Day 6: Cratloe to Nowhere, The Middle of

Duck islands have gotten a bad name of late, but the one in Sixmilebridge is so adorable that, quite frankly, they could have embezzled half the emergency budget money to pay for it and we wouldn't have cared. They also have an amazingly official-looking sign on the road coming into the town from the south saying "Caution: Ducks crossing", which raised morale a good six points.

We had come into Sixmilebridge from Cratloe, having decided upon the change of route outlined in the Day 5 post at exactly the time Simon Corcoran put together this handy map of what we had been going around telling everyone we were doing. Thanks anyway, Simon, but having given ourselves the extra day to Galway the Day 6 stroll was now from Cratloe to some indeterminate point around 30k north, where we would pitch our tents. Grennan's friend Ronan, to his eternal credit, joined us for a walk and, later, a nice bit of baggage hauling. When we get around to writing a list of thank yous, his name is going to feature prominently.

Anyway, it all went swimmingly as far as Tulla (a village which brands itself to the outside world as "Tulla - The Windswept Hill", for reasons that have everything to do with geographical accuracy and very little to do with commercial good sense). Aoife was back, making us an octet again with Smodge and his gigantic ankle back enjoying the bottomless hospitality of the Flinns in Croom. The one downside was the return of the unnecessarily vicious dogs as we returned to isolated farmland. McKinney, who tends to flinch when faced with even the cuddliest of labradors, had to be coaxed through an encounter with four particularly psychotic animals by Aoife, whose extreme blisters presumably left her with no room for fear of any new horror.

The other downside was the exponential increase in that new phenomenon on the walk, Inane and Impossible Questions. Barry, Kaner and McKinney tend to be most afflicted by these. A typical set, tramping along a stretch of road much like any other, might go:

"Where are we going next?"
"How long will it take us to get there?"
"Is it gonna rain between now and then?"
"Will there be shops there? Like, decent shops?"
"Do you think we'll be able to get [some pointless item] in the shop?"
"What'll we do if they don't have [some pointless item]?"

All posited to the sound of grinding teeth and rising blood pressure. The nadir of this fad - another byproduct of low morale, of course - came when the immortal question "Do you think this is a good spot to take a pee?" was asked by one of the more persistent culprits, who should in the interests of group solidarity remain nameless.

Actually, fuck it, it was Tim.

At any rate, despite being hit with the first daytime rain of the walk when entering Knockjames (i.e., a church and a house), we made decent progress to our unspecified point about 18k shy of Gort. Ronan, gods bless him, arrived by car with our bags, tents and lots of Bavaria. Fitzy found a likely spot in the woods, so we pitched camp, cracked open a few tins and, ignoring the constant drizzle, prepared to have some craic after a rough few days. Nothing could possibly go wrong.

Distance Day 6: 30k approx

Theme of the Day: Questions to which no-one could possibly know the answer, but which are asked regardless.

Word of the Day: "Bitches"