It was a Sunday when rose early to visit my Mum and it being a half way decent day I went for a walk and when I wondered about where this should happen I remembered I had not wandered around Downhill forest since my son Niall was little and it is very much a “McDonagh Place” so off I went in search of some moments of peace and memories. Downhill forest is the “path less travelled” being the little brother of the way more famous Mussenden Temple and Downhill castle site. The forest sits on the other side of the road waiting to be discovered but missed by many.
There’s something about walking the old path through Downhill Forest that makes the years fall away like leaves. Back in the 60-70s, we were wild things, jam-smeared, grass-stained, and convinced we were the first to discover every inch of that place and never slowly.
We were the McDonaghs, Whites, Moores and Litherlands and assorted family friends: a roving band of under-tens with the confidence of pirates and the hygiene of swamp creatures. We climbed trees that weren’t safe, built dens that never kept the rain out, and paddled in streams cold enough to stop your heart. The rumours of people “falling” in the lake or “getting too close to the waterfall” may or may not have elements of truth.
Our dog Patch when a pup, on seeing lily pads in the lake thought it was just more lawn and took off at a high rate of knots to chase a duck. Gravity ignored him for a second and then like Wylie Coyote, didn’t, he fell in, as you do, and he learned to doggie paddle really very quickly.
Our independence was fierce, but it never strayed far from the grown-ups and the smell of cheese and tommie sammichs. We’d vanish into the undergrowth for hours, only to materialize when someone opened a packet of crisps.
And that monkey puzzle tree? Still standing, showing its age proudly, still baffling, still looking like it belongs in a dinosaur enclosure. It was our landmark, our meeting point, and possibly a minor forest deity. We’d gather there like druids with scabby knees and Tayto Crisps.
Now I walk the same path more slowly. I listen more. These woods still hum with life, but I don’t have to chase it anymore. Birds argue in the treetops, the breeze murmurs secrets through the leaves, and somewhere in the hedgerow, a small unseen creature goes about its important business, ignoring me entirely, a sentiment that my colleagues and friends can find common ground with.
What used to be a jungle gym is now a sanctuary. A place to let the brain unwind. To remember that the world doesn’t always need a screen or a to-do list. Sometimes, all it needs is a soft trail underfoot, birdsong overhead, and a memory of being ten and invincible.