The Mountains of Mourne

“Bloody Bridge, return ticket, please,” I say.

“Thirteen pound seventy,” the bus driver says, and I hand over the last of my money. In return, he gives me a ticket, and I go to the back of the bus to join Hannah and Victoria.

The air outside is biting, the wind strong, but the bus is snug and warm. Victoria and I shrug off our coats and hang them up to let them dry. It is raining in Belfast, but we are reasonably confident that our destination will be dry.

“Hey,” Victoria says, “We’re all wearing our Queen’s hoodies!”

The first month we were in Belfast, the three of us bought almost identical Queen’s hoodies, and this was the first time the three of us had worn them at the same time.

“A for coordination, guys,” Victoria says. “Great planning. We should get a picture of this before we all go home.”

“That’s a good idea,” Hannah says. She is already dozing off in her chair. I watch three other people board the bus for Newcastle, and then our empty bus rattles south, to the Mountains of Mourne.

We switch buses at Newcastle, getting on a bus bound for Kilkeeny. Looming ahead of us are the Mountains of Mourne, shrouded in mist. To our left is a giant bay, the waves crashing heavily against the shore. Everything else is a giant stretch of green farmland. We watch a seagull floating carelessly on the icy water. “Did you know seagulls actually spend up to seven months at sea?” Victoria says. “They can actually drink saltwater, and they have a little filter in their mouths which separates the water from the salt. That’s why their beaks are always encrusted with salt.”

“I can’t believe we’re going to Bloody Bridge on Halloween,” Hannah says again. None of us can believe it, really. I have built up a location in my mind of a slightly rickety wooden bridge, surrounded by looming pine trees, with a dark creek running beneath it. Yet I do not recognise our stop when we finally arrive, and our bus driver has to turn around and say, “This is you, guys.”

We scramble off of the bus, and take in our surroundings. There is a steep dirt path leading down to the bay, and then across the road is a gate leading to the mountains. I bolt for the bay, Victoria threatening to leash me if I do not behave.

“She’s like a puppy,” she complains to Hannah. Hannah shrugs; at least I am entertaining. We take pictures of the sea, of the waterfall, of the bridge, which is a simple concrete one that evokes nothing in the way of gothic art or death or blood. As we climb back up the slippery slope to the road, and cross to the mountains, there is only a little stone sign, about a metre high, that says, simply, BLOODY BRIDGE.

Happy Halloween, I think, this isn’t terrifying at all. 

 We follow a little gate, one that we have to squeeze through, and find ourselves on a stone path leading up. Next to the bath is a steady stream, with several small waterfalls cascading down. We start our ascent. It had rained here this morning, too, and I slip a few times, my hands flailing around, grabbing nettles for balance. Then nettles sting me, even wearing gloves. “Ow,” I hiss, each time, and Hannah and Victoria turn to make sure I have not twisted my ankle.

Hannah takes pictures of the flora and fauna, while I inch closer to the waterfalls. Victoria bounds ahead, and when she realises we are not in earshot, turns around and waits impatiently for us to catch up.

“Sorry,” I say, with a grin, “you need two dedicated backpackers to climb this mountain with, and you’ve got two avid photographers instead.”

The way is rocky. Through man’s intervention or God’s intercession they fall like stairs in most places, sometimes falling away to large rock faces. It is relatively easy to climb, and despite my clumsy falls into the nettles, we make good time. Soon we come to a nice wooden bridge, which we cross with a sense of relief—until, at the other side, Victoria discovers…. “Be careful,” she calls back, “there’s poop.”

At the end of the bridge is a large paddy, larger than a cow or a horse. Victoria is our future veterinarian, and she decides it must belong to a mule. Our way becomes more treacherous, as we negate the narrow rock stairs and try to avoid stepping in mule dung. The way is getting even steeper now, and the trail seems to be hidden by the brush. Victoria is again rushing ahead, eager to reach the top and look down at the world below. I am climbing more slowly, taking photographs, conversing energy.

I come to the top of a small hill, so that the path levels out for a bit, and stop short. Hannah is behind me, and she stops too, confused.

“Victoria,” I say, too loudly, “I found who was leaving the scat.”

Victoria turns around, confused, only to see me almost face to face with a yak. 

 I have only ever seen yaks in pictures and on Everest documentaries, but I know a yak when I see one. It had long yellow-orange hair, and it eyed me and the others with a bit of curiosity.

“Wow. How did I miss that?” Victoria asks. I finish climbing up so Hannah can see. Hannah is a little panicked, but together we assure each other out loud that there is nothing to fear from yaks. They are gentle creatures, and strong ones. As we climb higher, we will again return to the yaks, wishing we could harness one and ride it to the top. We continue on, and count about four yaks as we pass them by. They pay us no mind, and I watch them curiously.

Our first test came in the form of the waterfall bridge. Like the scene in The Labyrinth were Ludo calls forth rocks to act as a bridge across the Swamp of Stench, we were supposed to cross the top of a waterfall by mounting different rocks and jumping to the other side. Victoria does this easily, and Hannah follows carefully. I snap pictures of the others, and then follow them across. 

 From this point on, the path becomes large, a rocky driveway leading straight up. The weather becomes colder, and a driving wind presses against our faces.

“I know that these mountains are supposed to be Narnia,” I say, “but all I can think of is Lord of the Rings.”

“That’s because they were friends,” Hannah says, “C. S. Lewis and Tolkein, I mean. They were friends, and taught together at Oxford, and were part of a pen group together. Dianna Wynn Jones had them as teachers.”

“Yeah,” I say dubiously, “but Tolkein was British. Only Lewis was from around here. What were their first names, anyway?”

“Maybe they compared notes,” Hannah said, “And it was Christopher. I think. Maybe something else? And I know one of the R’s in Tolkein’s name stood for…was it Robert?”

“Let’s just call C. S. Lewis Louie,” Victoria says.

The book discussions turn into movie quotes. The Mountains of Mourne apparently encompass every movie we have ever seen; we quote Monsters Inc., The Princess Bridge (“THE CLIFFS OF INSANITY!”), Lord of the Rings, Narnia. More scat appears, this time in little bullet-like pellets. “Deer,” Victoria says.

“Oh, my God,” I say, “What if they’re reindeer?”

“I don’t think so, Rebekah.”

“Yeah? Well, did you expect yaks on this mountain?”

We continue to climb. The wind is driving, cruel. The tallest mountain is still shrouded in mist, calling forth images of the Misty Mountains. We stop and look down below at how far we have come. The bay looks like Cair Paravel.

I start to become tired. I breathe through my mouth, but feel the need to rest. I keep stopping and watching the sheep (perpetrators of the bullet-sized scat). Victoria is still bounding ahead, and Hannah falls between us. I take ragged breaths and cough.

“Do stop coughing, you are getting on my nerves,” Victoria says lightly, quoting Mrs. Bennet. I roll my eyes and have to rest again.

This is ridiculous, I think. All my life, I want to climb mountains, and now I am on one, I can’t walk more then ten steps without feeling like fainting! How are you ever going to get to Base Camp on Everest, or see the sun rise on Kilimanjaro, if you act like your corset stays are laced too tight?

I am yelling at myself when I see it. “Look!” I cry. “The wardrobe door.”

“What?” the other say. “Where?”

“There!”

“I can’t see anything.”

I start to laugh uncontrollably. “Oh, God,” I say, “I’ve finally lost it. I’m seeing things.” I start to walk faster, to see what it is, and the closer I get, the more it reminds me of the entrance to the Mines of Moria.

We are almost there when the path seems to divide. One goes swiftly upward, to the top of the shortest mountain. The other continues to the door, and a giant rock wall. The path up the mountain is odd. At the top we can see little squiggles—stairs, maybe? Train tracks? But what would train tracks be doing on a mountain? Skiing equipment? Curious, we start up the path, just a little ways. We see wheels, gears, parts of train tracks. Those are not stairs at the top of the mountain. They are the remnants of train tracks, now taken apart. The other path, leading to the wall, may take us up to the top of the misty mountain. Or it might not. We cannot see that far, and it is almost noon; we still have to climb down the mountain and take the bus back to Belfast before they quit running for the night. None of us are quite sure of when the return bus is.

 “Well,” Victoria says, “Do you want to go up the train tracks?”

“This is not a path,” Hannah says.

“We’re halfway up, we might as well,” I say. I have become oddly hysterical, and find this entire situation laughable. I look down, and see the figures of three others, climbing slowly up after us. If we die, they will probably find our bodies and contact the proper authorities. We’re all wearing clothes that mark us out to be the Property of Queen’s University Belfast; there’s not much that can go wrong.

We climb.

But what seemed to be a path is actually a stream. The ground is soft, muddy, marshy, the water cold. Hannah’s shoes quickly become wet, as do Victoria’s. The stream grows into a small cataract, covered by a wet bridge of four wooden planks. I put my foot on two of the more stable ones, and they shake under my weight. We continue to climb, but before we even make it to the train tracks we decide it is best to retreat. (“THIS IS NOT PATH, I TOLD YOU,” Hannah repeats.) Hannah looks disgruntled. Victoria lopes off down the mountain. I am giddy and take my time, calling down to her that this must be the inspiration for the marshes of the dead in Mordor.

“If I see any faces looking back at me,” Victoria says, “I’m outta here.”

“Everyman for himself,” I agree cheerfully.

We make instead to the wall ahead. There are two buildings, decayed and destroyed by time; what they were used for is anybody’s guess. The first one has two large stone planks inside, looking as if they were cut in two. “This is where Aslan was sacrificed!” I shout, still giddy and hysterical. Victoria offers to slap me. Considering she took a puff of her inhaler before she climbed the mountain and is now pumped full of drugs, I do not appreciate this comment. 

 The second house is the one I saw from below, which looks like the enterance to the Mines of Moria. It looks less like a mine from up close. We step around the sheep scat and find a nice clean rock to eat lunch on, looking at the wall and the waterfall.

We only climb a bit further than this, and when we reach the highest we are going to get, Victoria plays “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough,” to celebrate. We’ve already sung “Steward of Gondor,” “Climb Every Mountain,” “The Sound of Music,” and the theme song for the Hobbit movie.

As we climb down we run into a man in blue, who greets us. He is an avid backpacker, in boots, with a compass, and a real climbing coat. We make small talk about the mountain, about Hurricane Sandy, and then go down.

Going down we are silent; there are no more stories about C.S. Lewis or Tolkein. Victoria does not make up a story about a man who chased her with a four eared dog. Climbing down is treacherous, because at every moment our balance and weight works against us. I fall at least three times, and must be caught by Hannah, who tells me clearly that I am not allowed to run down a mountainside, or I will die. My fingers are numb in their gloves. We have not climbed a mountain. I am still partially hysterical, and positive I am making a fool of myself, but at least now I’m keeping up with the group.

By the time we reach the place where we saw the yaks, the weather has gotten warm. The sun is peeking out from behind the mountain we almost climbed, and Hannah tells us the story of Loki and Balder to keep us entertained.

Balder was the son of Odin, and he was very much loved, so he became, like Achilles, indestructible, except for one weak spot. He could be killed by nothing but mistletoe. So Loki shot him with an arrow made of mistletoe, and Balder died.

“That is very depressing,” Victoria said. “Why did Loki do that?”

“Because Loki hated him, I don’t know.” 

 We reach the bus station and wait. The bus comes in good time, and I fall into a trance, half awake, half asleep. The bus is busy now, with children dutifully reciting nursery rhymes, students talking about how their expensive mascara was stolen whilst they were drunk.

In Elms, everyone is getting ready for Halloween. A tray of carved pumpkins is laid out in Reception for judging, and we pass boys in onesies, batmans, Rosie the Riveters. The girls in my flat are going out dressed as Smurfs. Friends coordinate their outfits, so that they are dressed the same. Everyone is going out drinking, but Hannah and I are costume-less. As someone who has dressed up for the past two years, this was sad. But there was nowhere to go. In the end, we stay in and watch Zombieland, listening to fireworks go off in the distance. 

 

A Note on the Text

C. S. Lewis's full name was Clive Staples Lewis. He was nicknamed Jack, for reasons I do not understand. Tolkein was one of the men responsible for converting Lewis to Christianity, so we have Tolkein to thank for Narnia, and Screwtape.

J. R. R. Tolkein's full name was John Ronald Reuel Tolkein.