It was about ten years ago now, my friend Adam and I had moved to Galway, a small town on the west coast of Ireland. We lived just outside the city and had to walk across a stone foot bridge that spanned part of Galway Bay to get into town each day. And each day on our way home, our arms laden with groceries, tired from handing out resumes all day hoping to find work so we could stay, we’d catch the beginning descent of the sun on the bay. A street ran underneath the bridge and led off towards the coast. We always told ourselves that we should follow it one evening to catch the sunset as it dips into the water.

One evening we did.

We thought it’d be an easy trek. Follow the street, hit the coast, become awed and humbled by the sight, take some pictures, go home and drink whisky. Of course good adventures are never that easy. We walked along the street until we hit a dead end – a low fence blocking off a field overgrown with bushes and brambles. Fences are typically used to keep people out of places, so naturally we climbed over and waded our way through the field, marking the path of least resistance. This worked in our favour for ten minutes or so, until we were faced with a wet swampy area and a tighter guard of trees and bushes blocking our way forward. Maybe that should have been the sign to turn back, call it a night, drink the celebratory whisky anyway, and try again tomorrow.

Instead we cut a hard left and began climbing a hill. Adapt and keep pushing forward.

At the top of the hill was another low fence, a poor defence after the practice we’d already had. In a single awkward bound we were both over and walking across a…football pitch? The area looked like part of a school campus, a nicely manicured pitch, goal posts at each end. Curious, but we were on a mission now and not to be distracted. Hanging about wasn’t bringing us any closer to our goal; we found the sun again and adjusted our course. Another low fence to get off the pitch and we were back in the bushes.

We hiked some more until we broke out onto another manicured lawn. This one looked like turf, like a putting green, and there were small numbered A-signs dotting the green. We had no idea what was going on, all we could do at this point was push forward. On the far side of the green there was a slope and we slid down to find ourselves – finally – on the beach staring out into the water. We looked to our right, down the coast, to see if there hadn’t been an easier way to get across instead of hiking through the bush. There was a small shack off in the distance and someone poked their head out to look at us. Best not to go that way.

We turned left instead, followed the beach, exploring, while we waited for the spectacle to begin.

Coming around a bend there was a large eight foot high chain link fence wrapped in a bright orange and yellow caution cover. And there was a sign fixed to the fence, the fence that moments before we’d been on the other side of. The sign read: Property of the Irish Department of Defence. Live Firing Range.

We took the long way home that night.