RAIN bashed the battered exterior of the little blue fiat as if marbles were being dropped from the coal black sky above; playing the car like a snare drum as it limped up the Dublin Mountains. Shifting in the drivers’ seat, adjusting gear, Gael thought to himself how the word “mountain” never did these rolling rocky hills justice. It was a strong, formidable description which he associated with things along the scale of Kilimanjaro or Everest, geological giants of the globe keeping watch over us all and not the forest and granite dappled mounds that separated the green fields of Wicklow from the Irish capital.