An Irish Christmas

Follow my blog with Bloglovin
// var _gaq = _gaq || (); _gaq.push(('_setAccount', 'UA-17888581-1')); _gaq.push(('_trackPageview')); (function() { var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true; ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') '.google-analytics.com/ga.js'; var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')(0); s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })(); Follow my blog with Bloglovin<\/a> //

I've been spending a few days at the bolthole in Ireland. I'm a townie, I have a 'difficult relationship' with the countryside, much like Princess Diana had with Balmoral. Walking, dirt track roads, mud, dank dreary weather, grey skies, driving rain and freezing cold houses - I experienced all of these in abundance. There was one saving grace in Ireland, which made my discomfort worthwhile, no not Guinness, it should be in the dock at Strasbourg for purporting to look like a delicious pudding yet tasting like pig swill. The badinage, the craic; in Ireland you are never more than two feet from a conversation with a stranger but it has an authenticity to it. Ireland is going through rough times, in some areas, according to one local I was chatting to, emigration is almost as high as it was during The Famine.
For the one hour it stopped lashing from the heavens we took the horses and headed for the beach. I'll never tire of looking out to the horizon and thinking that the next piece of land is America.
It's poignant to think of the many who headed there, following their hearts and driven by hunger.

(The beach in summer)