My Short-Lived Reign on the Hill of Tara~~

The fields of Tara were rain soaked and covered with piles of wet, slippery sheep poop, dropped at random on the dense sodden grass and the muddy walking paths. I stepped carefully, keeping my eyes fixed on the ground below me, making my way up the slow but steady incline to the highest point of the hill.  I arrived at the ancient Stone of Destiny, proud of the stellar job I had done arriving on the hill with little or no detectable poo on my shoes. There was a light drizzle falling, but it did little to dampen my spirits as I looked around in every direction.  It was unlike anything I had ever seen, and I felt a great sense of accomplishment, thankful that my ailing knee had held up for the trek.  I glanced to the left and spotted the raised burial mound, standing another six to eight feet higher and probably twenty feet wide.  I had to try.  I was certain that the view from there would be incredible.  I approached with careful observation, analyzing my options and finding the side of the mound that seemed to have the best niches for footholds.  I climbed carefully, stopping with each step up, my knee sending an unfriendly reminder that it was not up for a climb of this nature.  I ignored it, I was fearless, I ventured upward to the top and as I stood there looking out across Ireland I felt like Rocky.  I had climbed and conquered; I was victorious. 

*

My daughter, Molly, stood there with me as I celebrated the success of my daring feat.   As we marveled at the view, the rain began to fall harder and we agreed that it might be prudent to head back across the field.  I still wanted to visit the visitor’s center and gift shop.  Richard stood at the bottom with an indiscernible look on his face.  Molly made her way down ahead of me, repeatedly insisting that I take her hand and follow her.  I refused, confident in my abilities until the realization of my predicament hit me full force. I was standing on a steep-sided mound covered with wet grass, wet mud and wet sheep droppings.  And I have a dodgy knee. And I’m wearing no-tread tennis shoes. It was a brilliant recipe for disaster, and I was “standing at the hob.” I took one step and paused, another and I nodded smugly at my newfound mountain-climbing skills, a third step and my worst fear materialized in a split second. I placed my right foot on a muddy spot and it slid out from under me, propelling my entire body downward, mud-skiing on the bent leg of my dodgy knee. My other leg was stretched straight out behind me, the foot desperately trying to dig in somewhere, wanting to put an end to the horror.  I slid in slow motion, and as I oozed through the wet grass, mud and sheep shit, I remember seeing the horror-stricken face of my husband as he envisioned my spending the remainder of our holiday in a full leg cast.  My daughter stood helplessly below me, arms out, offering help she could not give.  I had almost reached the merciless end of my messy descent when the foot of my bad leg caught on a clump of grass, nearly propelling me forward into a classic head-over-heels routine.  My body raised up, then fell back as I came to rest at the bottom. 

*

My brain kicked into panic mode, "Can you get up?"  "Can you walk?"  "Is your knee completely blown out?"  "How freaking filthy are your pants?"  Pausing a moment to contemplate the prospect of rising, standing, and walking, I glanced up to see my husband’s hand extended toward me and I allowed him to pull me upward. I stood perfectly still as I analyzed the pain in my knee. It hurt, but I was sure I could walk. I tried a few steps and was relieved that I was able to hobble away from the laughing spirits buried deep beneath the mound. Walking intensified the uncomfortable feeling of wet, sticky, smelly clothing adhered to my limbs, and I had a fleeting thought that this must be how a dirty diaper felt.  I stopped and glanced downward, seeing the thick, brown frosting caked on my pant legs, jacket, shoes and part of my previously-impressive Tommy Hilfiger messenger bag.  Visiting the gift shop suddenly seemed out of the question, and I was very upset that I would not get a souvenir from this place I had longed to see.

*

The chivalry surfaced in my husband and he removed his now-ruined grey sweatshirt and began to wipe the slick, brown crud from my clothing.  He did an admirable job, though it was impossible to remove it all.  My black tennis shoes were brown, my pants from the knee down were wet and brown-streaked, and my arse was totally soaked.  There were spots and streaks here and there, and as I limped toward the visitor's center my daughter encouraged me to go ahead and visit the gift shop.  I knew she was right; I had come too far to let this opportunity pass, so I went in and shopped in spite of my disgusting appearance.  I spoke with the man at the register and told him my story; he chuckled and said, "It happens all the time.  You weren't the first, and you won't be the last."  I purchased a refrigerator magnet that says "Ireland" and it has a bunch of cute little white sheep all over it.  I decided that they represented all the people who had come to climb the Hill of Tara.  Oh.....there was one black sheep in their midst.  That was me.