This post is also available in: polski (Polish)

I sit down on a stone by the R336 in the Maan Valley. The asphalt is quiet. Along the side of the road, one sheep walks. Thin black legs wobble slightly on the grey rocks. I take a sip of coffee from an orange mug. Brown giants – Maamturk watch me gently. A moment ago I have doubted the sense of being. Now, I contemplate a magical or ordinary fragment that is just happening.

The road is nice graphite, Maciek almost lays down on the asphalt to take a photo. Grasshopper makes music in the beige grasses. From time to time, passing cars give him a beat. However, the chirping of the birds is louder and takes hugs me. I cross my legs, the light smooths out difficult feelings and turns them as velvety as blue on a warm day. I drink all the coffee, the yellow sneakers touch the ground strongly. I continue the travel through Joyce Country and do not ask what will happen next, because the road knows where to take me.

*Joyce Country – the name of this picturesque and hilly area through which the Joyce River also flows comes from the name of Thomas Joyce who came to Ireland from Wales in the 13th or 14th century and settled down.

This text I would like to dedicated to Daria, as a wish for her to have a small journey.