Monday, 14 September 2009

Boggy, dear

Ben Venue, derived from the gaelic meaning 'the mountain of the cave'. It was a fair climb up with some scrambling involved. All in all it took six hours to tame. Half way, there was an eroded peat bog. It was reminiscent of The Dead Marshes in The Lord of the Rings. Yeah, with the floating corpses. My dad was following close behind me with my brother, Gollum, leading the way. I was stepping tentatively, one might say pussyfooting, but I knew what this bog was capable of if it was anything like the one Frodo navigated. I paused in front of what looked to be a particularly stodgy bit – I glanced around for alternative options. ‘Move aside son’, my dad said confidently, blowing away any cautiousness. He took a large step and was sucked-in up to his titties. Well, not quite. It wasn’t that deep, otherwise I’m pretty sure he’d still be in there, floating amongst the ‘undead’. It had come up just below the knee. The next step was an important one though - if you can get a firm footing you can set yourself free with relative ease. But it wasn’t firm, and the other leg disappeared as well. This all happened in a couple of seconds of intense excitement. I thought he was a goner, but in one swift move and a flailing step he’d managed to keep his balance and slip out of the vortex. Feet aching and mud splattered we arrived back at the hotel and necked an Irn Bru.

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