Wet and Windy in the Wilds: A Traverse of the Mamores


Reciting my new mantra, “I do this for fun, I do this for fun, I do this for fun”, I push forwards through the shit. The word “fun” coinciding first with the left and then with the right footfall. There, in the valley, it had just been wet. Here on the ridge it’s, all of a sudden, viciously and horizontaly wet. Rain or cloud, when you’re in it the difference is purely academic, is blasting into my eyes and every orifice that’s not covered in Gore-Tex. My legs are cold. Still wet from those ten minutes of optimism when, thinking we’d been dealt as much Scottish weather as we were going to get, I’d removed my overtrousers. Optimism, in these parts, is often unwarranted. Now I’m left with the job of burning off all that wet and driving it through a semi-permeable membrane. How semi-permeable I wonder? Too semi I suspect. In any case it’s using more energy than I care to use for the purpose.


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