I remembered how is the feeling when you stare at stars. There are thousands of them, in front of a small white cottage with a red door in Connemara. We raise our heads up and contemplate sparkling points on a brisk night at the end of October.
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Blue wings sprout from my shoulders when I start to write. Then on Saturday morning, I fly for a coffee, even though a hailstorm rages on the streets of Galway. In the Portishead hoody and with the sketches of the texts under the cap, I feel like myself and I know that this time nothing will stop me. Because here I am at the dream reportage course led by Polish journalist Marcin Kącki.
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The weekend started with friends. Opening by an Italian coffee with Aga on a happy Woodquay Street. And the evening with Bia and Jack who brought us a plant straight from Brazil.
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The end of summer lights up inside me like lamps on the ceiling in The Secret Garden, where we write poems with Martyna sipping strawberry-lavender tea. Galway plays the double bass, winks, and introduces itself to us again. Because when guests come to visit me, I also become a tourist for a moment.
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The last morning in Turkey is lavender and pink. We are awakened by the sound of the Sea of Marmara. The first boats set off to Istanbul, the neighbors meet for a morning swim. We leave the room to the sandy shore. Ulvi our host from Efe Cafe has already prepared toasts and teas in bell glasses. He lights a cigarette and tells us about his everyday life in Silivri. In a moment we say goodbye in Turkish: Güle güle and leave the gate carefully so as not to run into a cat that has a bath under an olive tree at the corner of the street.
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– Can I get oranges?
-Madame, now is the season for apricots and cherries. In Spain, oranges are not harvested until September. At the moment you will only find old oranges.
-Ok, so then I would like apricots. They have an orange hue, too.
Sometimes the adventure starts late and completely unexpectedly, at 4:00 p.m. when you are moodily lying on the sofa. Then suddenly you want to eat something, but only in some beautiful place, far away, maybe on Lough Derg. Because it’s 90 km from Galway, where you’ve never been in your life.
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It does not matter that today is Sunday, we have to get up early, because two cats are waiting for us, and we mind of them over the weekend. The seagulls scream from five in the morning as if their white, and sea-scented feathers are being stripped off. But in the cat garden, petunias and bluebells wake up calmly.
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„We’re cosmonauts
Can I stay with you inside your brain
That way
We won’t be alone”
-so wrote Jamila Faber of Leeuwarden in the Netherlands in her poem. I discovered her, among other authors, in the album “Europe at Home”, where my text was also published.
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There is a world apart,
of elemental beauty carved by glacier,
where tiny wildflowers
pierce through limestone.
-a fragment of the poem The Breathing Burren by Maureen Grady.Continue reading