Last month while I was reading Ella Young's Flowering Dusk, I came upon a passage so magical, I shared it in this blog. She writes of her experience walking the Inch strand in Dingle. Go read it now, if you haven't already.
Last week, I was able to leave Donegal for the first time since cancer and covid, and walk that same enchanted strand.
Ella writes that she's staying at the home of her friend, the painter Maud Lloyd. She described it as "a strong, two-story house" and the only house on the hill.
After walking down the beach for a while, I turned around and saw this.
Ella writes of hearing bells as she walks this beach, but I did not hear them. Nor did I hear her chariots.
Always one can hear the bells but one cannot always hear the chariots. They come thundering along the strand, immense chariots driven furiously: so massive are they (by the sound) and so headlong is the pace that of a surety the horses leaping and straining in the traces must be kin to those harnessed by Apollo.
But I could hear the skylarks. I had heard of skylarks before moving to Ireland, but never heard their sweet calls above the dunes. They will always sound like summer to me.
But the strand is the most wonderful thing. It is very slightly inclined to the sea, and when waves make an onset they run up very far, leaving their comrades as it were bunched in wonderment a long way out.
As Ella had imagined a hundred years ago, I touched hearts with her. I remembered friends far away, and how we are all growing older. I drew this labyrinth.
I walked it just once, in and out again. I looked behind as I walked toward home, but the wind had swept it away.
I walked it just once, in and out again. I looked behind as I walked toward home, but the wind had swept it away.
