The estate's countryside is exactly how one might imagine seeing Ireland for the first time: lush green pastures, ancient trees, a group of horses swishing their tails.  I stop to pet one of them, trying to connect with my distant Irish heritage.  When the trail comes to a fork (or "ferk," as the Irish would pronounce ),  I flip a mental coin and turn right.  The wrong choice, as the trail promptly turns into large puddles of slop.

There's a famous saying by Sir John Pentland Mahaffy that goes something like, "In Ireland the inevitable never happens and the unexpected constantly occurs."  After a few minutes, this quotation comes true, as the sky suddenly turns gray and a light drizzle develops - a drizzle that rapidly grows into a legitimate Irish monsoon.  

It won't last, I lie to myself and keep walking.  The wind picks up, and the rain grows heavier.  A herd of cows stands underneath some trees to wait it out.  It can't be good when even cows are smarter than you. I'm completely soaked, from hood to sneakers, and I have no idea of where I am or which direction I'm heading.  Since turning back is not an option (I can't remember from which direction I came), I stop and stand under some branches, surrounded by the full force of Irish weather. 

Suddenly, voices shout over the howling storm.  Just up the road, two ranchers are sitting in a truck, waving and yelling.  "Come on in," they holler.  I splash over and climb inside to warm up.

The younger is a hired hand on a nearby ranch; the older fellow is the owner. They're waiting out the rain so that afterward they can feed the animals. A couple of cows have stuck their heads over the fence in anticipation. I explain that I'm staying at Castle Leslie and was just walking around the lake. They inform me in a jolly tone that I've completely wandered off the Leslie property.