When I was in Glenadough, Ireland the land spoke volumes to me. It felt and it indeed was ancient. The Irish people exist in comfortable relation to it, and appreciate its melodic shifts and seasons, as they have done for thousands of years. There are vast tracts of low-lying suburbs around Dublin. It’s almost always raining, in a soft and gentle patter which provides a glittery sheen on everything. People here go about their business despite the weather. In some people’s view this could be seen as miserable drizzle, but it’s actually a tiny bit magical and mystical. Without any warning, the peopled districts give way to lush green meadows, jaunty rocks and misty vapours that blur the line between the sky and the ground. There are subtle signs here of the ancients, in the tiny rumbles of streams and crystal clear cascades of water running over sharp mountain sides. Large, immovable boulders and monoliths litter the mountain valleys like punctuation marks along with croft houses and ancient churches. The wild and bright pink heather, peat and moss snakes around everything like the pillows of the pagan gods.
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