YOU’RE mistaken if you think a trip to the countryside is all about spotting rare birds or coming across a wild animal. Often the land itself is the star.
Sunday’s sun was like a beacon to Dúlra, urging him to leave the house and follow it. And so he headed west as it continued the journey it has travelled on since time began, sinking behind Lough Neagh and the Sperrins.
It might be a daily event since time immemorial, but it was something that no-one here had seen in some time. Earlier that day, BBC weatherman Geoff Maskell had pointed out there had been just 66 minutes of sunshine in the past 11 days. That’s six minutes a day. It was like we were living on the Arctic Circle in mid-winter.
In fact, the last time we officially had a sunny day in Belfast was October 23, a full 18 days ago.
But on Sunday, the blanket of cloud that lay over the land for so long suddenly disappeared. It was like someone had pulled back the curtains and the light came gushing in.
You’ve got to make the most of days like this, Dúlra thought, especially when they fall on a weekend.
But by the time he got his act together, the sun was on the second half of its journey – November days are very short. Black Mountain and Cave Hill would be in shadow soon, so he headed behind them to Slievenacloy (Sliabh na Cloiche), the forgotten outlier of the Belfast Hills that – despite its name – is more upland than an actual mountain.
It’s a tough time of year for wildlife, especially up here. Smart birds get the hell out until late spring. In winter, this is the domain of crows that love the isolation. There can’t be much food for them, but the hooded crows especially thrive here all year around.
And there was the odd hardy bird among the hedgerows that line the Flowbog Road – some dunnocks and a sole blackbird feeding on withered haws. Wrens ticked in the undergrowth. But other than that, in winter you’ll rarely see anything that will reward the effort involved in getting here.
So there has to be something else. And there is – there always is. The land itself is like a giant charging station for the soul. They say you never regret a visit to the gym; well, Dúlra has never regretted a single trip to the countryside, no matter the weather.
And sometimes, just sometimes, something magical happens.
On Sunday as the sun dipped like it was about to sink into Lough Neagh, its yellow beams caught a tinge of crimson and it supercharged the countryside. Somehow, although the sun was lower, it seemed stronger and the land glowed under its power. It was one of those occasions that you almost doubted your own eyes.
And then something appeared like an apparition rising out of the land. The horizontal sunrays created long shadows and amidst the huge rushy moor, a single field appeared with deep furrows like cracked skin.
It was as if our ancestors had been conjured from the land itself.
Slievenacloy has long been abandoned to the elements and the harsh conditions don’t take long wiping out any sign of past residents. The old cottages that dotted this landscape have been eaten up by the land, but it seems the fields where these families worked don’t give up so easily.
The field that the sun revealed was probably used in Famine times. Maybe it was later, but the family were obviously forced to quit their mountainside farm because it was no longer enough to sustain them. And no wonder. It’s an exposed, sodden hillside with more rushes than grass.
This way to plant potatoes was called iompú – roll – in Irish, and in English, lazy-bed, which seems like a misnomer as it takes backbreaking work to dig these fields.
The spuds would be planted and then a protective ridge built above them, with the furrow providing drainage.
The people who once lived here and their struggles have long been forgotten, their land now given over to roaming cattle and hillwalkers. Thankfully, the sun – perhaps the universe – won’t let them disappear just yet.
• If you’ve seen or photographed anything interesting, or have any nature questions, you can text Dúlra on 07801 414804.
