You've reached the top of the trail now, and the whitewashed, grime-streaked buildings of O'Donnell's farm stand before you, glowing faintly in the moonlight. Nettles and brambles have taken over the farmyard, fighting moss for possession of a skeletal, rust-ruined old tractor squatting in the barn. Half the windows in the farmhouse have been shattered, and graffiti has been daubed all over the walls—Tiocfaidh ár lá, Beast, Murdering cunts. Judging by the blackened section at the far end, an unsuccessful attempt was made to set fire to the house.

Crossing the yard, you make your way into the farmhouse. The kitchen is a shambles, strewn with rubbish. The shelves that once lined the walls have long since been broken up and used for firewood. The big honey-colored table is still there, but now it is scarred by knife marks and burns. Terry's old shotgun lies discarded amid the rubbish on the floor by the fireplace.

This was where it all began.

Ten Years Ago