Which wild way do the midge fly on the Atlantic coast? From famine huts to beehive huts. Roiling mist clouds in the Gap of Dunloe to the searing hot Irish sun pinkifying our skin to the hot sear one imagines wouldn’t be possible in a place known for the cooling rains to assuage the climate change trauma. I’m from California. The whole state burns, LA gets our water like a hungry lamb shoving its head rudely through the mesh wire fence near the stone huts to greedily drink its fill so none of the others can have a drop. That’s what LA is with its gold courses and lawns. Lawns.
Ireland is a lush wonderland full of perfectly timed streams and brooks. Loughs. Medieval mists. We drove and drove and each time it was beyond terrifying. Corkscrewing down the spiral roads of death. The old stones with spirals carved in them from before the Pyramids. It all comes together. Spirals into one another beyond time, the corkscrew death drives and the ancient stones. All of it. Not just a circle of life thing, this experience. A death spiral where we often find ourselves on one part of the journey we will never return to. But from one element of the deepening descent, we see clearly where we were and the future is a blind hairpin turn with no way of knowing if there’s a car or lorry or out of control mad man just around the other side.
