Pilgrimage into Nature…
Ticknock
Ticknock is an unassuming place. It has no discernable history, no great battles fought in its flanks, no famous heroes who took refuge in its woodlands. It overlooks the M50 like a sad giant, ear-pierced with mobile phone masts and satellite pylons, scarred by the must-have demands of a modern Ireland who would go all the way to the top of a mountain to make sure they can watch Sky TV. Yet like so much of nature, it speaks its story in tones deeper than sound, beaming out the invisible sonar of its peace to anyone who tunes their ear to listen. Originating from the Irish tigh chnoic, meaning ‘the house of the hill’, this foothill of the Dublin mountains is indeed a house of sorts – walled by conifers, roofed by sky, a home to deer, skylark, fox and kestrel, and it throws its doors open, offering itself to human experience.
The walk from base to apex throws up as many challenges as it does feasts for the senses. The December freeze lives on in the leftover mounds of white snow sitting either side of the winding path like superfluous dollops of whipped cream. The road is haunted by black ice, forcing me to slow my steps and concentrate all energies into the delicate act of staying upright. Great masses of pine and spruce lean in on each side, lending the air the rich spiced incense of Christmas, their low-lying branches brushing ticklish on my cheek. Deep beneath my feet plunge great searching roots, plumbing the soft brown peat for moisture in the silent recycling of life.
Turning the bend, the quiet is ruptured by the throaty roar of approaching vehicles. Two helmeted twelve year olds trundle downhill on mini-quad bikes, gifts from Santa no doubt, ponderously slow on account of age and unfamiliarity. A pair of dirt bikes scissor the trail below at speed, engines fizzing loudly like chainsaws in the forest air. Hatted and scarved couples say hello as they pass; lone joggers nod on their breathless way uphill. Pairs of old men with Nordic walking sticks and trios of elderly women wearing Columbia and North Face surprise me with the savvy trendiness of their waterproofs. A cheerful band of mud-spattered mountain bikers joke and egg each other on over the hills and gorse of the forest trail that intersect the pedestrian pathways. Just now, a boy to my right has wrested a plate of ice from a frozen puddle, before holding it up to his face and smashing it in a fearless headbutt. Stunned momentarily, he runs back to his parents, breathless with surprise, proclaiming his achievement. The one thing that strikes you about them is the sense of deep contentment in their smiles. This is a place of wild comfort, where people come quietly and without fanfare simply to meet the challenge of the climb. I suddenly notice all of us, young and old, are on this same road, moving toward the same point, each at their own pace. Though strangers, there is an undeniable sense of fellowship in the looks we exchange.
When I finally reach the summit overlooking the shimmering silver of Dublin, I find myself remembering those primary school history lessons of how the druids of ancient Ireland made their altars at the tops of hills and mountains such as these. The thigh-burning trek uphill retains all that sense of sacred expedition, of a journey into the cathedral of living breathing nature – as well as the buzz and chatter of human life, that shoulder-rubbing warmth of a parish feast day that brings people of all ages together. Ticknock transports you, whether it is to the primal impulses of survival against wind and shelter, or to imaginings of distance on those clear days when the Mountains of Mourne become visible. It calls you out of yourself, out of the apartment block, the SUV, the air-con office, the slash and burn of mechanised metropolis. Faith, the saying goes, can move mountains – but too often we forget the mountain’s power to move us. This pilgrimage into nature does that and more.
Native Mind 
Nice dude,
Enjoyed that,
Enjoyed Paragraph 3 and 4, they could come before par 2?? Metaphors not so strong there methinks, whipped cream/snow reference didnt sit at all well with me! Though the headbutting sheets of ice is a darling image.
Also i think calling the hill its irish name first off and then anglicising it may be more affective than the other way around as you have it, and in the last paragraph just call it its Irish name without the english may mysticise the mount a little more.
Keep em coming!
Have you read Bonaventures book on pre Celtic Christianity?
Mole