And then the rain came: Furnazinhas – Vaqueiros

John walked me up to where I had left the path the previous evening, before he sent me off with a pat on the back, he told me that I had a fine days walking ahead of me, what his sister called a sea of mountains. She wasn’t far wrong, it was the real deal, rio grande-esque country.
It threw up a couple of interesting hills, which threw up a couple of interesting valleys. Not much wildlife about, birds torpedoing themselves out of trees that I’ve sent a sidewinder into, the odd jack rabbit and the occasional imagined bear or panther to keep me on my toes.
I am beginning to get into the swing of this hurling thing (pun intended). There is nothing like doing something for the majority of your day to give yourself a bit of a handle on it. It’s not that I feel this self-imposed hurling boot camp is going to turn me into the next Christy Ring, but it will improve me. Better than last year, if we can stick to that with all that is important to us, we won’t go far wrong. It’s good to put the hours in. I was lucky enough to be born the son of two craftspeople, I have seen first hand the dedication required to improve. Having only scored a single point in competitive matches in the last two seasons (as a forward), it will not be too difficult to chart any progress.
It seems to me that is why Kilkenny and Dublin are where they are in the hurling world. The difference between the two is that in Kilkenny you have not only a stream of available talent, but a stream of hurlers willing to put in the fifteen hours plus per week over a number of years to develop that talent.
Living in a world where the average number of hours spent watching TV per week is ten plus, it’s strange that we can’t cultivate the same culture in Dublin. It seems to come down to this, if you live in Killkenny and you get the nod for the senior hurling team, you will receive the sort of admiration and adulation usually reserved for Astronauts.
Who wouldn’t put in fifteen hours a week for that?
If you spent over 15 hours a week playing hurling for most of your adult life in Dublin, people would just think you were a bit of a spacer.
This is what occupied my mind for the last grueling hour of today’s walk, when the rain came down in driving sheets. I was thankful that it was only for the last hour, and was almost happy to hear and see the dogs of Vaqueiros. Unfortunately the accommodation recommended for that stage end was not open yet for the season. Damn you recommended accommodation list. It ended up that the only option was to pay someone to drive me back to Furnazinhas. John wasn’t around but the village people (not the band) brought me into one of their simple homes and warmed me with their fire and laughter. Within twenty minutes they had located Olivia, who arrived with her beautiful French speaking daughter. We somehow managed to communicate all the information through my dreadful French, and they soon had me stowed away in John’s guest house with warmth and promises of Portuguese soup.