images sparked atfer a re-location from Los Angeles.
|Speeding along the back country on the wrong side of a twisting road so narrow I wasn't certain that there was an option as to which side to drive on, it finally hit me. I have arrived. After a grueling 48hours of traveling that lost me eight hours of my life I have managed to jet myself to a foreign country where I am told they speak English, but I'm not to sure. Ninety percent of the time I have no idea what anyone is talking about. My body is beyond confused and my mind is working on overdrive. Everything looks oddly familiar, yet completely strange at the same time. The first few days are a soup of events.
I find myself walking along a 'tarmac' road that stretches dramatically uphill. It has been spitting rain all morning. The soft grey clouds whisk at a surprising speed above the bright green expanse of hills. I pass a few farm houses, all quaintly constructed of wood and stone with beautifully colored front doors. The occasional Collie dog or mix breed sit waiting to guard their homes from the rare passerby or mail truck.
The further I venture the fewer hourses I find. There are bushes so thick along the sides of the roads I feel as though I'm walking through a half-pipe of greenery. I then realize the bushes are held up by crumbling stone walls, at least a hundred years old. At closer inspection they prove to be ladened in ripening blackberries naturally cleansed by the passing mist. This leaves beautiful plump drippings of dew sparkling in what filtered light breaks through the blanket of white a grey. An occasional cobweb catches multitudes of the sheeting raindrops. The effect is reminiscent of a well-lit canopy at a fancy outdoor event.
The path takes a turn and I am thrust into a view of hills streaching for miles, embroidered with stone walls. Sheep and cattle congregate in thier designated patches, feeding on the rich expanse of emerald. A few glance up casually as I pass. Most know I'm not there to feed them, and thus could care less.
I feel as though I have entered into a 1950's film set in the Irish county-side. It's all too perfect to take in.
Oddly enough, I am jerked back to reality at the close of the hike. I come near to death when a speeding car hurries around a tight bend. I press close agains the piercing throns of the same bushes I was earlier admiring and glare and the young man who's returning glance reminds me that I am not at home.
No matter how far you travel, you find that so much is still the same. And yet it's worth the experience. Thus, I suppose, it is the journey that surpasses the destination in importance.