The Tain Way

I carried the book - The Táin - with me on this walk. It is an old story about pride and comparison, and the cost that follows when you try to balance a scale that never truly balances. On the hills, the noise falls away, and what stays is a simple question.

What are you really chasing, and is the price worth it?

Leaving Carlingford

I set off from Carlingford, heading anti clockwise, the path lifting out of the village and pulling air into the lungs. The lough opens out off to my right. The rooftops shrink away behind, and the body settles into the climb, one foot after another.

The tale of The Táin begins in a bed. Queen Medb of Connacht and her husband Ailill are comparing their wealth. Piece for piece they match each other, until they reach the herds of cattle. In Ailill’s fields stands Finnbhennach, the White Horned Bull. He once belonged to Medb but would not take a woman’s ownership and crossed over to her husband. One gap on the ledger. One spark.

Medb has everything a person could name. What she wants is parity. The answer lies in Donn Cúailnge, the Brown Bull of Cooley, somewhere to the north in Ulster.

First Ridge over Carlingford Lough

The track tips up to meet the ridge. Wind comes clean off the water. On my right, Carlingford Lough is a long mirror. On your left, the hills fold and refold into forests and valleys. It is an honest place to think about comparison. From up here, the usual dramas of every day live look small, and still you feel them in your chest.

Medb begins with a bargain. Envoys ride to Dáire - the bull’s owner - to borrow it for a year. Cattle, land, silver, and more are offered. He agrees.

Then pride slips in. Wine. Loose words. Boasting that the bull would be taken if he refused. The deal dies where it lay, and Medb answers with force. She calls an army to raid Cooley… and steal Donn Cúailnge.

Second Ridge toward Omeath

The ridge softens, and the eye walks far. A narrow path leads toward the road that will take you to Omeath, and out onto the lakeside. The water sits quiet. Your feet find their rhythm here.

In our story, Ulster looks empty when Medb enters. The men lie broken by Macha’s curse, struck with the pains of childbirth in their hour of need. One boy stands. Seventeen. Too young when the spell was cast to be affected - Sétanta, whom we know as Cú Chulainn.

He holds the line alone. Single combat, day after day. At first it looks like heroism. Then it starts to look like a boy wearing himself down to fit the shape of what the world needs. I know a smaller version of that. The steady yes. The extra shift. The belief that you are only worth what you can carry.

Road to Clarmont Pass Bridge

Tarmac replaces turf for a time. Hedges, cottages, a small bridge that collects the sound of the day. It is a good stretch for thinking about the moment a pursuit tips from reasonable to something harder to justify. The path is easy here. The story is not.

Medb sends Ferdiad to face Cú Chulainn. Foster brothers. Equal in training and heart. They fight for three days. When it ends, Cú Chulainn carries Ferdiad across the water to Ulster’s side and breaks beside him. While he weeps, a Connacht scout slips through the hills and finds Donn Cúailnge. The prize is taken. On paper, the war is won. Around the fire, there is no joy.

Climb to Black Mountain

The road gives way to a climb. Heather brushes the shins. Stone shows through the soil. The hills sit quiet in the wind, older than the story and patient with it. This is where the myth starts to feel like a mirror.

The war refuses to stop. The Morrígan circles the edges of the tale, testing Cú Chulainn in different shapes. In Medb’s camp, Fergus watches his home burn and wonders what price he has agreed to pay. Soldiers count the dead and ask what any of this was for. A bull is already on the move west. The ledger of loss grows.

Camp at Sunset

I pitch low before the light goes, at the top of the mountain in a forest. Stove breathes. Water finds a quick boil. The last colour leaves the ridge, but the wind still shakes the leafs.

It is the kind of evening that asks for a clear conscience.

Cú Chulainn’s body finally loses the argument with pain. He sleeps while Lug works a healing that feels like a prayer. During those days, the boys he trained go out to fight. He wakes to quiet fields and still air. He finds them where they fell. Something in him snaps. The old words call it ríastrad. Rage takes his shape. He kills until the bodies stand like walls. None of it brings anyone back.

Nylon sighs in the wind. A little heat gathers in the bag. The mind replays the day. It also reaches for home. It is easy to see how a story like this happens. Comparison. Pride. The simple wish to be enough.

Morning through Ravensdale Park to Lumpers

I break camp and walk into a new day, starting before dawn in the moonlight. Ravensdale Park holds the dew a little longer. Trees lift the air and soften the light. The path spills onto the road toward Lumpers pub and the promise of a hot drink.

The day begins to dampen, and doesn’t stop.

In our story - the curse lifts at last. Ulster rises. Battles stack one after another and Medb’s alliance frays. In the churn, Cú Chulainn finds Medb alone. He could end the story with a single stroke. He lowers the blade. Mercy, or fatigue, or the truth that no death will undo what already happened. She turns for Connacht with the bull. A victory that tastes like ash.

Lumpers to Slieve Foy

From the pub I climb again, up through country lanes, and across cloud-covered ascents, sopping-wet forests, and towards Slieve Foy. It sits ahead with its clean shoulders and open views. The last pull asks the legs for one more honest effort.

Donn Cúailnge reaches home and finds Finnbennach. They know each other at once. They fight across Ireland, ripping up fields and hedges, leaving a trail that farmers would tell their children about. At first light, Donn Cúailnge still stands with a horn through his heart. He wanders back to Ulster carrying pieces of his rival. He bellows once and falls.

Two animals. Countless dead. Nothing gained. The prize that sparked the war destroys itself.

Slieve Foy back to Carlingford

The descent is a long look at water and stone. Carlingford grows with each switchback. Your pace eases. Your shoulders drop. The village receives you the way good places do, without ceremony.

I thought about how quietly we repeat this story. We compare. We chase. We keep saying yes because we can, and because it is easier than asking what the work is for. I have not reached the thing I am chasing. Maybe that is why I came here. To let an old story hold up a mirror before I write the next part of my own.

I want to choose purpose instead of pride. I want to build something that lasts. I want to leave the bull where it stands and keep walking.