In a small, good-humoured column, Esther McCarthy turns away from the large anxieties of the age to notice something ordinary: the shared footpath, which works only because strangers quietly agree to signal, yield and leave room for one another. She gives these unwritten courtesies a name, the Pathhogger, and holds up a mirror in which hand-holding couples, wandering teenagers, dog walkers and phone-gazing pedestrians can each glimpse a familiar habit. Beneath the comedy lies an old question about how people share the public spaces they cross every day, and how much a little awareness of one a
Esther McCarthy Takes Aim at the 'Pathhoggers' Trampling Irish Footpath Etiquette
Not even Moses could part this crowd.
Mark
So what is this column actually arguing?
Mimi
That footpaths run on unwritten courtesy. Walk single file when needed, signal where you're going, don't take up the whole width.
Mark
And who does she blame?
Mimi
Four types: hand-holding couples, teenagers five abreast, dog walkers with retractable leads, and people glued to their phones.
Mark
She includes herself, doesn't she?
Mimi
Yes, she says she's among the most hated as a retractable-lead dog walker. That keeps it from being pure scolding.
Luke
Worth saying this is opinion and comedy. There's no survey or data on how common any of this is.
Mark
So the 1.5-metre wingspan line is a joke, not a measurement?
Luke
Clearly a joke. Same with the claim that Gen Z lacks peripheral vision. It's exaggeration for effect.
Mimi
The dog memory is the warmest part, though. Her dog walked the kids to school and fetched the Echo with them.
Luke
Which is a personal recollection of the 1980s, not evidence that things were better then.
Mark
So the takeaway is modest?
Mimi
Yes. Notice your own habits next time you're on a narrow path.
The Pulse
- Hand-holding couples spread across the pavement, forcing buggies and pensioners toward the road and the danger of passing buses.
- A five-abreast teenage group in matching jackets blocks the way, leaving anyone older than 22 to step off the kerb or part the crowd in vain.
- Retractable leads stretch like tripwires across the path, so every sudden sniff at a gate or hedge sends passersby ducking beneath them.
- Phone-absorbed walkers drift without looking up, colliding with shoulders and shrugging off apologies, with no sign of improvement in sight.
In a small, good-humoured column, Esther McCarthy turns away from the large anxieties of the age to notice something ordinary: the shared footpath, which works only because strangers quietly agree to signal, yield and leave room for one another. She gives these unwritten courtesies a name, the Pathhogger, and holds up a mirror in which hand-holding couples, wandering teenagers, dog walkers and phone-gazing pedestrians can each glimpse a familiar habit. Beneath the comedy lies an old question about how people share the public spaces they cross every day, and how much a little awareness of one another still matters.
Esther McCarthy begins her latest column by setting down the heavier matters of the day, the wars, the climate, the uncertain future of artificial intelligence, and turns instead to a small but persistent menace: the Pathhoggers. The footpath, she argues, is a shared resource that functions only through unwritten rules, chief among them that people signal their intentions rather than drifting into someone else's lane.
Her catalogue of offenders begins with hand-holding couples. She has nothing against romance, she insists, but asks whether love really needs a metre and a half of pavement. Surely it is not too much to untangle fingers for a few seconds so a buggy can pass, or to keep a partner's hand out of a back pocket so an older pedestrian is not forced toward the bus. Middle-aged couples are no better, she notes, and her advice is simple: let one walk a little ahead.
Next come the teenage groups, five abreast in identical jackets, seemingly blind to anyone beyond their own circle. McCarthy remembers her own youth in a denim waistcoat and wonders whether peripheral vision has been lost entirely. Her counsel is to surrender and cross the road, since not even Moses could part such a crowd.
She then confesses that she belongs to a group she is not proud of, the dog walkers with extended leads. She recalls the dogs of her own childhood, who walked the children to school, waited for them at the driveway and went along to buy the paper, and who kept a rival dog three doors down for the occasional spirited bark. Today's long leads, she says, become tripwires, forcing strangers to duck beneath them whenever a dog pauses to investigate something.
The worst offender, she concludes, is the phone-absorbed pedestrian, who cuts across every category of age, class and creed, eyes fixed downward and shoulders collecting strangers. From bitter experience, she reports that a sarcastic apology changes nothing.
The column ends with a warning to take care on the paths and a mock prayer for anyone unlucky enough to meet a cluster of loved-up teenagers walking dogs while glued to their screens. It proposes no rules beyond a gentle recognition, inviting readers to ask whether they, too, have been among the Pathhoggers.
Esther McCarthy, writing in the Irish Examiner, opens her latest column by setting aside the big worries of the day: wars, climate destruction, the prospect of artificial intelligence turning the survivors into rats in the sewers. The real menace, she says, is the rise of what she calls the Pathhoggers.
She has form in this space. The column has already gone after rude passengers on the Aircoach, music lovers on the beach, and humanity at large. Now she turns to the footpath, which she describes as a shared resource, much like the Kinsale Road roundabout. Her argument is that it works only through unwritten rules, chiefly that people signal their intentions rather than drift into someone else's lane because they have suddenly remembered they need the Smyths in the South Ring retail park, not the one in town.
She then lists four types of offender. First come the hand-holders. McCarthy says she would never declare romance a public nuisance, but asks whether lust really needs a 1.5-metre wingspan. Is it too much, she asks, to untangle your fingers and walk single file for eight seconds while a buggy passes, or to take your hand out of a partner's back pocket so a pensioner is not pushed into the path of a bus? It is not only the young, she adds: she has seen plenty of middle-aged couples with hands intertwined on evening walks. Her suggestion is that one of them walk slightly ahead, in the manner of what she calls normal Irish couples.
Second is the teenage horizontal conga line, five abreast in North Face jackets. McCarthy recalls her own youth, with a perm, Beetle Crushers and a denim waistcoat, and wonders whether Gen Z has lost its peripheral vision, or whether the group simply cannot register anyone over 22 in leggings. Her advice is to give in and cross the road, since not even Moses could part the crowd.
Third are the dog walkers with retractable leads, a category in which she includes herself, naming herself among the most hated of the Pathhoggers. She contrasts today's habits with the 1980s, when dogs roamed free. Her own dog, she recalls, walked the children to school, waited in the driveway until they came home, and then went with them to the shop to buy the Echo before dinner. He also had an arch enemy three doors down, a dog called Kelly, whom he barked at now and then for excitement. Today, she says, the extended lead works like a tripwire, forcing passersby to limbo beneath it whenever the dog stops abruptly to sniff a gate, a hedge or something worse.
Last, and worst, is the phone zombie, an offender she says cuts across gender, age, income, class and creed. Eyes down, neck slumped, jaw slack, they walk straight into your shoulder without lifting their gaze from the screen. She sees no hope for them, and says from bitter experience that a sarcastic apology makes no difference.
She closes with a warning to be careful on the paths, and a mock prayer for anyone who meets a loved-up group of teenage couples walking dogs while on their phones. The piece is a light opinion column and makes no proposals beyond recognition, but it invites readers to check whether they themselves are among the offenders.
Notable Quotes
The real terror we need to focus on is the Rise of the Pathhoggers.— Esther McCarthy, Irish Examiner columnist
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