One thing’s for sure, arriving in vintage style is always best, guaranteeing a warm welcome and plenty of chat or maybe even ‘craic’ as they say in these parts.
I am aware of my sheltered, home-counties roots when arriving in the barren wilds of the West coast, I remember A’level Wuthering Heights where Cathy is withering about the easy pleasantness of the Home counties and the Southern stock it produces unable to embrace her beloved dales: their raw, elemental beauty, their untamed wildness. So it is as we pass through miles of brown loughs, withered trees and bare mountains, but at least the sky is blue (so say my Southern – Softie genes).
When you arrive it is empty.
Further along the coast we all gasp, yes look closely.
It starts to feel magical.
The air races into you and the dogs race ahead.
I am pulled in, actually almost over in those winds, peering at blooming white and brilliant yellow on peat stone.
Time to struggle back.
makes perfect sense
as the dogs lie damp by the fire and oysters are your only man.
All the way back I am day dreaming of dark ‘drab’ grey with emerald green, smudges of yellow and a fresh lick of chalky white.
All photos taken by me.