The road to Sally Gap in the Wicklow mountains cuts a swathe through the russet blanket bog with its furze of stunted trees and unfathomable purple heather. It’s a wild place, where a storm can blow up unawares out of the blue gloom of a a late morning, or the tired third of the afternoon. Then you’ll find yourself walking towards the blue mountains, from which the British army would flush rebels during the 1916 Rebellion, with the smell of a turf fire in your nostrils, and the soft spring of bog under your feet. You’ll find the rain suddenly splashing on your face and shoulders, seconds before the world erupts in water. On the wind a tin whistle, a vague sense of sorrow…