I mention that if it weren't for them, I may well have ended up floating in the lake, and the elder man turns with a toothless grin and exclaims, "Covered in fish bites!"

As the storm roars overhead, we talk about cattle. Why not? The cows are standing right in front of the truck, after all, waiting patiently for their dinner. Apparently, Hereford was a popular breed in Ireland some decades ago, but now the preferred breed is Charolais. They are better suited to the terrain and have more meat than Herefords. I also learn that, unlike in the United States, where most cattle ranches are now owned b

y large corporations, all the ranches in Ireland remain independently owned and operated. Remembering that earlier, during my little hike, I had walked past a field with only cows, and that across the road there had been a pasture containing some very curious bulls, I ask the ranchers if it's currently breeding season. They burst out laughing: "It's always the season!"

Since the rain isn't letting up, they offer to drive me toward Castle Leslie. We bounce along the muddy potholes, talking and laughing as the windshield wipers flop back and forth. They let me out at a locked gate, and we say our goodbyes. Just some friendly cow conversation on a rainy Irish afternoon.

I'm hoping to arrange a meeting with Samantha Leslie, but her schedule is incredibly hectic. As luck would have it, though, while prowling around the hallways, I come upon Sir John, sitting on a leather sofa in front of a crackling fire in the library, dressed immaculately in a blue blazer, a necktie, and cuff links. He's casually signing his name inside some books. I notice they aren't books that he has written, but he's just signing them anyway. This subtle yet bizarre twist on the literary ritual of book signing is reminiscent of a famous quote about the Leslie family from Dublin's own satirist, Jonathan Swift: