Sunday, 20 November 2011


The first thing many people think about when hearing about Ireland -apart from the religious conflicts- is the constant rain. The country enjoys a reputation of being rather dark, wet and unfriendly.
Well, dark and wet is possible true (seven days of rain in ten days I spent there), but they both result in making it also the greenest country I have seen so far. Endless meadows of unworldly green, rough landscapes dominated by cliffs, stones and mounds. 

The so-called Sleeping Giant
It is a truly magical country with, home of endless repertoires of tales and stories about mythical creatures and their adventures, which serve as explanations for mysterious formations or shapes of rocks or hills. The people there believe in and know them by heart, which never stopped fascinating me. 

I spent one night in a Bed&Breakfast place in the middle of nowhere. In the evening I explored the house and found a cozy sort of living room with a fire place and comfortable couches and armchairs. Three people where there: a girl reading poems in one of her many books, an old woman just looking into the fire and a guy playing the guitar and singing songs from his home, which was Iceland. I listened to him for hours, not understanding a word of his songs, but enchanted by this perfect moment that fit so well the country it took place in.
I could really imagine living in Ireland in a tiny lonesome house near the ocean, spending my days wandering through the rain, reading books in front of the fire place and eating in small pubs while listening to old people’s stories about the past.

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