“The moment my legs begin to move my thoughts begin to flow” was Henry David Thoreau’s catchy line. As a cure for the blues, the blacks and the mean reds, walking is as old as the schisty hills themselves. Exercise, exorcise, says zealot Kathy Gilfillan

I am crouched in the shelter of a Peat Hag at the summit of Lugnaquilla.

This is Tonelagee in Co Wicklow, an area of eerie towering shapes called

Hags sculpted from turf by wind, rain, snow, sleet and whatever you’re having yourself. It’s Hound of the Baskervilles meets Lord of the Rings. Elvish is no doubt spoken. If not Klingon. Once through the Peat Hags the reward is to reach the lip of the mountain and look over at the secret heart-shaped lake called Oular. The epiphany. The brave old world that has such wonders in it. Up here, a cup of coffee from a flask and a square of chocolate tastes mega five stars. Like the first time you taste chocolate.

But we have miles to go before chocolate time. The rain is being fired sideways and the wind is so strong that my cairn terrier on its lead has become a kite on a string to which I cling in fear of the poor beast being sucked away to the next county. Like Toto and Dorothy. I am wet through.

I have fallen oxter-deep into a peat bog. I have waded through a river that was meant to be a stream. Clothing that claimed to be waterproof just invited in precipitation like a second cousin returned from America. One of our company volunteers that it looks like snow even though it is summertime.

And you know what? I’m happy. Thrilled. I feel so lucky, so fortunate to have seen this otherness that is as old as the hills. Literally.

YOU CAN SEE THE REST OF THIS STORY IN THE FEBRUARY ISSUE OF THE GLOSS, OUT NOW.