Refereeing a week of mud wrestling.

I've never been a particularly athletic individual. Growing up, I didn't play football, I'd always 'forget' my gear for PE and I'd scoff at my mother going for walks around the roads in the evenings.
But I never minded walking with a purpose. Walking somewhere. I did it back home, I did it in Dublin and still, in Edinburgh, I'll walk most places.
It's one of the reasons I'm in no hurry to get a car (or indeed learn to drive, still something I'm not overly proud of).
Back home in Carrick if there wasn't a lift available I'd have no issues with walking into town. There are two main ways of getting into town from my home. Both go via a route known as 'The Lurgans'.
The first way is the easy way. It takes about an hour, half uphill and half downhill. It's all road and there's not much traffic.
The second way, the hard way, is quicker. It cuts twenty minutes off the time but forces you up a wee lane only used by tractors and cattle. It brings you out halfway along the easy way somewhere near Mark Sheridan's house.
Howwurya, Mark.
On a good day you might get through it with only mild damage done. A bit of dust on the bottom of your jeans, maybe a couple of snags on your sleeves from thorns and only a mild sweat on your brow. On a bad day you could end up looking like you've been refereeing a week of mud wrestling.
I've never once taken the easy way into town.
I pick my steps. Done properly, you can gracefully step on grassy bits and avoid the muck and puddles.
I've never done it properly.
Which is why I'm sitting in a coffee shop in Carrickmacross looking for the world like I was dragged through half of the first world war.