A new season begins.

The dark of the mountain rose up out of the moor silhouetted by the fading light of the northern sky. Above us we could clearly see the orange blinking eye of the fire crying a Vail of brackish smoke that chocked the lower Valleys as the flames skipped and danced in the wind. This time of year any cold dry period always brings out those who seem intent on doing harm in the name of spring grazing for dwindling numbers of sheep. The Mountain in question this time was Mt. Knockmealdown, the highest in the Knockmealdown range that lies just north of our town, and bridges Co Waterford and Co Tipperary. The gentle slopes are covered in Gorse and heather that blooms yellow and pink and paints her flanks with a soft pastel hue in the low spring sun.
The high road that runs parallel hangs to her lower slopes and crosses the Tipperary boarder near an ancient Ice age tarn called Bay Lock. It's steep flanked sides will in a few months time be bathed in the resplendent pink of the native wild rhododendron that adorns her like a bridesmaids dress, the lock it's self will appear dark and round like a bullet hole in an otherwise perfect picture. Below the tarn the road follows the contours of the land and runs steeply and zig zac'adly down hill through a gap in the mountains called the Vee and disappears into the wooded slopes and on into Tipperary.
On this night though there was no time to enjoy the view that the last shreds of light afforded us, the fire was growing expansively, and racing down the slopes towards the road like molten lava, engulfing all in it's path. Gorse, heather, and rhododendron, all fell to it's unrelenting advances. All have waxy leaves that explode when touched by fire that send great sheets of tea coloured smoke down into the valley already heady with the all encompassing choking stain of smoke. Our crew split in two, I was to take the two new young recruits to the highest point of the fire, approx 200 meters from the summit, while the station officer tackled the lower slopes, aided by two others. Having family living on the mountain I know the slopes quite well, I know the tracks, and hidden valleys, the false peaks, and rocky out-crops, all of which must of seemed like an endless path upwards to these two Wild fire virgins. Once on top of the fire with the smoke blowing away and down hill from us we set about the fire. The two young guns were eager at first and set upon the bright orange with there beaters like demented demons, or witches dancing around there bubbling cauldrons, broom sticks in hand, silhouetted against the ever present flames. However once we climbed over a ridge line and they saw a line of fire stretching out for about a mile along a small valley below us there enthusiasm began to wain, as the reality of these types of fires is that they are bloody had work, and difficult to put out, especially if the wind keeps reigniting the embers that you have left behind. The hours ticked by as the constellations of stars moved across us in the clear night sky. It was past midnight when the last of the fire was put down, just as the forward edges of rain clouds enveloped the peak where hours before we had fought the good fight!