Tidig lördagsmorgon och jag begav mig ut på en runda för att starta min utmaning The Giant’s Causeway.
Det blev det vanliga 5k Elinelundsrundan denna morgon.
Efter denna runda, fick jag det första vykortet från utmaningen.
I have arrived in a land steeped in legend, where the primordial dramas of geology and ecology are refashioned by the imagination into mythology. As in all of Ireland, the great natural processes that shape the landscape are explained and reimagined here by stories. On my walk, following the Antrim Coast north until I reach the Giant’s Causeway, I will look to discover the stories behind the landmarks I pass, for almost every hill, lough, mountain, castle, and crannog has a secret to impart; all one must do is ask.
I begin in Glenarm, where Glenarm Castle dominates. The first monumental buildings here were built during the English Civil War, way back in 1636, by the Earl of Antrim, a Scot and supporter of the doomed Royalist cause. The original house was burned down six years later by the Parliamentarian soldiers. It was rebuilt and destroyed several times over the centuries until finally, in 1750, the structure I’m standing next to today was completed.
I took a walk through the formal gardens and woodlands surrounding the castle. The spicy notes of thyme and sage perfumed the air as I wandered through banks of forget-me-nots, tulips and peonies until I reached the Barbican gate. From here, I turned into the woods and admired the autumnal shades of reds and browns worn by a large pheasant strutting about a nearby field.
I left Glenarm and continued up the coast. I trudged along the fields and up the winding country roads until, after a little help with directions from a local farmer, I arrived at Ossian’s grave, one of the many neolithic (C. 3500 year-old) tombs found across this island.
Ossian lived in Ireland long before history began. He married the fairy princess Niamh of the Golden Head and came with her home to Tír na nÓg, the land of eternal youth. Life in this magical otherworld was easy and pleasurable; the days were spent feasting and hunting in the golden sun, the soft music of harps always sang, and Niamh took care of Ossian’s every desire. Ossian lived here for many years, but eventually, he began to become homesick. Ossian went to Niamh and pleaded for her to spirit him back to Ireland. Niamh reluctantly assented and, as they said their farewells, presented him with a beautiful white horse. Gripping his arm, she warned him never to dismount, never to let his feet touch the soil of his homeland.
Ossian arrived in Ireland and realised he no longer recognised his home. Where his father’s great hall should have stood, there was only a ruin, and when he asked those nearby to point him in the direction of his friends and family, none had heard their names save in stories. For, during the few years he had spent in Niamh’s realm, centuries had passed in Ireland.
Ossian rode out into the countryside until he came to where I stand now. Here, he was called by a group of men to help them lift a great stone. As he bent down to pick it up, his saddle broke, and he fell from his horse. As soon as his feet touched the soil, he instantly aged. He paid back the debt of time he owed our world, his skin turned to parchment paper, his bones to dust, and Ossian died. The men gathered his remains and built this passage tomb, placing Ossian in the centre, where he might rest.