The sun hung like a huge flaming white hot ball in a cloudless
sky. It was high summer and I was spending an idyllic day
rambling the slopes of Benevenagh Mountain, close by the
shores of Lough Foyle in County Derry. I had started some
time earlier by leaving my car in the little car park just
off the main road, and now, nearing lunch time, had reached
the grassy band between the treeline and the rock face proper
of the mountain. My stomach told me it was time for a snack,
and my aching legs gave due notice that a break and a short
rest were called for, so I sat down on a grassy knoll close
by the mouth of a small cave, rummaged in my knapsack and
found a small packet of sandwiches, and a bottle of cool
spring water.
The day was exceedingly hot, and I suppose being tired,
I felt drowsy and at peace with the world. Of course who
wouldn鈥檛 be in such a heavenly place, with the smell
of the gorse, the song of the lark, and the call of the
Peregrine to its mate high in the sky above. I heard a noise
of jangling harness in the distance and soon also a low
murmur of voices, with the occasional snatch of song. I
saw, coming up the hill, along the path which I had trodden
some short time before, a procession of people in medieval
clothing, and led by a man on horseback. This man was dressed
in dark clothing, and although the day was hot, wore a long
dark green cloak, clasped at his neck with a fine gold clasp,
allowing the cloak to flow behind him on to the horse鈥檚
back. He carried a short sword at his belt, and looked neither
right nor left, but stared straight ahead.
The procession behind him was made up of women and children,
some leading pack ponies or donkeys, others carrying bundles,
and all of them conversing together, with much laughter
and enjoyment. The leader stopped his horse and raised his
hand in a gesture to the procession behind him. It stopped
and the leader said something in a low voice. Immediately,
all laid down their bundles in a neat pile, tethered the
pack animals to nearby shrubs, and began to make camp. The
women gathered stones to build a fireplace, whilst already
some of the children were returning from a small local wood
with dead branches, obviously for use as firewood. A fire
was lighted and soon a delightful aroma of roasting meat
filled the air.
A woman from the group came over to where I was seated and
said 鈥淪tranger, will you honour us by sharing in our
simple meal?鈥 to which I readily agreed, and was handed
a wooden platter, on which was placed a large portion of
steaming roast chicken, together with a hunk of coarse brown
bread. Never had food tasted so good, flavoured with the
wild thyme which grew abundantly close by. The meal was
washed down by draughts of a fiery liquid in a wooden mug,
a drink which all, even the children, seemed to enjoy freely.
The woman told me that the group was on its way from Dungiven
to Dunluce, in County Antrim, to attend the wedding feast
of a princess of the MacQuillan clan, who was to marry a
Scottish prince two days hence. A harp was produced and
several of the women sang haunting melodies before the leader
called them to order, so that they could proceed onwards
on their journey.
The area where the group had gathered and feasted was cleared
of all debris, even to the point of the stones for the fire
being returned to their original places, and soon I was
bidding farewell to my new-found friends.
I awoke with a start for there was a distinct chill in
the air, and the setting sun was hanging like a blood red
sphere low over the Donegal Hills, and reflecting on the
still waters of Lough Foyle like the broad beam of a lighthouse.
My head was aching and my mouth was dry, obviously I first
thought from sleeping too long in the warm sun. My packet
of sandwiches were still untouched close by me. I put up
my hand to dash the sleep from my eyes, and it was then
noticed that my fingers were greasy, and had the distinct
smell of roast chicken. I looked around and saw a small
wooden mug lying at my feet, still containing a few drops
of an amber liquid.
