This post is also available in: polski (Polish)

October started quickly. I don’t know where it is rushing. So I try to capture this last week. I listen to the dripping rain, watch the flickering candle flame. I grind coffee beans, warmth brown like chestnuts. I am looking a fox in the garden. At the Galway market, I eat homemade sushi in the fleeting sunshine. Meanwhile a poem I write about November.

But when the cloudiness blurs everything. And the longing for something undefined swells within me like the sea. I go by ferry from Rossaveel again, with my husband to Inis Meáin, one of the three Aran Islands in the Atlantic, not far from Galway.

The ultramarine blue mixed with gray and Prussian blue are frosty. It rises and foams for several meters. But at the same time, it soothes the overstimulated mind.

The island is quiet and has a unique microclimate. We set off into a labyrinth of stone walls dotted with light green ferns, brown heather, a dandelion that no one has blown down, and wild purple flowers.

After an hour’s walk, we finally climb a wall to perch on the sprawling, flat, enormous rocks and listen to the ocean. Seals are probably peeking at us from a distance, as they love to observe people. We also frequently pass red and white cows, also very interesting animals.

Inis Meáin is quite silent, and when she does speak, she only speaks in Irish. Then island is the stronghold for this beautiful language for years. The yoga or Halloween announcements hanging in the pub are only in Gaelic language which means Celtic language.

Dún Chonchúir, or Conor,’s Fort is the largest stone fort on the Aran Islands. According to legend, it was once built by a giant throwing stones. Its true purpose remains unknown. It may have been a ceremonial site, or perhaps simply a fortress. It was built in the Iron Age or even earlier.

Inside, we – the archaeologists marvel at two conical towers or mounds made of stone. We climb the seven-meter-high wall. M on one side, and I climb it on the opposite side. From up high, the island looks like a map drawn by a child. Simply magical.

But the most wonderful discovery is yet to come. As we wander, we encounter grasses that look like the ocean, forming fluffy waves. And they smell of who we truly are. And in their lushness, they stretch our subcutaneous dreams.

The island now stretches within my heart. And in my head, a guitar and a song echo about longing for another wandering on this small island where the wind and sound of the sea is silence. A group of dreamers hum it on the ferry on the way back.

Meanwhile, in the garden, more and more leaves are turning copper. Apples on the table are waiting to be baked into apple pies. Winter jackets are drying. The radiator is starting to hum. And October slowly turns to November.