The skies were overcast, but not a drop of rain when I awoke, so I gathered my things and made my way into town for breakfast. As I got tucked into my food, the rain began, and was soon torrential. The restaurant I was breakfasting in was run by a French woman, who let me know that the forecast was for the rain to continue at the same belt all day. This left me in something of a dilemma, in that, cheapskate that I am, I was hoping to make it to the Monchique Mountain Spa resort for two nights by Saturday (they have a two nights for the price of one offer in February!). The only way I was going to make it was to complete a stage a day. So nothing for it, I had to gird my loins and brave the elements.
Once I got out on the road, the rain was actually pretty thin, so I went merrily on my way. Half an hour into it, the rain picked up, so I increased the pace. This led me to send a sliotar into the river which ran beside the path (well, five foot wide river, but swelled by all the rain), the ball was quickly swept downstream, so I was forced to follow it, it got snagged after a while, I’m sure you can see where this is going. The bank I leaned out on collapsed and I fell, rucksack and all into the river. I quickly righted myself, by was still waist deep, clambered out, none too happy.
The American Indians say “know the river and you know all things”. I think I got to know this river a little more than I would have liked to. Luckily my phone and laptop seem to be riverproof, my passport’s wavy pages will be a reminder of today for years to come.
At least this made the rain a bit more bearable, when you are soaked through, the rain doesn’t make much difference. I kept marching on.
The rain came and went, as did the sun, it was a very enjoyable day overall, moving into ground more heavily cultivated, some nice walks, through olive groves and through fields filled with oranges.
It struck as I was getting well into my hurling groove, that this was actually how hurling may well have been for thousands of years, just a man, a stick, a sliotar and a mountain. I think that’s worth remembering, that hurling isn’t something owned by anyone, the GAA (wonderful organization that they are), or anyone else, it just something there to be enjoyed. There to be enjoyed by anyone who wants to pick up a hurley, then pick up a ball and hit it.
Brian Cody said you only need three things to become a great hurler, a stick, a ball and a wall. If you don’t have a suitable wall, I can assure you that a mountain makes a great alternative.
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