Dreaming of speed demons
An early start is often the hunter’s investment in success. As I hurtle west, it is a necessity borne out of the two-and-a-half-hour journey to today’s hunting grounds — epic bogs.
If you grew up in rural Ireland, then there’s a fair chance that you’ve spent your fair share of time ‘down the bog’. The bog has a special place in the heart of every culchie. I have memories from the late 1990s of enviously eyeing a friend’s T-shirt that boldly pronounced him as the ‘Nad Bog-Snorkelling Champion’.
To understand my envy, you would need to know that Nead an Iolair (Nest of the Eagle) is a tiny village buried in the mountains of north Cork that mainly consists of a pub, a crossroads, a bog and an unrivalled reputation for savage craic. I’ll
