Ireland is another country. I mean I know Ireland is not the same country we were just in. After a long day of traveling I’m only too aware of the fact we’ve moved. But Ireland is place unlike other places. It is just different.
We’ve come all the way to the far West coast of Ireland in Connemara. In fact we’re about as far West as you get in Ireland; Alcock and Brown landed their record-breaking trans-Atlantic flight just up the road. And here the light is unique. There’s a golden tinge, a hazy glow to everything that is quite other-worldly and unlike anywhere else.
We’re staying in a house above a rocky inlet with curraghs moored below. There are cottages dotted around and a little wharf directly beneath us. Behind us is a field with two cute little donkeys in it, one of which is so young it is still stumbling about uncertainly.
The house is owned by Paddy who also owns the hardware store in the local town. He’s a lovely Irishman with a mop of grey hair and an old-world charm which matches the braces he wears. After showing us around the house, Paddy proceeded to don his oilskins and life jacket, pulled his curragh in from its mooring and then set off for the three-mile trip to the island on which he lives.
When I asked Paddy which island it was, his response in a perfect Irish brogue was “Ahh, ’tis the one on the left.” While that left us none the wiser as there were no islands in sight, he did offer to take us out there one day.