Tibradden forest.

Inteachán trod lightly on the midnight soil.

Pine. Larch. Spruce. Oak. Beech.

Heading upwards as the slope gradually leads. Granite boulders shine like teeth in the grin of the shadows.

‘Sliabh Thigh Bródáin,’ Mac had said the next morning. ‘The mountain of the house of Bródáin.’

‘Where’s that?’ asked Inteachán.

‘Sliabh Thigh Bródáin is the 561st highest mountain in Ireland,’ continued Mac. ‘With a cairn on top and,’ Mac paused, ‘though I now hate to use the word, a legend attached.

‘Tell me more,’ said Inteachan.