Where the wind howls

By Robert Macfarlane

“Don’t travel in your walking gear,” David instructed me the day before I flew to Belfast. “Even now, it’s still not quite wise to turn up at the airport with a pair of boots and an English accent.” His worries continued once I’d landed. We drove south towards the Mournes, the small granite mountain group that lies in the south-east of County Down, close to the border with the Republic. David had filled up with petrol before leaving, and picked his roads with care. “You don’t want to run over someone’s cat in K–––,” he said, “or run out of fuel in A–––, if you’re conspicuously English, which you are.” I was more worried about the physical challenge that was coming up.

David and I have known each other since we were eight. His passion for mountains approaches fanaticism. When we go walking together he rises early, moves fast, pauses rarely and stops late. There is no apparent limit to his endurance, or to his hunger for the hills. His enthusiasm is for rapid movement over rough ground; mine, these days, for dawdling and stravaiging—a fine Scots term that means “aimless wandering”.