Right after breakfast we met Bob. Having grown up farming with horses in Iowa in the 40s, I bad some idea of what a horse of Bob’s build could handle. Bob would have looked small compared to the American draft horses that we now see at fairs and parades around the US; he was about the size of a Western quarter horse, with muscular legs and broad back. A pinto gelding, Bob was a bit overweight from a seven-month winter break, but he wasn’t old or broken-down. Bob just had ideas of his own of just how far he should be asked to pull a wagon in a day.

I was embarrassed at having to be shown how to harness a horse; but Mr. Slattery assured me not to worry, the people at each of the suggested camping places would help me if I forgot. Our first-day goal was Mrs. Ashe’s Pub at Camp, some 15 miles west of Tralee. But Bob was sure a night at Mrs. Gleasure’s would be more pleasant. When I used the reins to pull his head around so he couldn’t see the driveway he was trying to enter, he stopped dead. He knew where the first day was to end and he wasn’t planning on going any further. The day was sunny but cool, and the sun was not yet over head. I jumped down from the plank driver’s seat, took Bob’s head and pulled forward. He pulled back. He out-weighed me and knew it. I turned to pleading, but Bob only understood Gaelic. Finally, for reasons that I failed to understand, Bob began moving forward. A few miles later I began to understand why Bob wasn’t looking forward to the road ahead. The narrow, paved lane began to climb up among heavily grazed hills. At Becky’s insistence, we climbed down from our caravan and walked alongside, as Bob actually began to put his shoulders into his work.