The An Duras Bui, the shepherd’s hut, was deep in the countryside of the Sperrin Mountains. The roads were more like narrow car paths, so tight the bushes whipped your windows as you passed. How anyone could take the challenge of these tiny lanes with a roaring engine was astonishing.
How was I to know the Irish have this wild summer tradition of this souped-up Twincam cars racing these crazy tiny, windy roads?
It started with a magpie. I was nearly at the hut, when a parked car blocked my way. A man, my age, in the official yellow vest with “Judge” tag stapled to it was finishing with his hammer for a sign with the times and dates for the race. The Moto-cross was happening in a few days (… those tiny souped up, beaten up Twincam cars, racing and buzzing and coughing along at ridiculously high speeds…) and they were marking the road for the race path. Smiling, I rolled down the window and watched. Suddenly he stopped and looked around, then at me.
“Get out! Get out!” He said urgently. I scrambled and did so. As I stood by him, he kept glancing around , ignoring me, until he found what he was looking for.
He pointed at a nearby, tall vine-choked tree. A look of wonder filled his face as he pointed.
“Listen, it’s a magpie.”
What else could I do but cock my ear and listen? Then I realized I had never heard a magpie. It was beautiful.
“You’ll not be able to leave the property you’re at all day.” And I didn’t. It was great.
Outspoken Traveler 
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