It has been a fabulous day: a whole day in sunshine, walking around Inish Oir, the smallest of the Aran Islands, soaking up sunshine, picnicking, getting burnt, taking photograph after photograph of wildflowers in the hedgerows, in the crevices, walking past mile after mile of wall, a landscape that it’s almost impossible to get your head around.
And then, at the end of the day, with feet hot and tired from racing to catch the boat, a sudden gift of time, more time than we thought to wait on the ferry, not least as the ferry arrives on its own time, with little apparent regard to the timetable, and there is nothing else for it in this gift of extra time, but to take your shoes and socks off and stand with your feet in the Atlantic, looking back to the mainland, to the clouds gathering over the hills of Connemara, marveling at the colour of the water all green-turquoise-blue like the Caribbean,
And while I’m standing, waiting and not-waiting, sunbathing, soaking it up, not thinking, a sudden burst of a thought:
Oh, but this is what I dream of.
The intensity of this moment, all earth connection with your feet bare on the sand and the Atlantic washing over you, the lightness of the water and the darkness of the Connemara cloudfall, no pressure of time, no time at all, but all the time in the world,
And the dream, the hunger, the quiet greedy realisation that I dream of more of this:
the chance to head west.
To get to these places at the edge where the earth is wildly beautiful, and your heart knows no bounds.
To stand with your feet in the water, and marvel at the colour of the ocean, and the way the clouds gather darkly on the hills across the sea.