It was late evening when I left the holiday cottage. I needed to go for a ramble, to walk off the gourmet Shorthorn burger I’d had in Carron (in the Burren), washed down with two pints of Guinness. Any more Guinness and I wouldn’t be walking anywhere. Neither would I be driving (or doing U-turns) – I’d be in a heap, asleep.

I walked out the gate and soon came to a crossroads with a brown sign pointing to the Poulawack Cairn, which sounded interesting. The sign said it was half a kilometre, but even then I had my doubts – it is likely someone had tampered with the sign.

Undaunted, I decided to cross the stile in the wall and climb the Burren uplands in search of the cairn

I left the main road and walked up a narrow one, which was very steep and scenic. There were two houses nearby and a dairy herd of about 60 cows were grazing in the valley below me.

After about a kilometre, I came upon a solitary post with its brown sign missing. Undaunted, I decided to cross the stile in the wall and climb the Burren uplands in search of the cairn.

Fortunately I had hiking boots, as the going was rough. The cattle were removed for the summer – this would be Burren winterage country – and there was little of the ubiquitous hazel, which is becoming a problem as a result of inadequate grazing.

I reached the first summit and not a cairn to be seen anywhere. But there was no going back now, so I headed for the rising ground and crossed a wall or two. I made a mental note of where I’d come from for the return journey. The sun was now low in the sky – there’d be about an hour of light left.

You’d sprain an ankle very simply in this terrain

Suddenly, I could see the Poulawack Cairn, about 500 rising metres away to my left. I had to reach it now, after coming this far. But it took longer than I thought.

You’d sprain an ankle very simply in this terrain, but eventually I reached the cairn and paid my respects to the pagans who built it. Probably cousins of the lads who built the Loughcrew cairns in Co Meath. Cairns like these are pagan burial sites.

Alas, I dilly-dallied for too long. I turned for home, but my landmark was nowhere to be seen in the bleak landscape. I’m not blessed with a great sense of direction, but I ploughed on regardless, fuelled by the Guinness. I realised I was rapidly becoming lost in the failing light.

Wasn’t I the proper b****x? Now, I’d have to spend the night up here. I had phone coverage, but there was none back in the cottage. I’d retreat to a ruin beside the cairn where I’d have to shelter until dawn. But Mrs P would be worried and I had no way of communicating with base camp.

I’d gone a full 180° in the wrong direction

Sweet Jesus – what was I going to do? The souls of the pagan dead would frighten the living daylights out of me. Then I spotted a digger away in the distance. I figured it was near to a road and civilisation. I marched off at a breakneck speed in the half-light towards the digger and it was, thankfully, beside a road. I’d gone a full 180° in the wrong direction. It was well past bedtime when I staggered into the cottage – totally jacked.

It was just as well I got home when I did. The harvest kicked off the next day with the winter oats. They were low input and I wasn’t expecting much. However, this harvest may have some pleasant surprises yet. They came in at 3.3t/ac, which was nice. Rape is next.