I know all about Irish folklore. Nan told Daniel, Jonathan, and me all about the “lore.” I’m going to come out with my theory. Don’t laugh. I think I could be plagued with a mischievous púca.
I said not to laugh, Dad! I know it’s ridiculous, but they love creating mischief. They’re shapeshifters, and when they change into animals, their fur is black—hello, shifting dark shadows on the trail.
Okay, here’s a less make-believe theory. I’ve got some local kids screwing with me. Today had only a few ascents, just an easy hike full of gorgeous views that allowed me to hit the village of Capel Curig early enough to enjoy a lovely dinner with the owners and three other hikers at the B&B I booked.
I was able to ask the local family if they’d ever heard of hikers getting pranked, and guess what, the answer was yes. The owners grimaced before chuckling and said they had heard a few stories over the years.
Mostly, ornery teens who take turns slipping stones into unaware travelers’ packs. There were a few other “amusing” stories. I have to tell you, Dad, the relief I felt at finding out my woes were probably caused by a group of bored Welsh teens on break had my body shaking in relief.
Teens, I could handle. Púcaí not so much. A creeper (which I’ve hated to even think about), not at all.
They probably realized the importance of the journal they poached and drove to another village to find me. I haven’t worked out how they knew where I would be, but I suppose living here, most hikers follow the same trail, and last night I did eat dinner at a local restaurant. My pack was at my feet, but I suppose someone could have sneaked it back in.
Whatever, I’m tired of thinking about it. I only have two and a half to three days left, and I want them to be epic where my only worries are not peeing on my feet.
Oh, I almost forgot. I took a selfie yesterday on top of Mount Snowdon—the tallest mountain in Wales! I would have framed it for my room if you had been in it with me. Ithink instead, I’ll tuck some of the pictures in the pages of this journal.
I really need to go to bed sooner rather than later. Do you remember what Day 8 will be throwing at me? What am I asking? Of course, you remember. According to blogs and your research, the day will see me through several scrambles and over several summits.
I’ll be just one more mountain goat. My stomach is cramping in excitement.
I feel better for the writing tonight. I was letting myself get weirded out over silly crap, but picturing you rolling your eyes over my dramatics straightened me out.
I love you.
Always. You are still taking care of me.
I’m less upset with you than I was yesterday.
Love, Bébhinn
thirteen
THE WATCHER
The journal wasn’twhat was really bothering him, though. She would begin the eighth stage of the hike the following morning, and even though they were both members of the same hiking club in Dublin, her endurance and experience with scrambling outstripped his own. He didn’t have a death wish. It would wreck all his work to get injured at this late date, which was why he finally made the difficult decision to leave her to Stage 8 while he drove to the next destination on her route.
He might not be able to follow her today, but tonight would be fun. He’d helped her pick Stage eight’s accommodation himself. Smiling at the access he would have to her, he stooped to squeeze into the back of a compact taxi. The driver was a young twenty-something boy and a cousin of the person who ran the taxi service. Many of the car services were family-owned in these parts.
After the short drive to Bethesda, he was handing over the fee when the boy dropped some disappointing intel.
“Not sure how long you plan on staying, but I see you’re a hiker,” he said, nodding to the backpack in his fist, “and my grandad told me this morning to expect some nasty weather tomorrow or the next. Snow and wind. It should only be a problem higher in the mountains, though.”
Hiding dismay, he quickly thanked the boy and headed to the public bunkhouse where she would sleep tonight. He needed to get the layout of the place before he found somewhere to hang for the day.
Tonight, he would see if she changed her plans because of the weather and then change his if need be.
He was so close to the one thing he’d dreamed of having.
Bébhinn Clarissa O’Faolain.
fourteen
BÉBHINN
Snowdonia Way Mountain Route
Daily Journal
