Colm O'Regan: Fathers - dragging children up mountains for fresh air since 1872

Columnist, broadcaster, comedian and author Colm O'Regan pictured in the Maryborough Hotel. Picture Chani Anderson

Fathers — dragging children up mountains to get a bit of mountain air since 1872.

Mushera is one of those climbable mountains. You can walk it. In summer, apart from a few rocky bits, the turf is positively springy. But it is a mountain, with a degree of up-ness to it.

They ask, “Are we there yet?”

Although it’s a mountain, that’s a reasonable question.

Because it has some false tops. Convex parts of the slope where you think you’re at the top, but then you crest the brow and there’s another dose of climbing to be done.

On the plus side, Mushera is a great mountain to be able to see your car from nearly all the way up. So you can see if it’s stolen but also it reminds you to check the pocket with your car keys.

We’re the only car in the car park this beautiful August evening.

There’s a band of cloud perfectly horizontally off to the south west that threatens rain but never follows through. To the south east, the sun breaks through in enormous sunbeams, Highway-to-Heaven style.

The mountain feels blessed. Well, there is no litter. Gravity deters arseholes. 

On top, there are three summit landmarks. A cairn with a mysterious solar-powered device lodged in it and one rusty old USA biscuit tin. I don’t count that as litter. It’s heritage. 

The height marker is the official top bit, but down a little is the cross that gives the better view — all the way down to Dripsey. I feel like we’re standing at the point our weather comes from.

Even though our family is a blow-in to Dripsey, going to Mushera is still a return to the ancestors. The name Mushera comes from the Hill of the Múscraige, the tribe that gave Muskerry its name.

It’s the 167th-tallest mountain in Ireland, so I’m promising my children we’ll climb the 166 higher ones if there’s any messing. It’s far more effective than “I’m going to turn this car around and no one is going to soft play”. 

The Múscraige are descended from the 111th high king of Ireland. I KNEW Mid-Cork was special.

Also up nearby is the Mushera Dancing Platform. What a wonderful thing. People doing Irish dancing up a mountain. The next one is the end of August. 

It feels exciting, like it’s illegal. Like we should post lookouts to see are any redcoats are being sent out from the barracks.

The descent is giddy with a gentle slips on the backside. The roads are quiet on the way back. Although the doughnuts at the junctions - the rival sports to dancing at the crossroads - suggest it’ll be busy later.

We stopped in Nadd pub on the way back. Taytos and Coke. Payback time.

What I loved most about it was that feeling of going for a spin. Spins, the underappreciated currency of child-rearing. Jaunts on evenings just to go somewhere.

It’s harder to justify spins now. There’s too much on telly and too much organised fun, and timetables and tickets booked. It was easier before. Boredom forced families out like smoke. 

Ask Reuben Ocana, the Mexican pilot who crash-landed a Gulf Stream Jet at Mallow racecourse in 1983. He was stuck there for 39 days while a runway was laid so he could take off.

Over the 39 days, it seemed as if more people went to gawp at the plane than at the Pope. Just for something to do on a Sunday afternoon instead of going to a furniture auction.

All we really cared about was, there would be Tayto on the way back?

We would have gone to the Somme if there were Tayto promised. As my children tuck into theirs, having climbed Ireland’s 167th tallest mountain, some things never change.