In our roof garden, large orange and red toadstools have grown, sprinkled with irregular balls that look like rolled-up papers. When November draws in the clouds and starts raining all day long, our toadstools are like living pieces of art, their colours shining through the darkest thoughts.
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–Long day – a guy talks to us in Dudley’s Bar, where we are waiting for a concert by Hania Rani, a Polish pianist and composer. I’m drinking a pint of Blue Ghosts in honor of her new album ‘Ghosts’.
– Oh yes, it’s a very long and exciting day, for us, we came from Galway, because just around the corner in Vicar Street will perform an amazing artist who can do anything in music – says Maciek.
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On my birthday, I discover a new strand of gray hair and I’m very happy about it because the color matches my April dress perfectly. Kilkenny wakes up from songs sung in The Field Bar. I love you – I keep humming in my rock & roll mind.
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We expected the sun to come out from behind the clouds. But that the wind will fly away, and not a single drop of rain fall. WOW! 😊
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Oh, my life changes every day in every possible way – The Cranberries sings, and I could notice a young shamrock emerging from the darkness. I see these little boutonnières pinned to hoodies and waterproof jackets. Because today Saint Patrick is cleaning up on the island after winter.
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On Saturday morning, the rain drips into my short Americano, which was made for me by a great barista at Jungle Cafe. The grey beginning of March still keeps me in suspense. Can I finally enjoy my way home?
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Monday woke up gloomy with some seed of dark mood, and with a gale ate at the breakfast.
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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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