On the following Sunday in February, birds chirp over the city. Although I don’t see them at all because I walk a shortcut through the bus station. People spill out into Eyre Square. And I’m finally wearing a denim jacket, this one lined with fur.
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Turquoise crashes onto the rocks along the R336 road. The passing sun illuminates the moorland full of rocks that stretch out like in a movie. We stop in Carraroe at the purple Bia Blasta cafe that Liza once showed me. I’m trying to remember how to say “Hello” in Gaelic because in this region 80% of the inhabitants use this language every day.
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The first surgery in my life is behind me. And I woke up from sleep just in time for the Imbolc festival – spring returning, which Ireland is celebrating this weekend. I wrote here a few years ago that the Celtic Imbolc meets at the crossroads with Saint Bridget’s Day. Meanwhile, I put on a ginger hoodie, light candles next to the ceramic volcano Vesuvius, and turn on colorful lights. And my friend brings me a red primrose in a yellow pot.
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