Last week’s Photo Challenge, which I’m only getting around to now, is Path. I had a couple of ideas for this.
One was this photo here:
I took it because it’s pretty, but also because the building at the end is Bray Library, and I was going to call it the Path to Enlightenment.
I was then going to follow up the Path of Enlightenment theme with this:
It is typical of me that I would buy a Dummies book to teach me about one of the world’s major religions, though not as typical as the fact that I never finished reading it.
The words psychpath and sociopath then called to me (inviting me to friend them on Facebook, actually) but that would have involved picking people who I believe fit such descriptions and then picturing and naming them as such on the internet and that is not a good thing to do, especially with the psychopaths.
So I went off in a different direction altogether, though I must first show this photo:
It’s the Liffey Boardwalk, which runs alongside our capital’s river, and I show the picture purely because, while I’m proud of the fact that I got the river, the Boardwalk and the pretty flowerboxes all into the picture, I’ve also managed to get a litter-bin into it.
But the path that I’ve taken (Dear God, I hear you say, promise not to use that joke for the rest of the post) is this one, taking us back to September 2006:
This is a picture of the right-of-way through Greystones Golf Club. In those days it wasn’t paved, it was a bumpy path of rocks and mud (mainly because the golf club didn’t want it there), and was extremely hilly. The picture I’ve taken doesn’t really show this, but that section is plunging downwards at a 45-degree angle.
Oh, and it’s not lit at all, so since it’s in the middle of a golf-course you can see absolutely nothing at night-time.
On the night in question I’d gone to the pub beside our office with my workmates and had caught the last train home, so I’d had a quite a lot to drink, yet I safely negotiated this moon-like, crater-filled path without the slightest bother.
Which brought me to here:
This is the footpath to the bottom of our road, well-lit and smooth. And while walking along it I fell straight forward onto my face, making no attempt whatsoever to protect myself with my hands. I got up, went home, wiped pints of blood from my forehead (which is still scarred to this day) and went to bed regarding myself as a drunken idiot, as indeed I freely admitted to my workmates when they stared in horror at me on the Monday.
Nothing similar happened during the next seven months, re-inforcing my belief in my own stupidity, before a run of 16 blackouts, some spectacularly public, some at night while I was asleep (I’d know by the way I burst back awake) made me realise that that September night had seen the first instance of my heart-rate dropping to almost zero, a symptom which in time would be cured by my getting a pacemaker (what, you have a pacemaker, Tinman? You should have said).
So there you go. My picture for this week is the Path to Recovery.