Chasing the I-deer

deer flying - pat dennehy

This deer doesn’t just run—it springs. Away out of the frame of your windscreen, leading your eye off the main road, into the wild unknown. This isn’t a slowly meandering deer, or one of a grazing herd; it’s alone, head held high, antlers up. It’s always seemed to you that those tree-like branches that sprout from its head must be too heavy to be borne.  Surely the deer should topple, carrying this cathedral of bone aloft, but it doesn’t. Particularly now as it’s become bipedal, pushing off its hind legs, its front legs powerfully tense. Sure-footed, isn’t that what they say? This is the idea deer. The i-deer.  Your turn to pounce. You feel the excitement of that first reckless leap…

tunnel warning

But as soon as you surrender to the i-deer, you lose that air-borne sensation, the feeling of being in another element. You feel more earth-bound than ever. You’re pretty sure the i-deer came this way so you faithfully follow and find yourself in a dark tunnel. Alone. No light ahead or behind. You abandon the car and go on foot. You have a pit helmet with a torch attached so you can just about see where you’re going once you’ve adjusted to the night blindness. You feel your way with your feet, one ragged step at a time. There’s no sign of that i-deer, of course—it’s as if he’s evaporated. If you stretch out your arms you’re sure you’ll feel the encrusted walls of the tunnel, but when you do there’s nothing solid there. Only the sooty darkness and the faint light of your own head to guide you.

slippery road

Back in the car, you careen out into an unfamiliar landscape made hazy and insubstantial by the sun’s brilliance. The brightness makes it hard to get your bearings. You’re tempted to take in the views, such as you can make them out. There are distant unfamiliar mountains shrouded in heat haze and you seem to be in the foothills. There are trees and, in the zebra sun dazzle, you think you see something move out of the corner of your eye—the i-deer? Is it? It might be but it looks different now and you can only get a sidelong view as it flees into the undergrowth. You’ve no idea where you are. Is there a map in the car? You reach out to scrabble in the glove compartment, one hand clutching the steering wheel. Suddenly the car swerves as if the road is icy, but it can’t be, it’s high summer outside. Or was a minute ago. Now you’re a bull rider trying to control the car as it bucks and sways trying to throw you off. Remembering old advice, you resist the temptation to apply the brakes. You hold your writing nerve.


Oh God, what is this, a hump-backed bridge? You’re travelling too fast now. You see yourself and the car airborne like in those movie car chases, all four wheels off the road; the kind of airborne you don’t want. The car will never withstand this treatment, the shock absorbers will be shot. This is high voltage stuff and your car, well it’s a bit ramshackle and bears the marks of several other journeys of this kind. A dent here, a scrape there, a shattered windscreen once. You’re not sure how much more it can take.  You lean into the bend before the bridge and make it over.


After all the alarums and excursions, it’s quiet for a bit. You travel on through a featureless valley. The dull, flat country of mid-project. The speedometer doesn’t seem to eat the miles as before. You get to wondering, why are you doing this?  All for an i-deer you only got a fleeting glimpse of. And what’s this coming up? The red triangle, the exclamation mark warns you of danger ahead, something you can’t see. But everything about this journey is unseeable.


The road turns into motorway. Thank god you’re done with those small by-roads, with their twists and turns. The signs tell you that queues are likely, but at least the motorway is straight, the road surface is good. All you have to do is cruise now, stay in lane and you’ll get to your destination, though you’re not even sure what that is. But you feel you must be on the right track. There are so many other drivers here. But is that a good thing? Are they all like you, following i-deers of their own? The i-deers may travel in herds and you may think you see them all over the place, but, in fact, they’re an endangered species and, of course, there are culls from time to time. Some regard the i-deer as a pest. And there’s another worry. Will some other hunter end up snagging your i-deer? But you can’t think about that 2

The motorway exit signs whizz by and you look at them longingly. Everything off road looks so attractive. A cup of tea, oh yes, and a nice meal, plus a ready-made escort to keep you company. This is what the rest of the world is doing while you’re running after an i-deer. Refuelling—that’s what you badly need now. You’re tempted but if you stop now you might never return to the chase. You press on, running on empty.


Oh look, an airport! On a whim, you take the exit. Maybe this is your destination? The sense of lift-off reminds you of the start of the journey, airy escape combined with a terminal, an end-point. Once, when you were having your eyes tested for a driving licence, the doctor held up his left hand above your head. How many fingers am I twiddling, he asked. You couldn’t say. You’ve a blind spot, he said. Is that going to be a problem, you asked.  Not unless you encounter low-flying aircraft, he said. You can hear the rumble of jet engines overhead but they’re hidden in cloud. Or are they travelling in your blind spot? You duck, just in case.

road narrows

The road narrows. You brake, then check in the rear-view mirror. But look, look what’s on the back seat. It’s a doe. How did that happen? It’s not the i-deer you spotted earlier. It’s smaller and it doesn’t have those magnificent antlers but its eyes are brown and intelligent and it has some lovely white markings that the i-deer didn’t have. It’s not what you imagined and if it were a dress you bought on the internet you’d send it back. On the other hand, it’s your very own i-deer, you can reach out and touch her, and she’s safely inside your car. She seems extraordinarily tame. But is that a good thing?


There’s a roundabout coming up. It’s decision time. Which exit to take? The doe is fast asleep in the back seat. Will she do the trick? You’ve grown fond of her, you have to admit, and a bird in the hand etcetera. Or could you do better? Is she just a wee bit too tame? Not the wild creature you saw initially. Should you cut your losses? Go all the way around, repeat the journey—maybe get a bigger, better I-deer, closer to the first one you saw? Or can you have both? Keep this one AND go back?

Should you go back?

Should you go forward?

Or should you just stop?



You go on.


This post was written for a new website hosted by EFACIS (European Federation of Associations and Centres of Irish Studies) called writers@work that features Irish writers talking about their process – go to :



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