![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXtgjTwWZhkWq-E8q_VsFkHm1b6yKXMvqThr-JDWXStn22ITIJZ86c6WdnDDUMufEwDVSY1ZDHKONrkKWEEZD6GuRM5NFUlK7Bbz-5cYW_7_5ZS3dkcsNgU_frxtj5eXMw-C2pYPIX-Grp/s320/Tale_of_mr_tod_tommy_brock.jpg)
Like most children, I had taken a fall or two and because I was a worrier I felt concerned that like that hamster I would never travel very far. Though I did, indeed, travel and I am now thousands of miles from home, I still think of my life as occurring in a series of ever widening circles.
At first, I was confined to our back garden. We lived in the Templeogue Village an inglorious suburb on what at the time was a trailing edge of Dublin. Over the garden wall were farm fields and farther off were the Dublin Mountains.
Sure enough over the years, I explored the fields and when I got a little older, I would cycle into the foothills of those mountains.
Now there was one hill in particular that I was drawn to: officially called Montpelier Hill it is also called The Hell Fire Club. The story was that a structure built there in the early 1700s as a hunting lodge for delinquent aristocratic youth had also been used by them for somewhat darker practices. One night the devil himself showed up there at a card game. In the hubbub that followed, a candle was knocked over and the lodge burned to the ground. By the time I started to cycle there, The Hellfire Club was an innocuous forestry plantation. The burned lodge remains.
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