When the sun is shining, Connemara looks like a fairy-tale land. Lush green spills onto the road like a cocktail of parsley and kiwi. It mixes with navy streams and sea-pink Armeria Maritima for several dozen kilometers. Magic mountains reign under the sky, and at their foot the most beautiful turquoise I have ever seen is glazed.
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I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
W.B. Yeats “He wishes for the cloths of heaven”
For two years I have published the first blog post. The decision to set up my own writing site was like a return to myself and brought me to a wonderful adventure. You can read what new things have I learned.
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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.
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Outside the window, I hear the sound of a hammer hitting the metal sheet. My cup of coffee is touching the saucer sonorously. A knife creaks on the glass board as I cut the bread, and the bottle of olive oil hits the worktop. Even though it is an ordinary Wednesday, I put on my blue flamenco shoes which I brought from Cadiz, and tap out my internal beat on the kitchen floor.
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There’s no such thing as bad weather, only unsuitable clothing
Alfred Wainwright
The force of the wind on the Beaufort scale is nine, a little tree knocked over on some balcony in Galway. I prepare sandwiches and pour coffee into tourist mugs. We put on hoodies, jackets, hats, I take gloves, even it is May. Dauntless sneakers are ready for the adventure. The songs by Polish band T.Love sound in the car, so memories mix with the N59 road, and beige hills with newborn sheep hug their mums on the fields. Long before Clifden, we turn right to the Connemara National Park. The direction is three beautiful beaches.
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I went to Lisbon impressed by Wim Wenders’ film Lisbon Story. The blue-yellow city situated on the hills and the red Ponte 25 de Abril bridge over the Tagus river appeared from the plane’s window exactly like in the movie.
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In Galway, outside the window graphite clouds and wet asphalt. But in my kitchen, Spain is sitting at the table, because for several mornings I enjoy Pan con tomate.
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One autumn, I was in Brussels. Yesterday, the photos reminded me of that. Yellow and copper leaves scattered on the sidewalks in the city centre, beige and grey tenement houses, sceneries with an admixture of orange and burgundy – they are colours of Brussels.
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You should not go to the mountains alone. Because you never know what might suddenly happen. A woman who stayed with us last year also said that she would be fine on the hike to Carrantuohill, but she got stuck in a crack and had to be rescued by helicopter.
-so said John, when I announced that tomorrow I am going to the mountains alone. And he was right, but my desire to climb was stronger than fear that the wind would blow me off the ridge of the higgest mountain of Ireland.
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For the summer escapade we went three times to County Clare which stretches on the south from Galway. We have discovered the Burren dominated by glaciated karst, bright spaces but also caves, mysterious archaeological traces, cliffs of all sizes, magical greenness and colourful cottages.
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