Towards Lecanvey
Stop a moment by the idle wall, look right to the red rusting boathouse, tall trees whispering, sheep bleating. Look left, follow the waves, their bluegreen sheen domed by the sky, bend and dip with the coast road. Long fingered land lingers, to reappear as humpbacked hills dotting Clew Bay. Clouds scud across Croagh Patrick, colour changing as you watch. Four hundred walked to Delphi Lodge in search of food. They lie among potato drills, roofless abbey walls, standing stones, yellow furze. The rise of land dominates, insists that you walk on it, admire it and know your place in the scheme of things.