Stg. Salty Training in Glenbarrow Waterfall, Co. Laois Hiking

 

 

Chapter 2: The Misfits' Own Adventure

While Sergeant Salty and his intrepid (if slightly disheveled) team were conquering the heights of Glenbarrow, the remaining members of his motley crew were embarking on their own, distinctly less strenuous, "training exercise." This involved a carefully orchestrated maneuver to secure the prime picnic spot near the lower, more accessible stretches of the Owenass River.

Leading this parallel operation was Private First Class Seamus "McFinleyyy" Finley, a man whose surname possessed three 'y's, allegedly to reflect the three distinct shades of ginger in his beard. McFinleyyy, usually found in a perpetual state of cheerful bewilderment, was today surprisingly focused. His mission: a tactical deployment of the picnic blanket.

"Right lads and lassies!" McFinleyyy declared, gesturing with an unopened packet of Tayto crisps. "Phase one: secure the perimeter! Ye Olde Large Lad, you're on blanket deployment. Sarah and Susan, reconnaissance for optimal sandwich-to-scone ratio."

Ye Olde Large Lad, whose actual name was Kevin but who had earned his moniker due to his impressive stature and an even more impressive appetite, grunted in acknowledgment. He unfolded the large tartan blanket with the practiced ease of a veteran sailor unfurling a sail, carefully laying it out on a patch of soft grass overlooking the gently flowing river. The ground, still damp from the morning, threatened to make the blanket less a fortress and more a soggy sponge, but Ye Olde Large Lad, ever optimistic, ignored the signs.

"Excellent work, Kevin!" McFinleyyy cheered, already unwrapping a chocolate bar. "Now, fortify our position with the provisions!"

Sarah and Susan, two privates who were as inseparable as they were prone to theatrical sighs, were meticulously inspecting the contents of the picnic basket. Sarah, ever the stickler for order, was arranging the sandwiches by filling, while Susan, with a dramatic flourish, unveiled a Tupperware container filled with what appeared to be an alarming number of scones.

"McFinleyyy," Sarah began, her tone laced with polite exasperation, "are you sure Sergeant Salty approved of the amount of jam in this basket? It seems... excessive."

Susan, meanwhile, was already slathering a scone with a generous dollop of strawberry jam. "Nonsense, Sarah! One can never have too much jam! It's a vital energy source for tactical relaxation!"

"Precisely!" McFinleyyy chimed in, crumbs from his chocolate bar decorating his impressive beard. "A well-fed soldier is a happy soldier! And a happy soldier is... well, they're happy! See?" He beamed, utterly convinced by his own logic.

Ye Olde Large Lad, having successfully deployed the blanket, now sat down with a thud that subtly shifted the ground around him. He gazed longingly at the sandwiches. "Permission to commence consumption, Private McFinleyyy?" he rumbled, his voice like distant thunder.

"Permission granted, Ye Olde Large Lad!" McFinleyyy declared, raising his chocolate bar in a mock toast. "But remember, tactical eating! Pace yourselves! We don't want a sugar crash before we've even reached the napping phase!"

This instruction was immediately ignored. Ye Olde Large Lad demolished three sandwiches in quick succession, while Susan and Sarah engaged in a polite but fierce competition over who could construct the most aesthetically pleasing jam-and-cream scone.

The sun, having finally burned off the last of the morning mist, streamed through the trees, dappling the picnic spot with warm light. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves, carrying the faint murmur of the river. It was, in essence, a perfectly idyllic scene, utterly devoid of military rigor.

McFinleyyy, reclining on the blanket, a contented sigh escaping his lips, surveyed his relaxed troops. "This is what I call proper training," he mused, a faraway look in his eyes. "Building morale, fostering camaraderie, mastering the art of the perfect picnic. Sergeant Salty, bless his barking heart, just doesn't understand the subtle nuances of true tactical rest."

Suddenly, a series of muffled shouts echoed from further up the trail. The volume increased, and then, distinctly, they heard Salty's characteristic bellow: "Corporal McGee, I swear to all that is holy, if you giggle one more time, I will make you polish every pebble in this riverbed!"

The misfits exchanged knowing glances.

"Sounds like the Sarge is having a productive training session," Sarah remarked dryly, meticulously wiping a crumb from her uniform.

"Indeed," Susan added, daintily taking another bite of her scone. "One can only imagine the character they are building."

Ye Olde Large Lad, mid-sandwich, merely shrugged his massive shoulders. He preferred his character built through carbohydrates.

McFinleyyy, however, had a mischievous glint in his eye. "Right, listen up, troops! New mission! Operation: Tactical Refreshment Delivery! We shall descend upon the weary heroes, bearing gifts of sustenance and cheer!" He paused, then added conspiratorially, "And maybe, just maybe, we can get a good selfie with Salty looking grumpy."

Sarah sighed dramatically. "Must we, McFinleyyy? I was just getting comfortable."

"Think of it as an advanced lesson in morale boosting!" McFinleyyy insisted. "Plus, I reckon Salty will be absolutely parched. A hero's reward awaits!"

With a newfound sense of purpose (and the promise of witnessing Salty's inevitable grumbling), the remaining misfits began to pack up their picnic. Ye Olde Large Lad, surprisingly nimble despite his size, gathered the blanket. Sarah and Susan, after a final, critical inspection of the remaining scones, carefully repacked the basket.

As they began their ascent up the gentler part of the trail, the sounds of Salty's exasperated shouts grew louder. A faint giggle could also be heard.

"They'll never guess what hit 'em," McFinleyyy chuckled, adjusting his cap. "The Salty and his Misfits training exercise just got a whole lot more... appetizing."