to achieve a perspective from which it looked so innocent, but they did.

A couple of weeks ago, thinking of a pleasant way to while away a sunny day, I told another friend about Diarmuid and Grainne’s.

“Apparently it became really popular during the lockdowns,” I told them, blind to the perils that attempting to conquer the cave would bring.

“Sign me up,” came the keen reply.

So, for Sligo we set out, determined to best the beast, penetrate the stony penthouse, and gaze across the Gleniff Horseshow from the heavens of the west.

Sunshine and showers, said the weather forecast, but, as we made our way down the road, it seemed the met office only had it half right. The only clouds in sight were benevolent wisps of pipe-smoke.

The scenery on the way there is astounding. As you advance towards the cave, entering the Gleniff Horseshoe area, passing the stoic Ben Bublen plateu, rounding the bend past Eagle’s rock, the environment becomes more epic with every turn. Rolling hills turn to grassy mountains that become rocky cliffs, ancient giants that seem at once threatening and protective.

“This is unreal,” we grinned at each other, giddy with awe.

Parking the van on the road, we could identify the cave easily, tiny but unmissable, a pitch black hole in an expansive wall of rock.

“Looks far steeper in real life,” observed my friend.

“Aye, it does, doesn’t it.”

Diarmuid and Grainne’s, we found out later, is one of the highest caves in Ireland, access without permission means trespassing private property, and attempting a climb it is to take a deadly risk.

Had we done a bit of research beforehand, this would have been obvious. In our naivety, however, we did not. Sure how scary could an aul’ slope in Sligo be?

“There is a 15k trail, but I can’t see how that gets us to the mouth of the cave,” I said, looking towards a path that seemed to run miles away from the jaws we hoped to enter.

With clownish confidence, we set upon a path of our own discretion.

This was a big mistake.

The first half hour was okay. The gradient of the hill was tight, but manageable.

But soon the fall of the slope began to sharpen, growing steeper and steeper, until a semi-safe ascent meant taking to all-fours.

“Ye alright?” I shouted over my shoulder, feeling a bit out of my depth.

“Aye, I’m grand,” came the reply, their usual bravado already faltering.

The face of the slope continued to tilt towards the sky, and the dry grass that was ubiquitous at the foothills was giving way to loose stones.

After stopping and deliberating, we decided that the progress we had made was too great to give up. We would, with the utmost care, achieve what we had set out to do.

About an hour and a bit after starting out, we reached an impasse below the mouth of the cave. A barrier of rockface stood between us and the cave, with no obvious point of passage.

With grey clouds starting to move ominously in, we struggled to subdue our panic, both knowing but not saying that rain would surely make our decent far more dangerous.

“Time to head back down then?” I asked, with what I hoped was a semblance of cool.

“Aye.”

Taking to our backsides, like children on a staircase, we edged our way down, slow and steady, cursing quiet incantations that the wet would stay away.

With each rock that came lose under our feet, dislodging and starting downward, we tried to restrain our imaginations from being inspired by their helpless acceleration, as they rolled, tumbled, then barrelled down the mountainside.

When we eventually got to the bottom, I got a well earned mouthful of abuse for suggesting that Diarmuid and Grainne’s Cave might be a nice way to spend a sunny day.

I took it on the chin, apologised profusely, then lifted my phone, called the friend who showed me the picture in the first place, and ask him to explain why he had tried to kill me.