Sunday morning in a typical Irish town and not a cricket is stirring. Saturday night revellers are tucked away until afternoon and the streets are deserted.
Then a colourful group of people is observed gathering by a licensed premises. Obviously they aren't seeking a "cure" for over-indulgence, for they remain outside the hostelry. Their incongruous attire suggests they are not Mass-goers. Nor are they football fans heading off early to support the local team, for there are as many colours as individuals. A closer glance, and the cent clatters downwards. The members of this unlikely assembly do have one thing in common - they are carrying rucksacks and wearing boots. There can be only one explanation.
This is the season when hill-walking clubs unfold, zip-up and re-lace for the winter ahead. Clearly this is such a club bound for a day on the hills. One man is prancing about in a state of animated anxiety. This is the already harassed walk leader, trying to answer anxious questions about the likelihood of today's walk ending with a call to mountain rescue services, while simultaneously taking mobile phone calls from tardy ramblers.
Eventually everybody assembles and the leader must now try to minimise the number of cars using scarce mountainside parking. Lone drivers are extracted from their cars and crammed, with just a mumbled word of introduction, into the back seats of vehicles already overflowing with rucksacks, changing bags and walking sticks. Cars full, the convoy disappears from town.
If the leader is in luck, everyone will show up on time at the appointed parking place. More likely, however, at least one car will be absent. Phones will be produced and frenetic calls made while individuals from the other cars stamp around with the impatience of children on a school outing. With any luck the missing car will screech to a halt within 10 minutes, having diverted to the shop, ATM or petrol station - or simply missed the turn.
Now the real business of the day can begin.
The group sets off enthusiastically, awash with conversation. Walking uphill is, however, both strenuous and tedious, no matter how we romanticise it, and soon chat is replaced by heavy breathing. Hills are real conversation killers, and as the slope steepens walkers retreat into a private world of effort. Couples who set out hand-in-hand are now distanced by half the group. On a hillside all our struggles ultimately become solitary.
Some people will now be wondering why they are slogging painfully up a mountainside when they could be at home by the fire, or in a pub watching the Premiership. Others are, no doubt, harbouring dark thoughts about the leader's inconsideration in choosing such a difficult route. If the weather turns foul, open revolt will be in the air. The leader will be assailed by a barrage of implied criticisms thinly disguised as questions. Why are we taking this route? How far is it to the top? When is the food break? Did you get the weather forecast?
Accomplished leaders will take such talk in their stride, knowing from experience that a day on the hills compresses the emotions of a lifetime into a few hours. Initially, there is an atmosphere of naïve enthusiasm. Like young people facing life, hill-walkers set out believing that everything is achievable. Then reality intrudes. On a mountain this is the challenge of a seemingly endless upward ascent, often through mist or rain, with nagging doubts over one's ability to reach the top. The fear of failure makes us - as in life generally - look for scapegoats: the walk leader, the mountain weather or those few pints last night! Then suddenly the mist clears and a golden burst of sunlight illuminates the mountain. The summit unveils itself just 10 minutes ahead. The mood of the group is transformed. Fatigue is forgotten. Gripped by summit fever, people race for the top. Happiness reigns. People have conquered their own modest Everest and bask for a while in the glow of success that must have warmed Hillary and Tenzing. We are sustained through life by the knowledge that our lows, as well as our highs, are transitory - not least on the mountains. The descent brings a mellower, less animated mood. Summit ecstasy fades and people are busy bonding.
Pairs and threesomes are locked in muted, oblivious conversation and the leader is kept busy ensuring that such self-absorbed talkers don't go astray from the pack. Ideally the cars come into view with the sun westering low, so that everybody is assured they have taken all the shortening daylight hours can offer.
Now tranquil tiredness coalesces with a spirit of mountain kinship to form an irrepressible sense of well-being and goodwill. The leader is suddenly flavour of the moment, with past thoughts of revolt forgotten. Everybody is alive and back in one piece - and this is, of course, due entirely to fine leadership. Effusive compliments abound and the wise leader accepts them modestly. After all, it's only human to enjoy appreciation - and anyway, previous experience shows it is short-lived. Next week it's all to play for again; mountain leaders are only as good as their last walk.
John G. O'Dwyer is a Tipperary based leader of hill-walking groups.