Tuesday, 27 May 2014


We knew we wouldn't actually catch anything that day, of course. We were just walking through the places where our neighbours said they had seen the fox.

The one place everyone had seen it was by what locals called the turf bridge, the place where men once loaded bricks of bog peat onto donkey wagons and walked them on rail lines to the canal, and onto barges for the cold homes of Dublin. These days the rusted structure looms over the canal, and from it rail lines stretch, under the road and through a gap in the hedges, into the boglands.

And there, passing through barbed wire and looking around at the mud, we found the paw prints. Look at these, I told The Girl -- they make a path down into the marshes.

"Look out for the cow, Daddy," The Girl said, as a herd made its way toward us. Then it began to rain.

We'll step out for now, I said, but we'll come back when they're gone, and in wellies, and see if we can't find that den. 

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