‘Well, Cúchulainn,’ quoth she, ‘leave me the road past thee.’
‘This place in which I am is unfrequentable unless a solitude is made: for it is as slender as a hair, and as sharp as an orrdladh, and as slippery as an eel's tail; and if the thorn of a thistle chanced on the place wherein I am it would not stick to the place in which it would stay until the great sea would come outside.’