Irish Stories: 9+ Hours Sleep Stories With Soothing Sounds

Tonight, I have put together a collection of my stories set in my homeland of Ireland. Some are my own stories of personal reflection, inspired by my journeys through life, while others are about other Irish people. So get comfortable, relax, and allow these stories to guide you into a deep, peaceful sleep that lasts all night long.

Transcript

Hi there, This is Steven. These days I like to tell my listeners that I'm a real human being. Every single word you hear tonight. Was recorded by me. Sitting in my studio. Speaking into my microphone. This is my art. And my work. And we're set. Hello my friend. Welcome to your sleep story. My name is Stephen Dalton. I'm an Irish Storyteller. And it's my great privilege to be the voice that you listen to as you go to sleep tonight. Tonight I have put together a collection of my stories That are set in my homeland of Ireland. Some will be my own stories of personal reflection from journeys within my own life. And others are about other Irish people, And there's even one about an Irish storyteller. And I really hope you like this collection. But first, Let's do the relaxation session, Which will take a few minutes, Before tonight's sleep story. I'm going to count down from 10 to 1. And as I do. Allow yourself to let go. More and more. 10. Feel the support. Of the bed beneath you. Or the floor. Or whatever you lie upon tonight. And beneath what you lie upon. Feel a deeper support. The support of the earth. Our home. Our constant support. And as you become aware of that support See if you can. Sink into this moment a little more now. Just. Let go. A little more now. You. Are safe. Allow my voice. To be an anchor of safety tonight. To be a friend. To be a gentle guide. A guide that only ever brings you. To safe places. To warm. And cozy places. Places that enable and support. You will sleep. Trust. That my voice is a friend tonight. 8. Feel into your body now. Notice where you might still be holding tonight. Notice. Where you may have pain. Or tingling. Or tension. Notice anything. Maybe you feel something in your feet. Or in your lower legs. Resize. Or your belly. Your chest. Shoulders. Arms. Ends. Or maybe you're like me. And you hold tension in your face. Just see if you can soften a little now. This is a time bomb. For kindness to yourself. And to your body. Seven. The day. Is. Whatever has been. Has been. Whatever will be. Will be. But right now. All you have. Is this moment. Your thoughts can't change what has gone before. Your thoughts can't change. What will come tomorrow. Your brain. Needs rest now. So, As thoughts come and go now Don't fight them. Don't chase them away. See them for what they are. Such. Then just. . . Watch them go. Like leaves. Floating away. On a moonlit river. Or clouds. Passing through a starlit sky. 6. This is your moment. This. Is your time. You have earned this moment of kindness to yourself. You deserve. To have peace in your life. We all do. So, As you become aware of that fact, As you. Come to the understanding. That we all deserve peace. See. If you can settle into this moment. A little more now. Letting your body know. That it's really time for rest. 5. Peace. Lives within you. It is a constant friend. Waiting to be found. Waiting to be felt. Where does it live within you? Maybe it's in your heart. Maybe it's in your head. It's up to you to find it. But I promise you it's there. Perhaps, Allow a little gratitude now. Gratitude. For the simple things. For your body. The shelter you have tonight. For the ones you love. And who love you. For the beauty and wonder of this world. Of this planet. That you can find. When you look for it. Three. Begin to engage with your imagination now. Begin to see the beautiful land of Ireland. Surrounded by ocean. Rocky and wild on the west. Raining quite often. Lush green land. A welcome place. Crackling fires. And friendly faces. A place of safety and peace for you tonight. Too. Checking in with your buddy. One more time now. Finding the places you are holding still. And allowing yourself to be. To give in. To allow the tension to ease away. Your body has worked hard for you today. It's time. To give it rest. And one. Completely letting go now. As I tell you. Tonight's sleep story. In the West of Ireland. In the years just after the country had won its independence. There was a fair. Held on the last Saturday of every summer. Nobody missed it. Not the farmers. Nor their wives. Nor the children who wore their best coats. Even if the sleeves no longer reached their wrists. There were potatoes roasting on iron griddles. Fiddlers tuning their strings. And long tables of bread and butter. Laid out like feasts for kings. Although there wasn't a king left in sight. It was the kind of evening that made you feel like everything was possible. The turf fires. Smelled strong and smoky. And the stars had started to blink above the hills. And someone had set up a barrel of apple punch. Just beside the low stone wall. Where people gather. To listen. For this was the moment. Everyone was waiting for. The moment when the Shanaki. The Storyteller. Would clear his throat. And hush a hundred people. Without saying a word. Now in Ireland. A storyteller wasn't just someone who liked to talk. Though most of them certainly did. The shaneki was a special sort. Earth Historian. Of magician. Art actor. And entirely important. Long ago. When roads were still muddy tracks. And most people lived by the light of turf fires. The Shanaki would go from village to village. With nothing but a walking stick. And a head full of stories. He'd be welcomed in like a priest or a poet. Fared well. Given a place by the hearth. And in return. Eat tell tales so strange and grand. That people would forget how tired they were. Nor how cold the wind had been that day. And the best part? No two stories were ever quite the same. Every shanaky. At his own way of spinning the thread. Adding a twist here. A love there. Maybe even a tear. Until you weren't quite sure. If it was history. Or something better. Now our storyteller's name. Was fear crap. O'Leary. Though most people just called him Old Feocra. And he had the kind of voice. . . That made even the wind stop to listen. His beard was silver. His eyes were dark. And his stories. Were older than any book you could find in a library. This night. He stood up beside the campfire. Raised his hand. And said in that low gravelly way of his, Well now. We may be the modern Irish. The Irish of tricolours. Parliament. And the like. But let me tell you about the Irish who came before us. Long before the maps. The roads or the flags. The Irish. Of the old world. For once. Many, Many years ago. There lived a woman of such beauty and mystery. That the waves themselves. Rose to meet her feet. The children edged closer. The grown-ups leaned in. The fire gave a little sigh of smoke. And settled down. As though even it knew the time had come. Our name. Said Fierke. Pausing for effect. Was cleaner. And she came not from any place you'd find on a map. But from a land across the sea. Where no one ever grows old. And where the apples hang golden in the trees. Now Kleene lived in a land called Teer Tarangira. Said Fuchre. Letting the words roll off his tongue like honey. The land of promise. And if you've never heard of it. Well. . . That's no surprise. For it lies far beyond the western sea. Somewhere between the last gull's cry. And the moon's reflection in the water. He gave a little smile at that. And a few of the older boys chuckled. Even though they didn't understand it either. In tear-torn gear. The grass is always green. And the sky. Never clouds over. The rivers are made of silver. And the deer eat berries from your hand. No one is ever cold there. No one hurries. And clearness. You see. Was one of the great ones of that land. At all. Golden haired. And with a voice so lovely. That birds would forget their songs. Just to hear her speak. One of the girls gasped. One of them whispered something to her sister. And then clutched her hand. Eyes wide. Old Feocrin nodded like he'd expected as much. But it happened one day. Be continued. The clearness. Walked to the edge of the sea. She often did. She liked to sit there and listen to the water. And talk to the seals. Who came up to rest on the rocks. For the seals in that land. Are not ordinary. Oh no. They understand things. Those ones. But on this day. She saw something. Different. The seal. A real sail. Blowing across the sea. From far. Far away. Now the children were absolutely still. It was a little bored. You know what they are. We still use them. And in it. Was a young man. Half asleep. Holding on to an oar like it was the only thing he trusted in the world. His name. Was Kiernan. And he had been blown far from his home. In the real Ireland. By storm. Put by something quieter. Stranger than that. By longing. Fear grew, Let that word hang in the air longing. It drifted over the fire. And the heads of the listeners. And into the dark. Like a feather on the wind. He wasn't the first to dream of the other world, You know. He said. But he might have been the luckiest. Now. When Clearness saw the little boat. She didn't call out. She didn't wave or shout. She simply stood where the sea meets the sun. And ways it. And somehow. As if he'd known she would be there. Q Anon opened his eyes and smiled. Not the sort of smile you give to strangers. But the kind you give. When you found something you didn't know you'd lost. Beakery's voice dipped low. And the fire snapped a little louder for a moment. As if nudging the silence away. He stepped out of the booth. Barefoot. And blinking. And the waves pulled the Korok gently away behind him. As if it had done its job. And could now return to the sea. Kleene looked at him. He looked at her. And neither one said a word for the longest time. An old woman near the front gave a satisfied sigh. The way people do when they've heard this part before and still enjoy it. No. If you ask me. Said Fierke. The world changes. In little moments like that. Quiet ones. The ones that don't sound like much. When you tell them aloud. But that tip something inside a person. Just a little to the left. Giranon had never been to Tir Tarn Gir. The second he looked at Kleene. He knew he'd never want to leave. He led that sword. Set up. Then I did. And cleaner. For all her wisdom. For all her silver streams and golden apples. Had never met a man. Who looked at her as if she were real. The youngest children were asleep now. Their heads on their mother's shoulders. The older ones stared at the fire. Even the sheepdog curled near the flames Gave a small, Contented sigh. She took his hand. Said vehicle. And led him into that gentle land. And there they stayed. For what seemed like a year and a day. Though time doesn't work quite the same in Teer Tarngira. They walked the meadows. Sat beneath the rowan trees. And watched the deer come down to drink. He was happy. So was she. Kiernan began to dream. Now dreams in the land of promise. Are not like the dreams we have here. Said Fuqua. Gazing into the fire. They are clearer. Quieter. They settle into the heart like a pebble in a pool. And one morning. As the wind moved softly through the tall grass. Hunan woke with a feeling in his chest. Something he couldn't quite name. Not sadness. Not longing. Something older. He sat up and listened. And what he heard wasn't bird-song or breeze. It was. Bells. Someone near the back of the crowd stirred. There were always bells in these stories. They were faint at first. But they were real, And they didn't come from dear Tarangira. They came from beyond the sea. From Ireland. Is Ireland. The bells of a church he used to pass on his way to the field. The sound of his mother calling him in for tea, The clang of the blacksmith's hammer from the village square. The vehicles voice was slower now. Almost whispering. Had been happy. In his new home. Dear Tarangira. The land of promise. Good now. Those sounds. They made something in him ache. He began to remember things. His old neighbors. His grandfather's pipe. The way the rain tapped on the window panes back home. The cleaner saw it, Of course. She knew the look. The kind that means a person is slipping away. Even if they're still holding your hand. He looked around at the fire-lit faces. She didn't argue. She didn't beg him to stay. She only walked him to the edge of the sea, Where they had first met. And there. She said something very quiet. So quiet and fuzzy. That it's never been written down. As in a nipple. But I'll tell you what the old ones say. He leaned forward just slightly. They say. She promised. To we. The tide was coming in. When Kirinon stepped into the water. Said Fuqua. It wasn't cool. Gracias. Is touched his ankles like a memory. The little boat that at once brought him to tear-torn Gera. Was there again. Bobbing quietly. As if it too had been waiting. Clean it stood on the sun. Still as stone. Watching him go. She didn't wave. You only smile. The strain. Beautiful sort of smile. The kind that isn't made with lips. But with the whole soul. The hush had fallen over the crowd now. Deeper than before. The fire had burned down. To a low bed of glowing embers. Erode. Until the mist swallowed her from view. You roll. Until he could no longer hear the seas hush on the shore. And by the time the boat scraped against the rocks at Glandor Harbour. He was back. In our world. Vehicle, Let that settle. Just long enough for the silence to fold itself around the listeners. Now. He said. Some say he lived out the rest of his life in peace. Became a teacher. Marie. Raised children. And grew old. Watching the same stretch of coastline. Where he had once returned. But others. And I won't say whose rice. Believe that he walked the cliffs each morning. For the rest of his days. Waiting for the sound of the tide to change. His eyes catching the light of the fire. And they say. . . That one day. Many years later. A wave unlike any other. Rose at Glandor. Not a storm wave. At all. Silver wave. Smooth as glass. And does it grow? It carried with it something strange. A sound. A voice. Her voice. Fykr's own voice dropped to a murmur. And in that moment. Kirinan smile. The very same smile he had given her on the first day. And walked down the sand. Until the sea Met his feet once again. No one saw what happened after that. But the old people say that if you listen very carefully, At the edge of Glandor harbour. Just as the tide turns at dusk. You might hear two voices. Laughing. Faint as wind. Sub. Asleep. He nodded once. Slowly. And that was the end of that story. The fire had dipped low. People were rising slowly. Quietly. Brushing crumbs off their coats and calling to sleepy children. The fair was winding down. The fiddlers had stopped. Somewhere across the dark field. A cow load once. And then thought better of it. But vehicle. Still sitting tall on his old wooden stool. Legs crossed like a scholar. Eyes glittering beneath the brim of his cap. Looked out over what remained of the crowd. A few were still seated on crates and stones. Their hands wrapped around mugs of punch. Their ears not quite ready to let go. He gave a little shrug. The kind that said he didn't mind either way. And then said, Well now. If there is anyone still awake. And I can see at least five pretending not to yawn. I'll tell one more for the road. Not a long one, Mate. Just a short little tale. About a lake. That sleeps. And a king. Who sleeps beneath it. The younger boy with the large ears, Who'd been nodding off against a sheepdog, Perked up again. This one's a quiet sort of story. Said Fierke. The kind best told. When the sky is full of stars. And the fire's sinking about going to sleep too It's about Locke-Gerr. Down in County Limerick. A day. So still and deep. It's said you can sometimes hear the dreams of the water. If you listen just right. You let the quiet stretch. And then leaned in slightly. And at the very bottom of that lake. In a place no one's ever reached. Not with a bow. Not with a bell. Not even with a bucket on a rope. There sleeps a king. A real one. A tall, Handsome sort of fellow. With eyes like rain. And a crown that still shines. Even in the dark. They call him Geroge. And he's not dead. Oh no. Is just. Resting. Now no one knows exactly how he got there. Set vehicle. Tilting his chin thoughtfully. Some say he rode his white horse into the water. One moonlit night. And simply didn't come out again. Others say he vanished during a storm. The kind with sideways reign. Clouds shaped like wolves. But the best stories. The ones the old women used to whisper when the bread was rising. Say that Garoad was no ordinary king. No. He was a man with magic in his hands. And a mind too full of wonder. To sit still on a throne for long. He nodded to himself. As if that sounded about right. He was a singer too. And a reader of stars. They say he could charm the birds from the sky with his harp. And once built a ladder out of moonlight. Just to see what was on the other side of the night. Someone near the front gave a soft laugh. But people in those days. Didn't always like a man who thought too much, Said Fygra. And soul. When his enemies came. As they often do in stories like this. He didn't fight them. He didn't argue or shout. He rode down to Lough Gour. Dismounted. And walked into the water. With his head held high. And his boots. Still on. The vehicle folded his hands together. And looked out into the dark. And that's where he is to this day. Sleeping. What is it? Not in a sad way, Mind you. No. They say he sleeps like someone. Who's had just the right amount of porridge? With a warm dog at his feet. And nothing left on his to-do list. Once every seven years. He's set to rise to the surface. Not all the way. Just enough to check the time. And give a little stretch. Before drifting back down again. With a yawn. And mumble. The few listeners still awake were completely still. Someone poured the last of the punch. The sheepdog snored. Some say he'll wake properly one day. Be a Crescent. Softer now. When Ireland needs him most. When the land is ready. Push me? I think he's already done his bit. I think he sleeps because he can. Because the world is turning just fine without him. And because it's a lovely thing. Don't you think? To be held so gently by a place that you don't ever have to leave. He looked around once more. That's luck, Girl, For you. A lake with dreams of its own. The fire crackled on. Slow and steady. Like it knew it had one last job to do. To keep the night warm. And the story safe. Most of the crowd had wandered off now. Arms length. Voices love. The way people talk when they don't want to wake the stars. Some carried sleeping children. Some walked alone. All of them left. With something tucked inside their chest. This story. A picture. A feeling they wouldn't quite be able to name. Until much later. But a few stay. One of the lads. The one with the wide ears and the two short trousers. Curled up beside the sheepdog. Pulled his coat over his knees. Two old men sat a little apart sharing a pipe. And not saying a word. And the shanaky. Old Viekra. Leaned back on his stool. Wrap. In his thick brown coat. His eyes have closed now. He didn't need a bed. Not tonight. The fire would do. The stories had been told. And tomorrow would come in its own time. Or not. The flames rose gently. The lake of the sky glittered overhead. And the land. Free and quiet. And full of memory. Rested. In. Peace. It is a wet night. In November. In the year 1983. And you. Are in the west of Ireland. And County Mayor. At the end of a narrow road. With grass growing up in the middle of it. The bus left you. In the village of Kulnamara. At six o'clock. It was raining then. And it is raining now. The woman in the post office looked at you. And then at the window. And wrote a name on the back of an envelope. Massie Kearney. She said. Last house on the big road. He keeps a room for anyone the weather catches. Tell him Nora sent you. You walked out the park road. With your cholera. Last four houses and a hay shed. And a field of some wet-looking sheep. At the very end of the road. There is a low white house. With a red door. And one window lit. Smoke. Came out of the chimney. And lay down flat across the roof the door open. Before you knock. Matty Kearney is 78 years old. He is a small upright standing man. In a grey cardigan. With a white shirt buttoned to the neck. And no tie. His hands are big for the size of him. His eyes are pale blue and very quick behind him. In the kitchen. After turf, Fire is going. In an open hearse. And an old black and white sheepdog. Called Brahman. Is lying in front of it. With his chin on his paws. Nor resent you. Mary says. It isn't a question. She rang the shop. And the shop sent the young lad up on the bicycle to tell me. Comment. Come in now to that weather. Give me the code. He hangs your coat on a hook beside the fire. Where it starts to steam. He puts you in a chair at the side of the hearth. It is a low wooden chair. With a seat of twisted straw rope. And it gives a little under you. And then hold He fills the kettle from a white enamel bucket. Hangs it on the iron crane over the fire. And swings the crane in over the flames. Look around you. This is a kitchen. In 1983. But only some of it is. There is an electric light in the ceiling. With a cream shade. And Matty hasn't switched it on. For the lighting is cosy and low. There is a radio on the dresser. A bush radio. In a brown wooden case. To endure. There is a calendar from the creamery. With a picture of the mountain called Crowpatrick on it. There is a small red lamp. This in front of a picture of the sacred heart. And there is the dresser itself. Painted green. With blue and white plates. Standing along the shelves. And jugs. Hanging from little hooks. And a tin of biscuits on the top shelf. That Massey takes down now. And opens. And puts on the stool beside you. Kimberley's and Mikado's He tells you to work away. Under the window. There is a long wooden bench. With a red cushion on it. And to hide back. It is very old. The wood has gone dark and smooth. Where people's hands have held it. The kettle boils. Mattie makes the tea in a brown pot. And leaves it on the hub beside the fire to draw. Then he pours it strong. Into two cups. He puts milk in yours without asking. And then he asks, Do you take milk? You tell him that's grand. He sits down across the fire from you in a big armchair. With a blanket over the back of it. And he puts a sword of turf on the fire. And watches it catch. You will not get out of here tonight with that weather. He says. Nor would you want to. Enjoy that day. Do you know? As he says. I was born in this house. In 1905. And I've lived in it every year since. Except for one winter in Galway, That I don't count. People come out here now on the bus. The way you came. And they look at the place and they sing. Nothing has changed in it. I'll tell you now. Everything has changed in it. Every single thing. He looks at you over his cup. Will I tell you how it was? How it used to be. You tell him you'd like that very much. He looks into the fire for a while. Deciding where to begin. The house was thatched then. He says. Old straw. My father did it himself every few years. With my Uncle Pat. The two of them up on the roof with a ladder. And a bundle of hazel scallops they'd cut in October. Then the slates were put on. In 1954. A stronger roof I suppose but not as warm. There were four of us children. Myself. And kitty. And Johnny. And the baby. Breathe. You see that bench under the window with the cushion on it? That's the settle-bed. My grandfather made it. But it opens out. At night, My mother would pull it out onto the floor in front of the fire. And put in the mattress. A ticking mattress. Stuffed with straw. And the blankets on top. And the four of us would go in to at the head. And two at the foot. And the fire beside us all night. That was the first thing about this house. The fire never went out. Not once in my whole childhood that I know of My grandmother said it had been lit. Since her own grandmother's time. That nice? My mother would rake the coals together. Into a little heap. And cover them over with grey ash And in the morning she'd sweep the ash off. And blue on them. And there they'd be. Red underneath. Waiting for her. The floor. Was made of flagstones. Grey flags From the quarry at Carrowbeck. They were cold, I'll tell you. First thing on a January morning. When you put your bare feet down on them. But near the hearth. They were warm all the time. You see that flag in front of the fire there? The one Bran is on. There is a little hollow worn in it. From people's feet. The cat slept on that one when I was a boy. Whatever a cat it was. There was always a catch. We had no electric. That came to Koonamara in 1956. And the whole village went up to the crossroads. To watch the pools going in. In my time. It was the oil lamp. A brass lamp with a glass chimney. That hung on a nail there. Beside the dresser. And you filled it with paraffin. Out of a can. And I'll tell you a thing. If I smell paraffin now. Anywhere. At a garage. Or in the hardware shop in Castle Bar. I am eight years old again. It is a winter's evening. And my father is trimming the wick with the little scissors. So it won't smoke And my mother is saying Mind the glass, Michael. Mind the glass. He drinks his tea. The smell of the house. That's what you'd notice first if you walked into it then. Turf smoke. It was in everything. It was in the curtains and the blankets. And your hair. And your clothes. And then of course. . . There was the bread. Is my mother big? Every day of our life. Then the paraffin in the evening. And the wet wool drying. And the hens And the hens came in at night. There was a little kook. Built in under the dresser. There's a wooden door on it. And the hens went in there to roost. And in the morning they'd be out around your feet. Looking for crumbs. Before you'd put your boots on. And then of course. . . There was the money. Everybody wants to know about the money. Well. Twelve pennies made a shilling. Twenty shillings made a pound. Two half-pennies made a penny. And two farthings made a halfpenny. Bound. When I was a boy. Was a fortune. I don't think I held a pound in my own hand. Until I was nearly grown up. My father would get a few pounds for a calf At the fair in Ballinrobe. And that money went straight into the tin box. On top of the dresser. And it stayed there It was for the rent. Into this shop. And the boots. The shop was called Essien's. At the crossroads. Mrs. Bridgie Essien. It was one long wooden counter. With the brass scales at the end of it. And behind the counter. Every kind of thing you could think of. Tea. Sugar. Flower. Tobacco. Candles. Paraffin. Nails. Row. Bootlaces. Holy pictures. Buttons. Needles. Sunlight so. Brackets blue for the washing. And up along the shelf at the back. A row of tall glass jars. With the sweets in them. Or the candy you might call them. Tea came loose. Mrs. Hessian would weigh it out on the brass scales. Quarter of a pound. And pour it into a little paper bag. And fold the top over twice. A quarter of tea with sixpence near enough. Sugar was weighed out the same way. Out of his sight. Into a blue paper bag. It opens the pound. Flower came in a big white sack. That would do the house for a month. And my mother made the children's shirts out of the empty sacks. Baker's bread was a treat. It came out from Castle Bar on a cart. And you'd only see it at Christmas. Or on the day of the threshing. Five pence for a loaf. My mother would turn it over in her hands. Like it had come from another country. The newspaper was a halfpenny. The Irish Independent. My father bought it on a Saturday. And read every line of it. The advertisements and all. And then it went round three more houses on the road. Before it came back here. To light the fire. A stump for a letter was a penny. The box of matches was a halfpenny. The Pint of Porter, I'm told, Was Tupin's. But I wasn't let near one. The sweets. He sits for it. On a Sunday after Mass. If you were good. And sometimes if you want. You might get a penny. One penny. And you'd carry that penny the half-mile down to Hessians, In your fist. So tight. That when you opened your hand at the counter that there'd be the shape of the head on it. Pressed into your palms. Then you'd stand at the end of the counter. For as long as it took. Bullseyes. Black and white. Four for a penny. Clove rocks. And seed balls. Licorice laces. Hickey's leg. Which was a stick of toffee as long as your hand. And his heart is a gatepost. And it would last you the whole afternoon if you didn't bite it. Mrs. Hessian would let you stand there. And change your mind four times. And she never wants her radio. Then she'd twist your sweets. Into a little cone of paper. And hand it across the counter to you with both hands. The same as if it was a pound of tea. And then there was the book. He lifts one finger. Everybody had the book. You see, You didn't pay at Hessians, Mostly. You said. Put it in the book, Mrs. Hessian. And she'd write it down in a big ledger. Under your family's name. At the end of the month. Or after the fair. Or after the harvest. Your father would go down and settle it. Some months he'd settle all of it. Some months have. Do you never ask? Never once. And at Christmas. Every year. Every family that dealt with her. Got a Christmas box. A barm breath. And a quarter of tea. And a big candle for the window. And a few sweets for the children. Every family. The ones that it pays. And the ones that hadn't. He shakes his head slowly. I bought a loaf in the shop on Thursday. And this was 50 pence. 50 pence. That's ten shillings the old way. My father would have walked to Kassel bar and bar. For ten shillings. And been glad of it. I'm not complaining. The lower fist slice. And it keeps. And it's grand. But I do think about it. He leans down and puts another sword on the fire. And moves the others in around it with the tongues. You'd want to see what we wore. He says. In summer. From May until the end of September. No child in this parish Waraboo. Not to school. Not to the bugs. Not anywhere except Mars. Their feet. The soles of your feet would go like leather by the middle of June. You could walk across a stubble field and never feel it. I loved that. The first morning in May. When my father said the boots could come off I'd run down the Boreen and back. Just for the feel of the wet grass. In the winter there were boots. Pup-nail boots from Murphy's in Ballinrobe. With iron nails in the soles. And a steel tip on the heel. They cost eight shillings. Which was a terrible price. And they were always but too big. So you would grow into them the first month, You'd wear two pairs of your father's socks in them. To fill the mouth. My mother knitted everything. Sucks Gunsies cups. More flourish. She knitted in the evening by the lamp. And she could knit and talk and mind the bread. And keep an eye on the four of us. Without ever once looking down at her hands. The world was our own. We had a few sheep on the hill. And the wool was washed in the stream. Guarded by the fire. And spun on the wheel that stood over there in the corner. Where the radio is now. And then it went to Mick Garvey. Mick Garvey was the weaver. He had a loom in the room at the back of his house. A great big wooden thing that took up the whole of it. So you had to go in sideways You'd bring him your spun wool. And eat, Weave it into cloths for you. Om Spun. Gray or brown. By the white banneen. Which was the wool left, The colour it came after sheep. My father's jacket was bunning. His Sunday trousers were Mick Garvey's grey tweed. And they'd stand upon their own, Those trousers. They lasted him thirty years. The feel of it all. He rubs his thumb and finger together. Homespun was rough You, Short of it, Would scratch your neck raw for a week. Until it softens. The flannel was the same. We had red flannel shirts. And the women had red flannel petticoats. And in the winter you'd go to your bed in your flannel shirt. And guess I'll finish in the morning But it was warm. Wet or dry? It was warm. You could get soaked to the skin on the bog in the morning. By the time you'd walked home in it. You would be steaming like a horse after a race. And not a bit cold. And the smell of it drying. That's another smell I have. A row of Ganses and Sucks. Hanging on a string across the front of this fire. And the steam coming up off them. And the smell of wet wool and turf together. If I push a wedge caught by the fire. The way yours is there now. It all comes back to me. He nods towards you, Coat on the hook. It is still steaming a little. The women wore shawls. A big wool shawl. Or dark brown. That wind took over the hedge. Down round the shoulders. And they carried everything in it. A baby. Or a hen. Or a bag of flour home from Hessians. My mother had a good shawl for mass. With a long fringe on it. And another one for every day. On a Sunday. She'd wear a white blouse under it. Starched so stiff. This could hardly bend. She starched it on the Saturday night. And ironed it with the flat iron that she heated on the hob there. She had two irons. One Haitian. While she used the other. Someday close. Were Sunday clothes. You put them on after you wash and you took them off the minute you came home from mass. And they went back in their chest at the foot of the bed with a bit of lavender. My communion, Zeus. Was the suit my cousin Martin made his communion in. And his brother before him. And it went on to Johnny after me. It was Blue Surge. And the elbows were shiny. And I thought it was the finest suit in the county of Mayo. Outside. The rain keeps on falling. Matty gets up and takes the brown pot off the hob. And fills your cup again. He cuts two slices from a round loaf on the dresser. Brown. With the cross cut into the top of it. And butters them thick. And turns you one on a plate. That's from my niece. He says. But it's near enough the way my mother made it. Go on. The bread is soft inside. And the crust is hard. And the butter is yellow and salty. Every day my mother made bread. Brown Soda Muesli flower. And a bit of brown. Bread, Soda and salt. And buttermilk to bring it together. She mixed this in a big brown bowl with her hands. Never a spoon. She pushed the cross on the top. To let the fairies out, She said. And then it went into the pot oven. Thus was a heavy iron pus with a lid. And it sat on the coals there on the hearth. She'd put more hot coals on top of the lid. So it peaked from above and below When it came out, She'd wrap it in a clean cloth. And stand it on the windowsill to cool. And the whole house would smell of it. And the butter. Returned on a Friday. Tall wooden churn with a dash in it. Along Paul with the cross of wood on the end. And you'd stand there. Pushing it up and down. Up and down for what felt like an hour. And anyone who came in the door while the churning was on. Just take a turn. That was the custom. The poorest man. The priest. Anyone at all if you came in and didn't take your turn. They said you'd be taking the look of the butcher away with you. So everyone took a turn Then the pusher came. You'd feel it come. The dash would go heavy in your hands. And there it would be. Little yellow grains of it. My mother would lift it out with two flush wooden paddles. Put her hands, We called them. And washes in cold water from the well. And salt it. Passes into a glock. And then there was the butcher mill. Cold buttermilk in a mug after you had been out working in the field. I never tasted anything better. Not in 78 years of life. And then of course there were potatoes potatoes at every dinner. Boiled in their jackets on the big pot. And to drain. Tipped out into a flat basket called a skib. In the middle of the table. And everyone reached in and helped themselves. You peeled them with your thumbnail. With butter and salt. And a mug of buttermilk. And that was a dinner. And a good one. On a Sunday. There might be bacon and cabbage. At Halloween there was Cull Cannon. Potatoes mashed up with kale and scallions. And a lake of melted butter in the middle of it. There to be a ring hidden in it. And a symbol. And a button. And you did very slowly. So you wouldn't swallow your future. There was the barmbrack at Halloween too. With a ring in that as well and blackberries in September. From every ditch in the parish. My mother made jam from them in the big pot. And the jars stood along the dresser all winter. Dark purple. With a circle of paper tied over the top of each one with a string. And Christmas. He smiles at the fire. At Christmas we had a goose. Or a couple of chickens if the year was thin. A currant cake with candy to peel in it. And every child got an orange. One orange. Eat. They came from Spain, I believe. On a boat to Galway. And then on the train and then out on the cart from Castle Bar to Hessien's. Orange. I'd keep mine a whole day before I'd eat it. Just have it. I used to put it under the pillow in the settle-bed. So I'd smell it in the night. And then there was tea, Of course. Tea at every hour. Strong. In a brown posh underhub The way you have yours there. Tea was the one luxury every house had. No matter what else it hadn't. If you called to any house in this parish, The kettle went on before you'd your coat off. You'd be asked, Would you have a cup of tea? And you'd say. . . No, No, I won't. I'm only after having one. And they'd say you will. And do your work. That was manners. You said no three times. And then you had the tea. But I'll tell you what I miss. Matthew says. And it's not the bread. And it's not the oranges. It's the people. Nobody locked the door. There was no key to that door when I was a boy. There was a latch. And a half door. In the daytime the bottom half was shot. To keep the hens in and the pig out and the top half was open to the road Anyone passing would lean their arms on it and talk. You'd look up from whatever you were at And there'd be Paddy Joe Duffy the postman at the half-door with his bag. It come in. Indeed, Sit down. And it helps the tea. And it give you all the news of the parish. Before he ever gave you the letter. Paddy Joe walked 18 miles a day with the post. 18 miles. In all weathers. And he knew everything. If you wanted a message got to someone over in Carrow Bay you told Paddy Joe. And it was there by dinner time. Then there was the mail. The Mahal was when the neighbours All came together to do a big job. Te Hei. Or is it turf? Or it is threshing Nobody had money to pay him in. So nobody pays. You went to theirs. And they came to yours. When our hay was ready. Twelve or fifteen men would come walking up the road at seven in the morning. With their own forks on their shoulders. And they'd work our field all day. The women would come too. And help my mother with the dinner. And the next week my father would go to theirs. With his own fork on his shoulder. The threshing was the best day of the year. The threshing machine went round to the parish in September. Pulled by a steam engine. Great black thing with a tall chimney on it. It went from farm to farm And every farm had its day. On your day there'd be thirty people about the place. Man the machine. And the boys carrying the sheaves. And the women inside with the big pot on and the tables carried out into the yard. Bacon and cabbage and potatoes for thirty. And tea. And baker's bread from castle bar. And apple cake. And when the last sheaf went through Everyone came inside. And there'd be a dance in this kitchen in this? Berry Kitchen. They'd push that table back against that wall. And Johnny Kirwan would take out the fiddle. And they dance on these flags Until the lamp ran dry Be as quiet for a moment. He looks at the floor in front of the fire. At the worn place in the flagstone where Bran is lying Then there was the rumbling house That was Kirwin's Across the Bug. In the winter. When the work was done and the evenings were long. People went rambling. That meant you put your coat on after the tea. And walked over to a neighbor's house. And started their fire. For no reason at all. Just to sit. Every townland had a house where people gathered. And here it was care once. There'd be twenty people in that kitchen on a winter's night. The men on the saddle and the women on the chairs. And the children on the floor in front of them. And the fire built up as high as it would go. And somebody would tell a story. Old Martin Kirwan, Johnny's father, Was a Shanaki. The Storyteller. He had stories that went on for three nights. John McCool and the Giants the King of Ireland's son. A man from Ballinrobe who sold his shadow at the fair. And spent the rest of his days trying to buy it back. Martin would stop at the best part every time and say That'll do for tonight. And everyone would groan. And come back the next night to hear the rest of it. In the cards. Than a song or two. Then the walk home across the bog with a lantern or with no lantern at all if there was a moon. All of us together for the first part of the road. Then breaking off one by one at our own gates. Good night now. Good night. God bless. Most nights I was asleep on my father's shoulder. Before we reached our own door. He puts down his cup There was kindness everywhere. Do you know? I don't think I saw how much of it there was until I was old. Mrs. Tierney lived on her own at the top of the road. And every house that be. Would send a cake of bread up to her. With one of the children. She never baked a loaf in her whole life that I know of. And she never wanted for one. And a stranger came along the road. A tin smith. Or a man selling holy pictures. Or a fellow walking to the boat at Westport. You is given the tea and a bed in the hay. And nobody asked him his business. When a family had a new baby. The women of the road would be in and out of that house for a month. With soul. And clean linen. And the men would do the father's work for him in the fields. Without being asked. And he'd do theirs when their turn came round. We had nothing. I want you to understand that. By the way you'd count it now. We heard nothing at all. But I never once in my childhood felt that I was poor. Not once. Everybody around me was minding me. The fire has burned down low now. As she gets up slowly. And takes three sods of turf from the basket beside the hearth. And stands them up together over the red coals in a little tent. Bran opens one eye and closes it again. Listen to me going on. Mattie says. He looks around his kitchen. The electric light he hasn't switched on. And the radio on the dresser. And the calendar from the creamery. It's a good life now. It is. I'm warm. And I've the penchant and the electric and the telephone down in the shop whenever I wanted. And the bus to Kassel Bar twice a day. The young people go off to Dublin. And to London and they come home at Christmas with good jobs and good cars. And that's the way it should be. Nobody here would go back. I wouldn't go back. But sometimes in the evening. With the light of. . . And the fire going. I can feel it all here still. Salaam and my mother's needles. And the bread. Crawling on the windowsill. And the hens under the dresser. Putty Joe at the half door with the news. It's all still in this room somewhere. A house holds on to things. He goes over to the window and takes the red cushion off the old bench. He says. A room at the back is made up for you. And there's a hot jar in the bed this hour but I'll tell you what I'd do if I were you. Might sleep here. He lifts the seat of the saddle and pulls. And the whole front of it comes forward and down onto the floor. And opens out into a deep wooden box. She brings out a mattress from the back room. A proper one, Not a straw. And lays it in. Thin sheets and two wool blankets. Grey with a red stripe along the end of each. And a patchwork quilt on top. Made of squares of old flannel and tweed. Pulls the whole thing across the floor until it is beside the fire. Where it was when he was ten years old. He takes the hot jar out of the bed in the back room and puts it at the foot of the settle-bed for you. There now. He says. You get in. The mattress is soft and the blankets are heavy. The quilt is warm from the fire already. Thought jars down by your feet. The fire is close beside you. Just are enough. And its light moves on the ceiling. Matty puts one more sword on the fire. To see you through. I leave the fire to mind you, He says. He lights a candle in a holder from the dresser. And carries it with him to the door of his room. Bran stays where he is on the warm flag in front of the hearth. Good night now. Mattie says. God bless you. The door closes. You lie in this settled bed. In a kitchen in County Mayo. In November in 1983. Outside The rain is still falling on the park road. And on the four houses Hence the hay shit. And the sheep. And in here There is only the fire your eyes closed. The fire keeps the room And do you sleep? Warm. Besides the hearth. Where a great many people have slept before you. Safe. In the house at the end of the road. You may know already. How much my dogs mean to me. Or you may not. Neither is fine. And either way. . . I'll be telling you tonight. Not long ago. Myself and my wife Rebecca came back to Ireland. We're spending some time here. Enjoying my homeland. And you might say Rebecca's spiritual homeland. It wasn't easy to get here with our two dogs. We drove across Europe. Took two boats. And now we find ourselves. On the east coast of the island. Settling in to a new kind of life. I pull up to the beat. And let the dogs out. They already know this speech quite well by now. We've been here a number of times. I've been pleasantly surprised. At how relaxed people are in Ireland with dogs. I haven't had one in this country since I was a boy. But in most places. As long as you have your dog under some sort of control. You can let them free. And so I do. The dogs run happily off along the beach. And I stroll happily beside them. Or, Behind them, I should say. They're always checking for me. Always making sure I'm with them. They never go far. Especially little Timmy. Frankie's the more adventurous one. Bounding off towards seabirds. Never getting near them, Of course, Before they fly into the sky. As I look at Frankie now. And this. Irish bitch. I can't help but think. . . Over and over again. Of the day she came into our lives. All the way back in Transylvania. In Romania. Where Rebecca is from. One day last spring. As we drove through the forest near our house in Transylvania. Next to our little village. We were surprised to see six little puppies. Running out of the forest. Led by a white one. Who seemed to be the team leader. Rebecca demanded that I stop the car. And so I did. And put these Lust little dogs. Into the back. We had no idea where they'd come from. But only in you. Was that they were going to be cared for by us now. We brought them back to the garden. And fed them. And from that day. They became a deep part of our lives. At the time we were living in that little village. We know all the neighbours. And Rebecca's sister lives there too. For weeks on end the puppies lived together in a neighbour's garden. But as time went on. We each chose our dark side. We actually wanted a dog that Rebecca had called Susan. But our nephew was very adamant that it was his one. He renamed her Mimi. And she lives happily with him now. The white one. Became Rebecca's sister's dog. And her name is Gina. She is a lovely duck. The other dogs went to neighbors. And we took Frankie. Now, If you know anything about me. . . You know that I love my dog, Timmy, A lot. He's been in our lives for four years. And when Frankie arrived. . . Timmy wasn't too happy. But as the time has passed by. Frankie and Timmy have become firm friends. Brother and sister, I suppose. Spiritually speaking at least. He has accepted her into his life. Into our little family. Our funny little family, You might call it. And now. As i walk along the beach. Frankie. Much bigger than Timmy at this stage. I think of the journey this lovely dog has been on. From the forests of Transylvania. To the beaches of Eastern Ireland. All in the space of. . . Less than a year. Every time I look at her. I get a little light of joy in my heart. Because I know. That we have given her. A joyous existence. Something I truly believe in. Every being on this planet deserves. Animal or human. We all have our place here. We all have our right to be here. And to enjoy. What it is to be alive. And so I walk. By step. Savoring every second. Spent. With my friends. There is something about you. Being home. That does something to a person. Something about you. Being of a place. I don't particularly like. Imaginary lines drawn by men. These things we call borders. Or this idea that we. . . Live under a flag. And that is our identity. But what I do feel. Is that a place? I can be a part of you. And you. Can be part of a place. And it can enrich you. It can settle you. It can. Ground you. Can heal you. And as someone who hasn't been in my own land properly for some time. As I do things like this. What could this be? Reminded. Of what it is to be of a place. For me there is a clarity that comes with it. Something. Actually beyond words. It's hard to describe it to you. But maybe you know what I'm talking about. And if you don't I apologise. For not being able to verbalize it better. I often think as I walk with my dogs. What is it that connects us? What makes us. Close. Of course, There are the survival things. I feed my dogs. It gives them shelter. And therefore they are loyal to me. But I know. It is much more than that. I know they feel love. I know. That they have emotion. And that they care about me. Like I care about them. We didn't necessarily choose. To be in each other's lives. But as we are. We grow close together. And I think. . . In many ways. You can't just. . . Look at what it is to have a dog as a human having an animal. It's so much more than that. It's something spiritual. It's something. Deeply profound. And you might say the same of any animal that lives with a human. And to an extent. I'd agree with you. But with dogs. And with cuts. For tens of thousands of years. They have been a part of our lives. Domesticated symptoms. We brought them into our world. They protected us. And we protected them. And that's. . . And we grew together. I keep walking along the beach By now I have my shoes and socks off. My feet sink into the damp sand. Leaving footprints. Darks run off and come back. Run off and come back. And I decide to take a seat. I sit down on the sun. The look out at the sea. It's calm today. It looks a bit like a giant pond. I love being near water. There's something so. . . About it. There's a touch of the. . . Infinity about it. A touch of adventure about it. I see a boat. I should see. I know that it's a a container ship of some sort. But if I squint my eyes. . . It kind of looks like a viking ship in the mist. I imagine. Over a thousand years ago. The Vikings arriving in Ireland. What it would have looked like from the beach. This very beach, Perhaps. I imagine the 1500s. And the British and the Spanish, Sailing around our waters. In their giant wooden ships. I love to imagine history. Especially in a place as natural as this. Because in many ways, The view wouldn't have changed much since those times. I decide to take a break from thinking now. Dogs are sniffing around nearby and I can hear them. So I close my eyes for a moment and digest. Breathe in this moment. And out. And out. And I feel a stillness within me. Right now. I am not worrying. About the past or the future. I am just here. I am not. Comparing. Or feeling less than. I am just here. I have nowhere to be. I am just here. There are no other people around me. Not for kilometres and kilometres. It is just me. And my dogs. And we are just. Here. I start to walk again. Does it work? I dwell on what it is to be. Irish. I ask myself questions about it all the time. What does it mean? Or more friendly. If we're Irish. I'm not sure. Does it mean where? More likely to stop and have a chat. Yes. Probably. It's a question I have played around with for a long time now. In some ways I've. . . Never felt part of the tribe of my island. Always a little. Others in. But since I have moved back. . . I am really pushing that. I believe false theory to the test. I think I am just as much of this place. As anyone else. It's just my own thinking that's the problem. I love to stop and have a good chat with a stranger. You can't get much more Irish than that. I'll welcome you into my home with open arms. I used to give tours of my country. And represent it well. I even did a DNA test. Turns out I'm more Irish than most. But of course. . . What is it to be of a nation? We're all humans. Doing our best here on this blue dot. As are my dogs. God bless them. They're doing their best too. Going through life. Being kind. Sometimes snappy. Not Frankie. But they both bring such joy. Into our lives. And not just our lives. People gush over them all the time. They stopped to speak to them. And I love telling this story. About how Frankie came into our lives. It's not because I like to tell people we did a good thing. It really isn't. That means less to me than this story. I am a storyteller after all. I love telling a good story. I also love telling people here about Transylvania. My other spiritual home. I often find people don't know that much about it here. And I find it amazing. Given that it's one of the most beautiful places on planet earth. I continue looking at the sea now. Imagining what's beyond. Next stop from here. Wales. On the other side of the island. Next up. . . America. Sometimes in Ireland. One can be forgiven. For forgetting one is on an island. It is a big island after all. But an island it is. And I often wonder, Does that affect me? The people. Anyway. I had decided to stop thinking a couple of minutes ago. I go back to that now. They just sit. I listen. To the sound of the waves. I feel the sand beneath me. A foundation. The earth provides for me. This support. I feel the salty breeze on my face. I feel a feeling of letting go. Of letting go of a lot. The last few years. Since I left this land. I've grown a lot. And I have worked a lot. And I feel like I have come back to this place. Stronger. Is my little. . . Funny family in tow. My beautiful wife, Rebecca. And the two ducks. I feel grateful in this moment. Feeling like a. . . Belong somewhere. Am I too? Canine friends. Or the feeling of freedom I have. I take a few more breaths here. And out. And out. And now I walk. Turning around now. It's funny. Whenever I turn around. Timmy speeds up. He runs along the beach like a little rocket. He's very fast, Timmy. Frankie is slower but has longer legs. That sounds very Irish, Doesn't it? They chase each other round the place. And nothing gives me greater joy. And to see them play with each other Sometimes Timmy doesn't want to play. And he just goes off on his own. We call him the Philosopher. He seems to be. Writing a thesis in his head about the different smells he is taking in. Whereas Frankie just bounds around the place. I think she's very smart. Just not as into smells. One thing I can do with Frankie that I definitely can't do with Timmy. Is run. I often. . . A touch, A lead around me, And to her. Long enough that she can run way out in front of me. And we run. To run. And run. And she doesn't stop. She loves it. And I love it. We are as one in those moments. Connected. Enjoying the moment. Enjoying being alive. Taking in the world around us. I continue walking back towards the car. Still a way to go now. The ducks. Are starting to run out of energy. The sun is getting lower in the sky. And it's moving towards evening. The first star has appeared. And I am reminded even more. That we are but passengers on a small blue dot. Moving through a grand spectacle. Of a universe. And myself and Frankie and Timmy. Are but grains of sand on a beach of grains of sand. All of us. So insignificant. And yet. . . Equally, Incredibly significant. All at the same time. My two friends. Are grateful for the work they've had. I know they are. They're grateful for. Our communion. Our little fellowship. They are joyous after a walk like this. And we're not finished yet. Frankie runs towards another seabird. Gets up to her. Upper legs in water. She seems to love it. Timmy not so much. I personally. Love Sea Swimming and then just as that thought arrives. And the sea looks so inviting. Under the pinkness of the sky. I decide. What better time than now to take a little dip? I haven't come prepared, But. . . I often do it this way. And it isn't long before I'm in the water. And Frankie is swimming around next to me to me. Waiting patiently at the shore. Sniffing and thinking. And dwelling. And the inner intricacies of the smell of a seashell. I float. And feel the healing of the water that surrounds me. It is for me. One of the great joys of living near the coast. The sea is your constant friend. A place of healing that's there for free. Place where you can release. Let go. Breathe. And feel yourself. Closing. After some time. I recognize that it's time for me to start to make a move. But not before I take a few more minutes. Sitting on the beach as my two beloved dogs. Drying off. And looking out to sea. We came onto this island by sea, The three of us and Rebecca. And the next time these guys leave we'll be by sea as well. But for now. . . We are here on dry land. Enjoying the delights of this little green island. Place. That is home, I suppose. Home for me. And home. With them now too. The day started with a trip to the airport. Rebecca, My wife, Was going away to London. And so, Being the dutiful husbands that I am, I dropped her off at the airport. Finding myself back in my own country and in the city of my birth. Not long returned. I decided. It was time to explore some old haunts. I just didn't know how far into the past I would go that day. At the two dogs in the back of the car. And all I intended to do. Must to go for a long walk. I drove to a place. Cold hose. You might have heard of it. A beautiful peninsula on the north side of Dublin. There is a famous walk there. It's known as the Cliff Walk. Infect. I used to give walking tours there. And so, I found myself. Driving towards Hoth. With a sense of anticipation. The sun was shining. And after a fairly continuous few months of rain was a welcome relief. And as I drove toward south I thought of what an American neighbor of mine had told me a couple of days before. That he had gone to Hoth for the first time on a Saturday. And that when he got off the train there, He witnessed what looked like a pilgrimage. Literally thousands of people walking towards the cliff walk. Well, I told my American friend. That was your first mistake. Never go to hose on the weekend. Thankfully. This was a Monday morning. The kids were in school. The parents at work. The tourists not quite fully here yet on this early March day. And I found myself proved right. As I pulled my car. Into the empty car park. Just above the Bailey Lighthouse. On the highest summit. I let Timmy and Frankie out of the car. They ran happily towards the walk. And as they were. Taking in the view. Of the Irish Sea. Stretching out beneath me. With the morning sun. Shining off the pond-like waves. I felt. Real gratitude. For that moment. I felt. Support it. I felt. Happy to be home. I have walked those cliffs hundreds of times. But never with my beloved dogs. And there was a feeling of full circle-ness. If that's a word those cliffs that work. That I now found myself on after many years. Had given me a lot. In my early years of sobriety. The healing power of nature. Cannot be underestimated. And now. I walked those cliffs. Eight years sober. Feeling. Like a man who had. Achieved a lot. But still had a long way to walk. I felt emotional. I felt like I was in some sort of dream. And I stood. Looking north. With the warm morning sun. The early spring sun. Gently warming my face. And I close to my eyes. And I breathed in deeply. And as I breathe that, I opened my eyes. And looked north again. And in that moment I decided. That I would go further north that day. 50 miles further north, To be precise. To the place I had spent. Some very formative years. From the age of ten to twenty. I decided that today was a day to go back in time. Within my own life. I had started on the cliff. In the relatively recent past. And now. I put Timmy and Frankie back in the car. And drove north. Into the far past. Past that held my family home. My school years. And much more besides. As I drove north, There was in many ways a feeling of accomplishment. A feeling of having left a boy. And returning a man. Here I was. Is my dogs in the back of the car. Giving myself a day off from my own work. Driving in the same car. That I'd driven all the way from Transylvania. Only a couple of months previously. And now. Driving. To a place. That in many ways, Made me the man I am. I sat back. And felt that feeling of pure curiosity. That feeling of letting go. Of having no obligations for the day. As it is an adventure. And taking a peek. Into a world I used to live in. I called it a research day. Because I was pretty sure. That I would want to tell you about it in a sleep story. And here I am. So every minute felt justified. Every minute. Felt like one I deserved and owned. After about 40 minutes of driving. I arrived into the little village of Black Rock, County Louth. Where I used to live. I pulled the car in. And looked out at the beach that sits right in the village, Really. It's a very old village. With one street that faces the sea. In the distance you see the Kuli Peninsula. A beautiful mountain range. That are more like hills, Really. If you compare them to mountains in Europe. But a mountain range of Ireland nonetheless. Beyond there lies the morn's. Another place that I hold dear. That I'm sure I have told you about. And we'll tell you about again one day. So as I stood in Black Rock Beach The dogs running around. I looked along the row of shops and pubs in this little old village. There was the pub, Known as The Break. Where I spent many happy evenings with my parents. They did very good food. I still remember their potato croquettes. And how they taste it. After I put butter on them. I still remember. My father. Looking smart. And a man with charisma. As he would go out with my beautiful mother on an evening. And sometimes bring me. And sometimes leave me at home. But my fondest memory of that little village. Was the video shop. Run by a man called Ciaran. It was cold. Emerald Video. Long gone now, Of course. Who rents videotapes these days. Or even DVDs for that matter. And as I looked along the row of shops and pubs, Couldn't figure out. Which one was emerald video? I still remember fondly. Cycling the couple of kilometers from my house. Down into the village. Putting my bike outside. Definitely not using a lock in those days. And going in. And choosing some 80s or 90s movie to watch at home. Movies like Sister Act. Or home alone. Or weekend at Bernie's. Wrappy Gilmore or some such movie. I still remember the feeling of excitement. Is renting a movie. For me. Being an only child. It was often a lone expedition. But not a lonely one. One of the things I'm quite pleased I have within me. An ability to enjoy my own company. And to be at peace doing things alone. Like watching a good movie. And so I would. . . Pay Kiran for the videotape rental. Jump on my bike. And cycle the mostly uphill cycle back to my house. And speaking of my house. That was to be my next stop. On my trip down memory lane. I got back in the car. And drove the five-minute drive or so. Up the road and out of the village. To the house I grew up in for ten years. All of my teenagers. With a little bit of childhood. Thrown in as well And when I got to my old gate, For my house was a house on top of a hill at the end of a driveway. It being the Vicarage or Rectory. For my dad was the vicar of the town. The gate was locked. So I parked the car and rang the fancy intercom system. That had been put in. Long after I lived there. A woman's voice answered And I'm sure. . . Much to her surprise. She heard a man's voice at the end of the intercom. Saying that he grew up in this house. He was wondering if he could see the house once more. The lady sounded kind. And she opened the gate. And I drove up the driveway. I was greeted by a very kind woman. A very welcoming woman. And she asked me did I want to come in. I was very happy to go into my old house. That I hadn't seen the inside of. In over 20 years. I don't know. If any of you have ever experienced what it is. To see a place you have. So clearly in your mind. Change. In such a profound way. At first. It was jarring. Strange. But I had to admit that the house looked beautiful. I measured two little babies. Sitting in the front living room. The one where I spent so many Christmases. So many nights watching TV. In front of a crackling fire. She showed me the kitchen. The back living room. Now in office. But in my mind's eye. I could simply click my mind into a different reality. I could see what she couldn't. I could see my childhood. I could see the fireplace that was no longer there. I could see the old 90s television. In the old television cabinet from my grandfather's house. I could see the video play. I could see the shelves. With all of the VHS tapes. All of the labels written out by me. I could see myself. Sitting on the old green couch. Made of suede. In front of the crackling fire. Watching the movie I rented from Kieron down the road. I could see my parents dressed up. Going on a night out. My babysitter Nicola. Sitting on the couch. Enjoying a movie with me. I could see my dad. Sitting. Watching Star Trek. Or some Saturday night game show. To us in that moment. All there was. Were three walls painted white. A window, Looking onto a garden. A desk and a chair. But to me. And me alone in that moment. I saw years and years of moments. And I didn't feel sad. I felt lucky to be there. To meet my past again. To feel. Grounded. It's a funny thing when you move a lot as a kid. You don't have that. Continuous thread of connection to one place. They left that place a long time ago. But it is a huge part of who I am. Of where I come from. Of what makes me. After some time in Faye's house. I thanked her for her time. And wish her well. We exchanged numbers. She told me she'd love to welcome my mother there as well. And I love you Feeling very happy I had visited. Maybe you know this. Maybe you don't. But it's not that long since my dad. . . Has done. And so. . . Meeting that person. Is in some way like meeting him again. Maybe that's why it was so powerful. Such a moment I will always keep with me. Such a moment. I am happy to share with you. Because maybe. . . It will open something in you. Or help you in some way. Or maybe. . . It's just a nice thing to hear about. A healing thing. A calming thing. A story thing. My next stop on my trip down memory lane was to be my school. Oh, We all have a funny relationship with school. Some people excel, And are Mr. Or Mrs. Popular. Some people. Hide away and diminish into the background. Some people. Like me. They do well in some areas. Not so well in others. They have some friends. But aren't the prom king. And I truly believe. That what we think our school time was. May not always be a full reflection of the reality. When we are children and teenagers. Our view of things can be skewed. By so many different factors. One thing I do know. Is that I lived in my head too much. In my sought life. Thinking about. Thinking about you. Sinking. And if I'd just been a bit more. . . Zen. I would have been okay. But I worried too much. And school became tough for me because of it. And so I wasn't. Running back to my school. But I was curious. And I did feel very okay. And I got there. The gate wasn't open like it used to be. Now you have to report to an office before you get inside. Times have changed, I suppose. But I went and reported to the office. And then A man came. And said he was going to give me a tour. I didn't expect this. It was quite the expedition. My school is hundreds of years old. There is a main old building at the center of it. But all around it. Oh, How it has changed. But to my surprise. . . As I walked around. I met people who knew me. The cook in the dining room. She was really happy to see me. And I was happy to see her. Then we went into different buildings with different classrooms. And the man who is bringing me round. The manager of the whole campus, If you like. A very nice man. Do you remember, Mister? Such and such. And I said, Yes. He was one of my favorite teachers. And so the man pointed through a glass window in a door. And said he's just in there Would you like to see him? What a moment it was! For I really loved that teacher. Be embraced in a hug. And he remembered me. Almost immediately. Well, He remembered me immediately. My name took a moment. But it was such a life affirming moment He was really proud to hear about my achievements. He was really happy for me I should say. He knew I always wanted to be an actor. He was happy I had pursued that path. And now. Used my voice to help others. I felt really grateful in that moment. Really peaceful. We reminisced about a European studies trip we did once. Where we had some Swedish exchange students come over. And he took us to the Aran Islands off the west coast of Ireland. I reminded him. That I fell in love with a girl called Johanna. He chuckled at that reminiscence. After some time, I left him. But I took his number, And we will soon meet for a coffee. Then met my business teacher. Who joked with his current students upon meeting me. He said, Look, This man is a successful man. He is successful in his work. And yet he doesn't wear a suit and tie. The modern man who has some success. Doesn't wear suits and ties all the time, You see. I laughed and pointed at the hole in my jumper, And said yes, And we even have holes in our I then met my history teacher. The one who gave me a true appreciation. For the value of knowing our past. The one who brought me deep into the past and helped me do well in my exams. I am calling this time that I am spending in my home country. Grounding time. Time for. . . Remembering who I am. What my values are. What I want to do with my life and what matters to me. What it is to be another human being on this planet. And this experience. In that school. Affirmed something deep within me. That I am okay. That I am doing well in this world. That people cared for me all the way through. I also ran into a girl. They used to be a good friend. Who is now a teacher at the school. We used to rollerblade together. And watch terrible 90s teen shows together, And she told me that another very old friend one that I was very close to, Had just visited the school that day I couldn't believe it. One that I had lost touch with completely. So I got her number and I called her. And as I was leaving the school, Driving away, I chatted to that old friend. For quite some time. My last stop on my trip down memory lane. Was the place that I worked at as a teenager. A beautiful old hotel. With a golf course around it. I had started working there at the age of fifteen. I worked in the leisure centre. And then on the golf course and then in the bar. And then in the laundry area and I loved every second of working there. I learned how to be with people. How to be a team player. Are to be responsible. When I got there, I drove up the long avenue. Parked my car. They suck the dogs out. And we walked up a long path. Through the golf course. And I was going to a very specific place. Place I used to go up to most evenings. My little quad bike that they gave me for supervising the golf course. And up there at the end of the path. The very back of the golf course. Underneath the coolie mountains. Is what is known. As a proleague dolmen. Three very ancient standing stones. Two, Standing vertically. And one horizontally atop. Huge and amazing. And when you stand there. In that place that is thousands of years old. That place that is a mystery. For we find it hard to know how they got the stones on top of each other. When you stand there. There is an extra feeling of groundedness. Especially when the place is a part of your own history. And there is a tradition. You throw a stone. On top of the big rock that sits atop the two vertical ones. And if your stone lands. You make a wish. And so I did. I threw my stone up. It landed there and stayed. And so I made a wish. That's the one part of this story I can't tell you about. For if I told you my wish, It may not come true. And so after walking around those beautiful grounds. And connecting with that other chapter of my life. Honestly. I felt exhausted. I was ready to go home. My new home. And so. . . I put Timmy and Frankie back in the car. I pushed a good podcast on. And I began to drive South again. Saying goodbye to my past. Perhaps for the last time. And if it is the last time. It was a very good time to revisit it. And in my opinion. Time. Well spent. The little car rattled along the winding road. Its wheels bouncing lightly. Over the uneven stones. The narrow lane twisted between low stone walls. There surface it, Worn smooth by wind and rain. The hills rolled out. In soft, Green waves. Mazing the sky. In a gentle haze. Welcome to 1930s Ireland. To County Kerry, To be precise. And to the world of Michael O'Shocknessy. The Irish Country Vet. Michael adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. Leaning forward slightly. As the car climbed a steep incline. He knew these roads as well as his own pocket. Each turn and dip. Etched into his memory. From years of travelling between farms and villages. The familiar jostle of the car was almost comforting. A part of the rhythm of his days. At the crest of the hill. He slowed the car. And let it coast for a moment. Glancing out at the view. Below. A patchwork of fields stretched toward the distant sea. The glint of water. Visible where the horizon met the land. Here and there. Clusters of white washed cottages. Were tucked into the landscape. Their thatched roofs. Blending into the surface. Muted tones of the countryside. Michael reached over to the passenger seat. Where his worn leather satchel rested. Its buckle scuffed from years of use. Inside. Were the tools of his trade. Medical implements, Bottles of medicine. And the well-thumbed notebook. Where he kept careful records. Of every animal he treated. His first call of the day. Was just a few miles further. At a small farm. Nestled at the edge of a glen. He'd been there many times before. To tend to the cows. In the stone-walled pasture. And once to stitch a gash on the old sheepdog. Seamus. The farmer, Mr. Okano, Was a quiet man. But he always met Michael with a nod. And a strong handshake. The car rattled on. The sound of the engine, Blending with the faint bleating of sheep. From a nearby hillside. The road ahead dipped into a shaded hollow. The branches of Hawthorne trees arched overhead. Forming a natural tunnel. Michael slowed again. Savoring the stillness of the moment. The world here moved at its own pace. Unhurried and steady. Like the rhythm of the land itself. The narrow lane opened up as Michael approached the O'Connell farm, The hedgerows giving way to a wide gravel yard. The familiar sight of the low stone cottage greeted him. Its whitewashed walls. Glowing softly in the morning light Beside it stood the barn. Its red painted door slightly ajar. And in the corner of the yard. A weathered sheepdog lifted its head. From where it lay curled in the morning sun. Michael pulled the car to a stop. And stepped out. Smoothing his coat. As he walked toward the house. Seamus barked once in greeting. His tail thumping the ground as Michael passed. You're a loyal old lad, Aren't you? Maiko said with a smile. Crouching for a moment. To give the dog a scratch behind the ears. Seamus sniffed his hand. Then rested his head back on his paws. Clearly satisfied. The cottage door opened. And Mr. O'Connor stepped out. Wiping his hands on a rag. He was a stout man. His face weathered and lined. With a cup perched firmly on his head. Ah, Michael, " he said. His voice as steady and measured as ever. Good to see you. I wasn't expecting you so early. The roads were quiet this morning. Michael replied. Straightening up. How's the hurt? Anything pressing? Or is this just a routine call? Okano gave a small shrug. Motioning towards the barn. A bit of both I'd say. One of the heifers isn't quite herself. Offer feed and lying down more than usual. I thought it best to have you take a look. And there's young Seamus there. He added. Nodding towards the sheepdog. Still favoring that leg of his now and again. But he's an old man. Same as me. Michael chuckled. Following O'Connell towards the barn. Well, Let's have a look at that heifer first. We'll see what's troubling her. And then I'll give Seamus a quick check-up too. Inside the barn. The air was cooler. Carried the faint, Familiar scent of hay and livestock. The heifer was lying in a corner. Her large eyes watching them warily as they approached. Michael moved slowly. His voice calm. As he spoke to the animal. There now, Girl. He said softly. Crouching beside her. Let's see what's the matter, Eh? He reached into his bag for his stethoscope. Looping it around his neck. As he began his examination. Mr. Okano leaned against the doorframe, His arms crossed. Watching with a quiet intensity that seemed to come naturally to farmers. Is one of the better ones, " Okano said after a moment. Good temperament. Steady milker. Hate to see her like this. Michael nodded. His hands steady as he works. We'll get her sorted. Don't you worry. She's a strong one. The heifer let out a low, Rumbling sigh. As Michael finished his check. Stood and turned to Okano with a faint smile. Bit of a fever. But nothing too serious. I'll give her a shot to help with the inflammation and leave you some powder for her feed. She should perk up in a day or two. Relief flickered across Okano's face. Good to hear. I appreciate it, Michael. Always do. Michael gave a small nod. Already turning his attention to the dog in the yard. Right, Let's see if Seamus will let me check that leg of his. He always was a bit suspicious of vets. And so Michael stepped back out into the yard. Glancing up at the sky. The clouds were lower now. It's tough. Grey blanket. Stretching across the horizon. The morning light had taken on a cooler hue. And the faint breeze. Carried a hint of dampness. It wasn't raining yet. But the air had that expectant stillness to it. That always seemed to come just before. Jameis the dog had moved to the edge of the yard. His tail wagging slowly again as Michael approached. The old dog seemed to welcome Michael. Come on then, Michael Colt. Crouching down and butting his knees. Let's see how that leg's holding up, Eh? After a moment's hesitation. Seamus huddled over. His gait uneven but determined. Michael reached out. And ran his hands gently along the dog's legs. Feeling for any sign of swelling or tenderness. Seamus tolerated it with the resigned patience of an animal used to being fussed over. His nose twitching. As he sniffed at Michael's jacket. Still stiff, Michael murmured, Glancing back at Okano, Who had followed him out of the barn. Nothing new there, But I'll give you some ointment to rub into the joint. It'll help with the ache when the weather is like this. Okano nodded. Tucking his hands into his pockets. Poor lad feels it, Same as I do. I swear I can tell when rain's coming just by the way my knees start complaining. Michael smiled faintly. Straightening up. And giving Seamus a fond pat on the head. Well. . . He's earned a bit of stiffness in his old age, Hasn't he? Good working dog like this, He's done you proud. Jameis gave a short wag of his tail, As if in agreement. Before ambling back to his spot near the barn. Michael turned back to the car, Wiping his hands on a cloth. And tucking his tools neatly back into the satchel. The first drops of rain came. Just as he was fastening the satchel's buckle. They were light at first. Barely more than a drizzle. But steady enough to darken the stone's underfoot. Michael glanced up at the sky again. Watching as the clouds thicken. Their edges blurring into one another. Looks like you were right, " he said to Okano, With a nod towards the sky. It's setting in now. The farmer pulled his cup lower over his brow. His face thoughtful as he looked out over the fields. A soft day, He said quietly. The very Irish phrase. Carrying the weight of generations Who had known and weathered this land. Michael smiled, Climbing back into the car. And rolling down the window slightly to call out I'll be back later in the week to check on her, And let me know if Seamus gives you any trouble. O'Connell waved him off. His figure already fading into the misty rain. As Michael eased the car back onto the lane. The rain picked up as he drove, The drops tapping gently against the windscreen. Blurring the hedgerows into green and grey smudges. Is next stop. Was a farm just outside the village. Of Klohoan. Tucked into the crook of a low valley. Where the fields ran right up to the base of the mountains. The car's tires squelched. On the wet gravel as he turned into the yard. Were a huddle of chickens, Scattered at his arrival. Clucking indignantly. As they darted out of the way. The farmhouse door opened. Before he could even step out of the car. And a wiry man in a flat cap appeared, Waving a hand to him. Michael. You're a sight for sore eyes. The man called. It was Liam Roach. One of the younger farmers in the area. With a sharp whip. And a ready love. That often masked his deep care for his animals. What's the trouble, Liam? Michael asked, Grabbing his satchel and stepping out into the rain. Which was now falling in soft. Misty Sheet It's the sow. Liam said. His tone growing serious as he motioned toward the barn. She's due any day now, But she's restless off her feed, And I can't make head nor tail of what's bothering her. Micro-knotted. Following Liam towards the barn. Inside. The air was warm and close. Filled with the mingling scents of straw and livestock. The sow was lying in a far pen. Her massive body shifting restlessly. As she snorted and pawed at the bedding. Michael approached slowly. Speaking in low, Soothing tones. There now, Girl. Fair enough. Let's have a look at you. In out beside her. Pulling on a pair of gloves from his satchel. The sow's breathing was heavy but steady, Her eyes watching him with a wary intelligence. She's been like this since yesterday. Liam said. Leaning on the pen door. Tried tempting her with the mash she likes, Even a bit of apple. But she's having none of it. Michael reached out. His hands methodical. As he examined her sides and belly. Feeling for any sign of distress. He was quiet for a moment, His brow furrowed in concentration. Finally. He sat back on his heels and looked up at Liam. Is close. But there's no sign of trouble. Just a bit of discomfort as things shift into place. Typical for this stage. Maiko said. His voice calm. I leave you something to ease her discomfort. But she's healthy. You'll want to keep a close eye on her tonight, Though. If she starts farrowing. Send someone for me straight away. Liam exhaled a breath he'd been holding. A faint smile breaking through his worry. You've no idea how glad I am to hear that. I was half convinced something was wrong. Ah, She's a sturdy one. Maiko replied. Standing and brushing the straw from his knees. Trust her instincts. You will be knee-deep in piglets before you know it. Liam chuckled. Shaking his head. A fine way to spend the night, Huh? Michael Grinn. Packing away his tools. Could be worse Liam. Could be a carving in the middle of a storm. As they stepped back out into the yard. The rain was heavier now. Falling in sleep. Steady sheets. That soaked the ground and sent the chickens starting for shelter. Michael pulled his coat tighter around him. Thoughts already turning to the next call. He bid goodbye to Liam. Got into the car. And started driving again. He turned back onto the narrow lane. The tires kicking up water. As they splashed through shallow puddles. He loved this land. Driving through Kerry. With unlike. Thriving anywhere else in the world, He often sought. That he'd driven many places. Only around Ireland a bit. But nonetheless. Despite his limited travel. Something in him knew. That this. Beautiful county of Kerry. Was unlike almost anywhere else on planet Earth. Of that he was sure. Is next stop. Was Mrs O'Shea's cottage. Perched at the end of a long, Winding track. Just outside, Tingo. The house had stood for as long as Michael could remember. Its stone walls weathered and sturdy against the elements. A small plume of smoke. Curled from the chimney. Promising the warmth. Of a fire inside. As he pulled into the yard. Michael spotted two small terriers waiting by the gate. Their wiry coats already damp from the rain. One of them barks. Its tail wagging furiously. While the others stayed close to the ground. Its ears flattened and its tail tucked. That would be the sick one, Maiko thought. Already noting the difference in their behavior. Mrs. O'Shea appeared in the doorway. A shawl draped around her shoulders. She was a small woman with bright eyes and a face etched with the lines of a long and busy life. In, Michael, Come in, " she called, Beckoning him towards the house. You'll be soaked to the skin if you stand out there a moment longer. Michael grabbed his bag and hurried to the door, The rain drumming on the brim of his hat. The moment he stepped inside, The warmth of the cottage enveloped him. Along with the unmistakable scent of turf smoke from the fire crackling in the hearth. The little terriers trotted in behind him. The healthy one bounding ahead. While the sickly one lingered at his heels. On the hearth rug. A large tubby cat stretched lazily. Blinking at him with disinterest. Before curling back into a contented ball. Mrs. O'Shea closed the door firmly behind him. Thank God you're here. It's poor Finn, My little lad. He's not been himself for days now. Early evening. And he's been coughing something terrible. Michael set his bag on the small wooden table by the fire, Kneeling to greet the dog properly. Come here, Finn. Let's see what's troubling you. The terrier crept closer, His movements hesitant but trusting. Michael ran his hands gently along the dog's ribs. Feeling the slight tremble beneath the wiry coat. Ben's nose was dry and warm. And his breathing was shallow. Each exhale accompanied by a faint, Raspy sound. Lungs sound a bit congested. Michael murmured. Reaching for his stethoscope. Could be a touch of pneumonia. Nothing we can't handle though. Mrs. O'Shea stood by the fire. Wringing her hand. Oh, I've been worried sick. Is such a dear little thing. Always at my heels. And now he barely moves unless I coax him to. Michael gave her a reassuring smile. He'll be fine, Mrs. O'Shea. I'll give him an injection to help clear the infection, And I'll leave you with some medicine to keep him comfortable. You've caught it early, And that makes all the difference. As he prepared the injection. The fire crackled softly in the background. Casting a warm glow over the small room. The cut stretched again. Yawning luxuriously. While the other terrier nosed curiously at Michael's bag. Fin sat quietly. His head tilted. As though he understood this was for his own good. There we go Michael said gently as he administered the injection. You'll be feeling better in no time. Just keep him warm and give him plenty of rest. Mrs. O'Shea sighed with relief. Kneeling to gather Finn into her arms. Thank you Michael. You're a godsend, Truly. I don't know what I'd do without you. Michael stood. Brushing his hands off and giving her a kind smile. Just doing my job, Mrs. O'Shea. But if he's not improving in a few days. . . Send word to me. And I'll be back. Now you're not rushing off just yet. Mrs. O'Shea said firmly, Setting Finn down gently on the hearth-rug beside the cat. You'll have a cup of tea first. You can't be tearing around in this weather without something to warm you. Michael smiled. Knowing better than to protest. Well, If you're offering, Mrs. O'Shea, I won't say no. I could do with a break before the next call anyway. Good man, " she replied. Bustling to the little kitchen alcove. The sound of the kettle being filled. And the soft clutter of cups and saucers followed, Blending with the rain's rhythm against the window. Michael settled into one of the worn armchairs near the fire, Stretching out his legs. And letting the warmth seep into him. Finn gave a small sigh, Curling into a tighter pull, While the other terrier circled once, Before flopping onto the rug with a contented, Affirmed sigh. Mrs. O'Shea returned with a tray, The teapot steaming, And a plate of thick slices of soda bread. Alongside a dish of butter. She poured for them both. Handing Michael a cup before taking her seat in the other armchair. So, She began, Stirring her tea thoughtfully. You'll have heard about young Molly Connell, I suppose. Michael shook his head. Biting into a slice of soda bread. It was still warm. The butter melting into the crumbs. Can't see I have. What's happened? Oh, It's a grand story altogether. She said, Her eyes sparkling. He's taken up with that O'Donoghue boy from over in Ventry. You know the one. Michael O'Donoghue's youngest. Tall lad with the red hair that looks like it's on fire in sunlight. Michael nodded, Chuckling. I know him. Always had a way with the horses as I recall. That's the one, " she said, Leaning forward slightly. Molly's father's none too pleased, So he isn't. It says that Donoghues are nothing but trouble, And that Molly's far too young to be running after any boy, Let alone one from Ventry. Michael laughed softly. Shaking his head. And what does Molly have to say about it? Oh, She's as stubborn as a mule, That one. Mrs O'Shea said with a grin. Told her father that she'll marry him or no one at all. You know I admire her spirit. Reminds me of myself at her age. But I do pity her poor father. He's a good man, Just set in his ways. They sat quietly for a moment. Rain tapping steadily on the windows. Mycocypticity savourings of warmth and the momentary pause in his day. And how's your sister getting on in Tralee? " he asked. Letting his cup down. Oh, Sure she's grand. Mrs O'Shea replied. Waving a hand. Still running that little shop of hers. Says the tourists are starting to come earlier in the year now. She had an American couple in last week. Looking for souvenirs. You imagined. Not even June. And they were already poking about the place like it's high summer. Michael smile. Picturing the scene. It's a wonder they even find their way to Tralee, With how some of these roads are. That's the truth of it. She said. You'd swear half of them think Ireland's just Dublin and a few castles? They don't know what they're missing here in Kerry. The room grew quieter again. The rain. Filling the silence. Like a soft melody. Michael glanced at the clock on the mantel. Reluctant to leave the warmth of the fire, But knowing there were still miles to go. Before the day was done. But eventually he bid goodbye to Mrs. O'Shea. And little Finn. And the other animals. And the rest of Michael's day passed in a blur of winding roads. And steady rain. Each stop blending into the next. A lame cow here. A handful of restless sheep there. To chat with a farmer about the coming weather as he packed up his tools. And before he knew it. The light was fading. And he was back home. The familiar sight of his cottage welcoming him. Through the misty evening. Inside. The fire crackled warmly. And Moira his wife. Was already settled in her armchair. And their cat resting on her lap. Michael hung his coat by the door. As he was greeted by their Irish red setter, Con, And the scent of turf smoke. And the faint aroma of stew. Relinquering from supper, Greeting him. As he stepped into the room. He eased into the chair across from Moira. And Khan planted himself at his feet, And Michael put a blanket over his knees. And reached for his own book. Outside, The rain continued to fall. Pattering softly against the windows and roofs. Its rhythm a gentle counterpoint. To the stillness inside. Moira glanced up from her reading. A faint smile on her lips. Busy day. Is he enough? Maiko replied. Is voice low. As though not to disturb the quiet. Seamus is stiff. Finn has a touch of pneumonia. And I'll be waiting for word about his sow and her piglets by morning. Moira chuckled softly. Turning a page. Sounds about right. They sat together in companionable silence, And now and again, Michael would tell her a bit more. A funny comment from Mrs. O'Shea. The sight of hills cloaked in rain. But mostly. They were content. Just to be. Michael leaned back in his chair. His book resting loosely in his hands. And thought for a moment. How good it was to be here. In this place. With Myra. At the end. Belongs. Satisfying. Michael opened his eyes to the grey light of dawn creeping into the room. The house was quiet, Save for the faint tick of the clock on the mantle downstairs. For a moment. We stayed still. Listening to the sound of the world outside. The soft rattle of leaves stirred by the breeze. The distant call of a bird perched somewhere in the hedgerow. There was no rush to rise. The day would begin when it was ready. As it always did. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, The wooden floor cool under his feet, And reached for the cardigan draped over the chair. It was heavy with the scent of the outdoors. Of Earth. And war. A comfort on these early mornings. Moira stirred slightly, Murmuring something indistinct before turning onto her side. The quilt pulled snug around her shoulders. He let her sleep a little longer. The mornings were hers to keep for herself until the kettle whistled. Moving through the hallway, Michael avoided the floorboards he knew would creak. The house was old, Its walls thick, And its rooms modest. But it carried a warmth that could only come from years of quiet living. Downstairs. He set the kettle on the stove. Lighting the match with practiced ease, And holding it steady until the flame took off. The low hiss of the fire brought a familiar kind of company to the room. As the water heated. Michael stepped outside. Pulling his cardigan tighter against the cool morning air. He could hear the ocean in the distance. Sound of it. Was such a soothing thing to him. This was home. This was his place. The yard was still and damp. The cobblestones darkened by the overnight dew. The hens were already stirring in their coopers. Scratching at the straw. And one of them let out a throaty cluck, As if to greet him. He decided to get some eggs. Sliding back the latch of the coupe. Michael crouched low, Murmuring to the hens in the same tone he might use with a nervous cuff. Good morning, Girls. Let's see what you've left for us today. He reached into the straw-lined nests, His hands careful and practiced. Pulling out one warm egg after another. Each was placed into a basket. Their shells smooth and cool to the touch. The hens bustled around his legs. Clucking their mild discontent. As though accusing him of death. Stood to live. He paused for a moment. Looking out over the low stone wall at the fields beyond. There was a mist out there. But he could still see the faint outlines of sheep scattered across the far hill. The sun hadn't yet broken through. But there was a brightness behind the clouds. That hinted at might later. But you never know in Ireland, " he thought. One second sunshine. Back inside. Moira had risen. Her hair pinned up loosely as she reached for the flour jar on the shelf. She measured it out. Without needing to check. Are movements unhurried but efficient. The way they always were. Good morning. She said. Her voice carrying the kind of ease that only came with years of sharing mornings like this one. Michael nodded with a smile. Pouring the hot water into a teapot and letting it steep. He then went to give her a hug. As he always did in the morning. Kissed her on the forehead. And set. Morning, My darling Moira. How did you sleep? Looked up at him with kindness and love in her eyes. Very well, My Michael, Very well. He brought two cups to the table, Setting them down as Moira placed a slab of butter in its dish. Ready for the bread and eggs that were still to come. They didn't talk much. They rarely did in the mornings. The quiet wasn't a silence to be filled. But rather a comfort they'd long settled into. Is then set about making the eggs. He cracked two into a ball. The yoke, Bright and golden against the white. Moira handed him a fork. He began to beat it gently, The rhythmic motion filling the small kitchen with its quiet sound. Together they work. In their familiar rhythm. Moira tending to the stove. While Michael poured the beating eggs into the waiting pan. As the smell of cooking filled the room. Michael glanced toward the clock on the mantel. The morning callers would soon arrive. Bringing with them their small dramas and quiet concerns. For now though. The day was still theirs. And he let himself savour the simple peace. Of this. Shared moment. After breakfast. Michael wiped his hands on a linen towel and glanced out the window. It was time to open the practice. The practice was a modest affair. Just one room with a wooden examination table, And shelves lined with jars, Bottles, And tins, Each neatly labeled in Michael's careful hand. The scents of this space were faint but distinct. A mixture of medicinal liniments, Dried herbs, And a hint of the polish Moira insisted on applying to the floorboards every month. It was a room of purpose. But it carried the same calmness as the rest of the house. A reflection of the man who worked there. Eaprop opens a door to the yard. Letting in the fresh air. And signalling to the village. That the practice was ready for the day. It didn't take long for the first visitor to arrive. A little boy of no more than seven came up the path. Clutching a wicker basket. That shifted and meowed softly with each step. His mother followed behind. Her apron still dusted with flowers. Looking slightly apologetic as they approach. Morning, Mrs. O'Connell. Michael said. Stepping out to meet them. And young Thomas. The boy nodded shyly. Tightening his grip on the basket. As though afraid its contents might escape it. It's our cash, Doctor. Mrs. O'Connell explained. Her voice warm, But tinged with worry. She's not been eating proper these past few days. I thought it might be best to bring her by. Michael crouched slightly to meet the boy's eyes. Let's have a look at her, Shall we? He gestured them inside. Motioning for the boy to set the basket on the examination table. With practiced ease, Michael unlatched the basket and reached in, Drawing out a small tabby cat whose coat had lost some of its usual luster. She meowed once, Faint and raspy. And settled into his hands. As though she knew instinctively he meant her no harm. As you work. He spoke softly to the boy, Explaining what he was doing in simple terms. She's a bit under the weather, That's all. Michael said, His fingers gently pressing along the cat's belly to check for tenderness. A tonic and a few quiet days, And she'll be herself again. The boy's face lit up with relief, And Mrs. O'Connell offered a grateful smile as Michael handed her a small bottle of liquid medicine. Give her a spoonful twice a day. Mixed in with a bit of water, " he instructed, Scribbling the details onto a slip of paper. And if she's not better by the weekend, Bring her back to me. The Okanos left with their spirits lifted, And no sooner had they disappeared down the path than another visitor arrived. A grey-haired farmer with a wicker cage containing two restless rabbits. Michael greeted him with the same steady warmth. Listening. As the man explained how the creatures had been off their feet. The morning passed in this quiet rhythm. One visitor after another. Older woman with a parakeet that had lost its chirp. A young girl with a spaniel, Whose paw needed cleaning and bandaging. And a man from the far side of the village, Carrying a box of newborn kittens, Their eyes barely open. Through it all, Michael worked with patience and care, His hands steady, His voice reassuring. For many. He was not just a veterinarian. But a source of calm and certainty. Someone they could trust, Not just with their animals. But with their worries and hopes. By the time the last visitor had left. The day had changed. And clouds had moved in. Michael wiped his hands on the cloth he kept near the practice sink. A faint smile on his face. As he glanced. At the ledger on his desk. Two calls this afternoon. A light day by any measure. He ran his finger down the page. Pausing on the first name. A small farm just outside the village, Where a mare had been favouring one leg. Closed the book with quiet satisfaction, Moving to gather his bag. The soft patter of rain began. Just as he stepped outside. A drizzle that turned the cobblestones dark and glistened faintly in the muted light. And the sky had shifted, Clouds heavy and low, Rubbing the village in a veil of grey. Michael paused on the threshold, Pulling his flat cap tighter and reaching for his coat. He didn't mind the rain. It was part of this place. Part of life here. It was a companion, As much as an inconvenience. The old car stood waiting in the yard. Its dull blue paint spotted with the first drops of the shower. Michael placed his bag on the passenger seat. Before sliding in behind the wheel. The door creaked slightly as he closed it. A sound he had long since stopped noticing. He turned the key. The engine sputtering to life. Before settling in to its familiar rhythm. As he pulled onto the dirt track. The rain grew steadier, Drumming gently on the roof and streaking the windshield. The world outside blurs. Hedgerows and fields, Softened by the rain. And Michael felt his mind wander, As it often did on these drives. You is now on the open road. And he began to think of Dublin. Of the years he had spent in the city as a young man. Immersed in his veterinary studies. And surrounded by the buzz of a world. So different from the one he had grown up in. The streets had been loud and alive. The air thick with the smell of coal smoke and the chatter of passing crowds. He had enjoyed it. In his own way. The lectures. The nights spent poring over books. The camaraderie of the other students. But even then, He had known he would come back. The decision had never been difficult. Dublin had taught him much. About medicine. About the wider world. About himself. But it had never felt like home. Oh, Monsieur. Among the rolling hills and stone walls. By the ocean. Where life moved with the seasons. And people knew one another by name. The city had been a teacher. But the country was where he belonged. Where he could take what he had learned. And put it to use. He thought of his father. A farmer, Like so many others in this place. Who had taught him early on the value of steady hands. And quiet persistence. There's no rush to most things. His father had often said. His voice calm. As he guided Michael through the work of the farmer. Take your time. Do it right. And the rest will follow. It was a lesson Michael carried with him still. One he applied as much to stitching a wound as to mending a fence. He arrived at the farm and eased the car to a stop near the gate. The mayor was waiting in the stable. Her large dark eyes watching him calmly as the farmer approached, Pat in hand to greet him. She's been favouring her front leg, Michael. The farmer said. His voice carrying a note of concern. Not lame, Exactly. But not right either. Michael nodded, His expression thoughtful, As he crouched to examine the mare's legs. His fingers tracing gently over the tendons and joints. The rain tapped softly on the stable roof above. A steady rhythm that seemed to echo the calm of the moment. Nothing serious. He said after a few minutes. Standing and dusting his hands. A bit of strain most likely. Rest her for a few days, And I'll leave you some liniment to rub in twice a day. She'll be right as rain before long. The farmer's face is. His gratitude evident, As he thanked Michael and shook his hand. Michael stayed for a moment longer. Stroking the mare's neck and murmuring softly to her before returning to the car. He was driving now to his next appointment. And he felt a quiet contentment settle over him. This moment. These steady, Simple moments of care. Were what had brought him back here. What made him certain he had chosen the right path? The second and final visit of the day lay ahead. But for now. . . Michael lets the rain and the road carry him forth. The rhythm of his life. As constant. Dependable as the landscape around him. The second visit of the day. Michael a little further out. To a smooth farm. Tucked at the base of a hill. Just next. To some beehive hut. Which were old monastic settlements. From very long ago. The farmer was waiting for him by the barn, Cup in hand. A tired smile on his face. It's one of the calves, " the man said as Michael stepped out of the car. Not feeding as well as the others. Inside the barn. The calf stood apart from the herd, Its small frame thin but alert. Michael crouched beside it. His bag sat on the straw-covered floor. His hands moved with quiet efficiency. Checking the calf's temperature. It's breathing. The texture of its coat. Nothing to worry about, " he said finally. Looking up at the farmer. Just a touch of the chills. Keep him warm. Give him some extra milk for a few days, And he'll be fine. The farmer let out a sigh of relief. His gratitude evident in the firm handshake he offered Michael. As he picked up his bag. You have a way with them, Michael, " he said. His voice warmed. Maiko smile. Tipping his cup. As he made his way back to the car. The drive home was peaceful. The rain still falling. And in a way. Michael loved it. Michael felt the pull of home now. As he turned down the familiar lane. The site. Of the chimney smoke. Rising from his cottage. Filling him. With a quiet contentment. He parked the car. And went inside. Moira was already sitting down. Doing some knitting. The warmth of the fire was casting a soft glow across the room. She looked up as he entered. Her smile as steady and welcoming as ever. Long day. P. S. Handing him a cup of tea. Before he even had to ask. Not too bad. Michael replied. Easing into his chair by the fire. He stretched his legs out. Feeling the quiet ache of the day. Settle into his bones. The room was filled with the faint crackle of the fire. The scent of turf smoke. Mingling with the tea in his hands. They sat in comfortable silence. Moira knitting something soft and grey. What Michael read from his favorite book. And then gazed into the flames. His mind wandering over the small moments of the day. Rain tapping on the roof. The soft whinny of the mare. The boy's shy smile. She carried home his cut. These were the pieces of his life. Humble and steady. And he wouldn't trade them for anything. As the evening wore on. The fire burned lower. And the quiet deepens. Wrapping the little house in its warmth. Michael leaned back in his chair. His eyes heavy but content. Knowing that tomorrow would bring another day much like this one. Calm. Purposeful. And rooted in the place. Cool? The car rested by the side of a narrow, Quiet lane. Its dark frame, Blending with the muted tones of the morning. Michael O'Shocknessy. Stood a few paces away. His hands tucked deep into the pockets of his long coat. The ground beneath his boots was soft from yesterday's rain, And a faint sheen of moisture lingered on the grasses that rolled gently away toward the sea. Ahead, The horizon blurred, Where the ocean met the sky. The water stretched out, Vast and silver, Rippling under the weight of low-hanging clouds. Burr up. Barely distinguishable through the gathering mist Skellig Michael. A magnificent rock. Rose like a thought, Not fully formed. Its jagged edges, Softened by distance, It seemed to hover between this world and some other place. Its presence, Neither loud nor demanding. Yet impossible to ignore. The mist was moving closer now. Quiet and deliberate. Rolling in across the field. And settling over the hedgerows like a veil. Michael watched it come. The kind of mist that didn't rush, But filled the space around it with the unhurried patience of time. A dampness hung in the air. Clinging to his coat. And settling in his hair. He could feel the faintest trace of rain beginning to form. A fine drizzle. That seemed like it might increase in a short time. Standing there. Michael let the stillness take hold these moments. Away from the chatter of people. And the low calls of animals. Had always brought him clarity. Thought of the long road that had brought him here. Not just the road to carry. But the one that had led him to this life of quiet. Steady work. He thought of the farmers he'd visited. Their hands rough from years in the soil. Their gratitude, Quiet. But sincere. He thought of the animals too. And the strange lessons they'd taught him. Without ever speaking a word. A sick calf could teach perseverance. An old sheep nearing the end of its days. Could teach dignity. The rain grew steadier. A gentle patter now. Against the roof of the car. And the brim of his hat. It had filled the air with its rhythm. Mingling with the sound of distant waves reaching the shore. Michael breathed in deeply. The scent of wet earth and sea-salt grounding him. He turned his gaze back to Skellig Michael, Now almost hidden in the thickening mist. And thought of the monks. Who had once made their home there. What must it have been like to live in that kind of solitude? Surrounded by the endless ocean. To win. And the rain. What truth had they found? Out there on the edge of the world. Michael shifted his weight slightly, His boots pressing into the softened ground. There was so much he didn't understand about life. About the patterns that seemed to emerge only in hindsight. And yet. He felt certain there was a kind of wisdom in this land. In its constancy. And its quiet unfolding. As he stood there. The rain falling steadily now. He thought not of the answers. But of the questions. And how they seemed to stretch out. As endlessly as the sea. Now he turned and got into his car. He opened the door with a gentle creak. Familiar scent of leather and engine oil welcoming him as he slid into the driver's seat He started the car. The hum of the engine. Merging with the butter of rain. His first call of the day. Was to be the Donoghue farm. Just a few miles down the road. That Donoghue's had sent word a day prior. A young cow was struggling to calve. And they'd done all they could without help. Michael knew the farm well. Its fields marked by weathered, Dry stone walls. Its barn leaning slightly to one side. From years of battles with the coastal wind. The family had always been warm and straightforward. They were a part of this land. And their ancestors. Michael pulled into the farmyard. The familiar sight of the stone farmhouse emerging through the mist. The gravel crunched beneath the car's tires as he parked and stepped out. Tipping his hat against the drizzle. Liam Donoghue is already waiting His cup pulled low over his face. His boots caked with mud. Morning, Michael, " Liam said. He's in the barn. Been at it since the early hours. I could not at all. Following Liam across the yard. His boots. Squelching. In the soft ground. Inside the barn. The air was warm and thick. Smelling of hay and animals. The cow lay in the straw. Resides heaving with the efforts of labor. Michael set his bag down gently. And crouched beside her. His voice, Low and soothing. As he spoke to her. And assessed the situation. Good girl now. Let's have a look. Be murmured. His hands steady and practiced. Years of experience had taught him how to move slowly. To let the animal feel his presence. Without fear. You worked carefully. Talking quietly to Liam. As he explained what needed to be done. The process was delicate. But straight forward. And within the hour. The cuff was delivered. A sturdy little bull. Blinking against the light of the barn. As he took his first breaths. The cow let out a low, Relieved sound. And Michael smiled faintly. Stepping back to let her nuzzle her newborn. He's a strong one, That cow of yours. Maiko said. Wiping his hands on a cloth You'll be right as rain in no time. Liam let out a breath he'd clearly been holding. Thank you, Michael. Don't know what we'd do without you. Michael waved off the gratitude with a small nod. Stepping back. Into the rain scented air of the farmyard. As he packed his bag into the car. He thought again of the small but significant moments his work offered. The quiet victories. The steady reminders of life's resilience. He started the car. And got on his way, Waving goodbye to Liam as he went. The next stop on Michael O'Shocknessy's route. Was the Noland farm. A modest patch of land. Tucked away behind a cluster of old sycamore trees. He had been called out to see a lame sheep that had been favoring one leg since the week before. The Nolans were a curious pair, In the best sense. Mary and Brendan. Husband and wife. Who worked the land together. As equals. It was uncommon, Perhaps, At the time. But it suited them. And Michael had always admired their quiet harmony. As he pulled into the far behind. Mary was already there to greet him. Brushing her hands on her apron. And waving him down with a smile. Brendan followed a few moments later. Carrying a sick, Weathered stick that he used to herd the sheep. Their flock was small, But well cared for. And Michael had no doubt that this particular animal had been treated with patience and care in the days before his arrival. She's in the lower pen, " Brandon said. As they walked towards the barn. Mary falling into step beside them. I reckon it's her hoof. Something stuck, Maybe. Or a bit of rust. Inside the pen, The you stood quietly in the straw. One leg lifted delicately off the ground. Mary moved quickly and calmly. Holding the animal steady. As Michael crouched down to examine her. His fingers moved with care. Parting the world. And checking each who with practiced ears. Sure enough. A small sharp stone was lodged in the tissue. Causing the animal pain. Nothing serious. Michael said. Reaching into his bag for the tools he needed. We'll get this sorted and she'll be back to her old self soon enough. With Mary keeping the you calm. And Brandon shining a lantern for better light. Michael removed the stone and treated the tender area with an ointment to ward off infection. The work was quick and unremarkable in its simplicity. But there was something satisfying. In the quiet teamwork of it all. The shared focus of three people. And one sheep. Each doing their part. Once the job was done. Mary gave to you a gentle patsy. And Brendan grinned. His weathered face breaking into lines of relief. You've done it again, Michael. Won't take her long to recover, Will it? Not at all, Maiko replied. Standing and brushing the straw from his trousers. Just keep her dry for a day or two. And she'll be fine. As they left the barge. Mary reached out and touched his arm lightly. You'll stay for tea, Won't you? I've just taken a cake out of the oven. Michael hesitated for a moment. It was still early. There was another call to make. But the smell of baking bread. And the fact that it was raining so much. Tipped the decision. A slice of cake sounds grand. He said with a smile. Inside the house, The fire crackled warmly in the hearth. Michael took a seat at the wooden table. As Mary cut generous slices of fruitcake. The kind made dense with raisins. And a hint of spice. Brendan poured tea from a battered metal pot. The steam curling upwards. As the rain continued to fall outside. The conversation turned easily to the happenings of the locality. Mary spoke of the markets in town. Of the price of feed had risen. And how Mrs. Walsh's eldest son had come back from America with newfangled ideas about farming. Brendan chimed in with news of a neighbor's bull. Which had jumped a fence and caused a bit of chaos before being coaxed back to its field. And did you hear about young Aisling at the schoolhouse? Mary asked, Setting her teacup down. She's off to Dublin next month. Her uncle's got her a place at one of those training colleges. Michael nodded. Listening with genuine interest. These small pieces of news, The births, The plans, The troubles. Were all things that bound the people of this place. It was moments like these. Over tea and cake. Michael truly valued. When the rain is. Michael finally stood. Thanking them both for their hospitality. Mary handed him a small tin. With an extra slice of cake for the road. Brandon saw him to the door. Clapping him on the shoulder as he left. Safe travels, Michael, " Brandon called as he stepped back into the kitchen. Michael returned to his car. Warmed not just by the tea and cake, But by the quiet kindness of the Nolans. And the stories they had shared. As he turned the engine over and drove away. He felt a deep contentment within him. Michael's final call of the day. Took him to a place that always felt a little out of the ordinary. Nestled in a hollow. Beyond a winding stretch of road. Was Dunbar's dud. A small but respected horse breeding farm. That catered to the needs of the wealthy landowners in the region. Though Michael had visited many times before. The place always held a quiet sense of importance. There was something so wise about the horses here. Something. Michael could never put his finger on it. He arrived at the gates, Which were painted a deep green and already open. He drove slowly up the gravel path. Passing a long row of paddocks. Where the horses stood grazing despite the dampness. He parked near the main stable. Stepping out into the earthy scent of wet hay and damp leather. There he was greeted. By Seamus Kilroy The Studs Manager. Michael. . . Good to see you. James called. He was a tall, Wiry man. With a sharp gaze that seemed to miss nothing. We've a mare in the falling barn. It's giving us a bit of trouble. Won't let the cult feed properly. Michael nodded, Following Seamus toward the barn. The structure was grander than most stables he visited. With thick beams and wide doors. But the work inside was the same, Practical and earthy, With no room for errors. Inside. The mare stood in a large stool. Her coat gleaming. Even in the low light. The call. Just a few days old. The other side. His spindly legs trembling slightly as he shifted his weight. She is protective. More than usual. James explained keeping his voice low as they approached doesn't want anyone near him. Not even me. But he's not getting what he needs. Michael observed the mare for a moment. Noting the way her ears twitched and her eyes followed their every movement. Protective indeed. He stepped closer with deliberate calm. Speaking softly. His tone as much for her. As it was for the people watching. There now, Girl. Let's have a look. You're doing your best, Aren't you? The mirror didn't flinch as Michael crouched down. His movements slow and measured. He reached for the call. Is hand steady. As he checked the young horse over. The issue was clear enough. The colt's mouth wasn't quite aligned. Making it difficult for him to latch on to his mother. It was a minor problem. But one that could lead to trouble if not addressed quickly. Michael stood and turned to Seamus. We'll need to help him feed for now, Just until he gets strong enough. I can show you how to guide him properly. Jamis nodded. Already moving to fetch what was needed. Together, They worked carefully. Maiko demonstrating the best way to support the cult. And guide him to the mare. The mare remained watchful but calm. Her instincts seeming to sense that they were there to help her. When the cult finally began to suckle. James let out a low breath of relief. There you go, Lad. Jameis Murmurd. That's the way. They stayed a while longer. To ensure the cult led properly. The barn quiet. Except for the sounds of the animals. And the rain outside. When the work was done. Jameis shook Michael's hand firmly. Appreciated Michael, He said. That one's going to be something special. I can feel it. Michael gave a small smile. Glancing back at the mare and her foal. Before gathering his bag. Every one of them is special in their own way. But I'll admit, He's got a fine start. As he left the barn. Jameis walked him back to the car. The stud felt peaceful. In this rain. The horses. Grazing quietly in their paddocks. And Michael paused for a moment. Before opening the car door. Drive safe, James said. Tipping his cup. And let's hope we don't need you back too soon. Michael chuckled. Let's hope not. But you know where to find me. He drove away slowly. The road slick with rain. And the light over the countryside. Moving towards dusk. The day had been long. But as the familiar rhythm of the engine and the rain surrounded him. Michael felt that quiet sense of purpose once again. The kind that came from knowing his work meant something. Not just to the people. But to the creatures that shared this land with them. The house was warm when Michael arrived home. This self. Glow of the fire. Spilling out into the hallway. As he hung his coat by the door. The rain had followed him all the way. But now. . . Inside. Its steady rhythm against the windows. Seemed a distant, Muted and comforting thing. Moira was in the living room. Rendition resting in her lap. As she looked up with a smile. Long day. She asked. Her voice, As familiar and soothing as the crackle of the fire. Aye. Michael said. Pressing the room to sit in his usual chair. But a good one. She nodded. The kind of nod that spoke of years shared. And words unspoken. Michael leaned back. His boots kicked off, And his legs stretched toward the warmth of the hearth. The room fell into a comfortable silence. Broken only by the pop of the fire. And Moira Nissing. They sat. And silence now. The firelight flickering across the room. Michael closed his eyes. Listening to the rain outside. And feeling the quiet satisfaction. Of another day well spent. There was no need for conversation. Just the peaceful solitude. Two lives lived together. Two lives. In deep contentment with one another. Another day finished. In the life of the Irish country bat. There are days in Cary. That feel less like days. And more alike. Days that arrive without fanfare. Drama. Without any particular invitation. And yet manage to be so quietly. So completely perfect. That you find yourself. Moving through them slowly. As though afraid yet hurrying. Might break the spell. This was one of those days. Michael O'Shocknessy Walk before the alarm. But you really need it. Kept anyway. Out of an old habit. He had never quite seen the reason to abandon. The room was still and pale. The curtains backlit. By a thin, Clean brightness. That told him. Even before he had properly opened his eyes. The rain had gone. Elay for a moment. Listening. The wind. No drumming on the roof. Only the tiny sound of a robin. Somewhere outside the window. Very close. Singing to itself. In that clear and unhurried way. Rub and serve. As though they have all the time in the world. And are rather pleased about it. He dressed quietly. So as not to wake. Moira. Who slept on her side. With one hand tucked beneath her cheek. Of breathing. Slow and even. He stood in the doorway for just a moment. Looking at her. The way he had done on countless mornings over the years. And felt the same quiet thing he always felt. Which he had never been able to name precisely. But which sat somewhere between gratitude and wonder. And something very close to disbelief. The tool of this. Was his. Downstairs. He set the kettle on. And stepped outside. The world had been washed clean. The cobblestones. Glistened in the early light. And the air at that particular freshness. That only comes after a long rain. Sharp. And green. And full of the sea. The fields beyond the low stone wall. Were impossibly bright. The grass. A deep and saturated green. That seemed almost to glow. Above the distant hills. The sky was a pale and luminous blue. And the sun. Still though. Just learn. Golden shadows. Across the yard. Michael's trusty red setter. Pushed out through the door behind him. And stood. Blinking in the light. His nose working furiously. Reading the morning. The way only dogs can. Then he bounded off across the yard. With its ears fly. And his tail whipping the air. And Michael watched him go. And smile. It was going to be. Fine. His only call was in the late morning. A gentle one. And he took the long road there. He could have gone the shorter way. You always could. Us on a morning like this. It seemed rather a shame. To waste a single mile of it. The little car. Rattled along lanes. Flanked by hedgerows. Threaded with the last of the season's blackberries. The berries die. And heavy on their stems. Listening. With the overnight dew. Through gaps in the hedges. The sea appeared. And disappeared. Deep and brilliant blue today. Catching the light. In long shifting panels. That seemed to move like something alive. The farm belonged to old Patsy Moriarty. Who had been a farmer on that land. For more years than Michael had been alive. And to his opinion on most subjects. Stated briefly. And without any particular interest. In being disagreed with. Is Sheepdog. Now. A quiet and dignified gully. Who had delivered three litters in her twelve years on this earth. Had whelped again five days ago. And Patsy had sent the word. That he'd like Michael to look over. More out of care than concern. Michael found them in the barn. Now stretched out. In a bed of. . . Clean straw. Seven pups arranged about her. In various states of Sleep. And contentment. But she stood at the pen's edge. Is Captain Hans. Watching them with an expression. That was as close to tenderness as a man of his disposition could manage. She did well. Michael said. Crouching beside the pen. Seven healthy ones. You can't ask for more than that. But he made a sound that meant he agreed. But saw no reason to say so out loud. Michael moved quietly among the pups. Checking each one. With a gentle efficiency. Of long practice. They were warm. And round. Pink-nosed. And they smelled of that particular soft warmth. That newborn things have. Regardless of their species. One of them. A small female with a white patch on her forehead. Open to rise very slightly. As Michael's hand passed over. Squinting. Against the light of the burn. Before closing them again. And returning with great determination. To sleep. She'll be a clever one, That. Michael said. But she looked at the pup with narrowed eyes. She'll be the trouble more like. But he said it with the ghost of a smile. Michael sat with them a while longer than was strictly necessary. Now watch them. Was their calm. Amber eyes. And he scratched behind her ears. And told her she had done very well. And she accepted this information. With the serene composure of a dog. Who already knew it. She drove home the long way as well. There was a place on the road above Dingle. If you stopped the car and started the war. You could see the whole bay. Laid out below you. Like something from a dream. The water on a clear day. Was every shade of blue there is. And several that haven't quite been named yet. And the hills on the far side. Ran down to the shore. And so. . . Folds of green and brown. And somewhere out beyond the headlands. Barely visible. And trembling slightly in the bright air, Was the dark shape of Skellig Michael. Rising from the sea. Michael stopped the car. He stood at the wall with his hands in his coat pockets. And look. He thought of the monks out there. And that impossible rock. A thousand years ago. Living there. S'more and extraordinary lives. The edge of the known world. He thought of all the people he had known on this peninsula. The Farmers. And so quiet gratitude. The animals in their barns. And their pens. And their pastures. The lambs arriving in cold dawns. And the old docks growing still. A source of his father. Steady-handed on the farm. Saying theirs. No rush to most things. Me thought of the years in Dublin. The books. The lectures. And the noise of the city. Until even then. Some part of him. Had always been here. Standing at a wall. Above the bay in Kerry. Looking at the sea. He wasn't a man much given to sentiment. Or at least. . . He preferred to think he wasn't. But standing there. In the clean, Bright morning. With the October light. Falling golden over everything. He fell With a completeness he couldn't quite account for. That his life had been a good one. Not large. . . Or loud. Or remarkable. And the way that history remembers. But good. In the way that mattered most. Useful. Honest. And rooted in this particular beautiful. Place. Curlew called somewhere below. Its long descending cry. Looping out over the water and fading. Michael stood a while longer. Then he got back into the car. Strofoam. Moira had made soup. He could smell it before he had even opened the door. Thick and warm and faintly sweet, With parsnips And the smell of it was so precisely the smell of home. As he stood for a moment on the step. Before going in. Just to hold it a little longer. Inside. The kitchen was warm. The fire was going in the sitting room. The dog was asleep before it. And a pool of afternoon sun. His legs twitching very gently. In sum. Pleasant dream. The cat was on the window, Sir. Watching the garden with the absolute stillness that guts achieve. When they are at the deepest level. Of their own contentment. They eat their soup at the kitchen table. The two of them. With bread that Moira had baked that morning. And they talked in the easy way of people who have shared so many meals together. That conversation. As long since stopped being an effort. And become something more like breathing. She told him about a letter from her sister in Tralee. He told her about Nell's pups and the one with the white patch. She laughed at his impression of Patsy Moriarty. Declining to express any emotion whatsoever. He refilled her cup without being asked. Thursday evening. As the light faded over the fields. And the sky turned slowly. From blue. To a deep and tender rose. They sat together in the sitting-room. Michael and his chair. And Moira in hers. Warm across their feet. The fire, Low and steady. The room was quiet. Outside. The last of the evening birds were settling. The fields were still. Somewhere far off. . . Too far to be intrusive. The sea moved against the shore. Slow. Rhythm. The same rhythm it had kept. For longer than anyone could possibly imagine. And would keep. Long after all of them were gone. Michael's book was open in his lap. He was not reading it. It was simply there in the place he loves. With the person he loves. The end of a good and ordinary day. Feeling the warmth of the fire. And the weight of the evening. Settling gently around him. Like something he had been given. Without having had to ask for it. His eyes grew heavy. Outside. The stars were beginning to come out to overcarry. By one. Taking their places. In the deep and cloudless sky. Above the hills. And the sea. And the stone walls. And the fields. Above Skellig Michael. Out on the dark water. Above all the bones. And all the farms. And all the sleeping animals. And all the people. Of this quiet county. We're settling now. As Maiko was settling. Into the lung. And peaceful dark. He let his eyes close. End. Slept The wind eased during the night. I can tell by the way the thatch isn't lifting at the corners. And the door no longer knocks its frame. It's still early. Though I haven't lit the candle to check the time. The light is thin. Just enough to see the outlines of the room. The hearth has gone to ash. I've banked the fire too low again. That's my own fault. I sit up on the edge of the bed. Peace. On the cold stone floor. Dog stirs in the corner. Turns one. And goes still again. The air inside the cottage smells faintly of peat smoke and salt from the sea. Which never really leaves. It comes in with the wind. And stays on the walls. The kettle is already filled from yesterday. So I set it on the hook over the embers. And add a few small pieces of turf to bring the fire back. The sea is out there. My old friend. Beyond the fields. Beyond the stone wall. Always just there. I don't need to go to it to know it's there. It's part of the air. I feel it in the chest when I breathe. The sound of it comes slow. Steady. Like someone thinking out loud. I sit at the small table by the window. While the cattle hisses. The table is old. The wood darkened from years of use. And smooth in the places where my hands always go. I opened the journal. I rise a bit every morning. It doesn't matter what about. It's the doing of it that matters. I sharpen the pencil with the knife. And rise. The 12th of April. 1867 wind from the west again. A bit tired still. Though I slept. The sea louder last night than I've heard it in some time. No boots, Boss. No dreams. I take another sip of tea. The dog has come to sit by the hearth now. His chin on his paws. His eyes half closed. The light outside is still grey. The fire is burning away. I turn the page and write again. I love this place. I love the Aran Islands. I love this stretch of land and sea. That holds itself so far away. From the rest of the world. It's quiet here. And in that quiet. I found something I didn't know I was looking for. Peace. Yes. But not the kind that arrives all at once. It takes work. To find that rhythm. It takes work. To let go of the tensions of the outside world. To become one. With a place like this. To be okay with silence. For the rhythm doesn't greet you like an old friend. It watches you first. To see if you last. You have to let go of the parts of yourself that ask too many questions. Push. That demand answers. Then the island gives you something back. Slowly. In its own time. And now. I think. The peace lives in me too. Not perfectly. But it's there. Enough that I can sit here this morning. And write this down. Enough that I can hear the sea. And did not need anything else. I lay the pencil down. And let the journal stay open on the table. The words don't need to be read again. They're true. And that's enough I put on the heavier coat. And step outside. The latch clicks behind me. The air has that crispness it gets. When the sky is clear and the wind has taken a rest. You don't get many mornings like this on the island. When you do. You don't rush them. Dog pats head. Not far. He knows the way. The grass along the path is damp. But not so. It brushes against the boots without clinging. There are birds in the field to the left. Pecking at something near the wall. I don't bother them. And they don't bother me. The sound of the Atlantic. Is steady. Always there. But today it isn't shouting. It moves the way a chest moves. When someone isn't sleeping well. Calm. Sure. With wish in it. You don't trust it for long. But you can trust it for the moment you're in. We come to the top of the rise. Where the path meets the stone steps. You can see the whole beach from here. La. Scattered with dark rock and glistening weeds. The tide has gone out far. That's good. There's time to work before it turns again. The sea is a good distance off. Sitting quiet. Under a white sky. And the sunlight comes low and golden. Across the sun. I stand there for a minute. Breathe in. Through the nose down into the chest. Let it fill the ribs and settle. And then I breathe out. I do it again. Nice rush. Just a way of stepping into the day. I look out at the others already there. Bent to their work. Spread out across the strand. I know them all. My community. You don't need to say much to these people. For we all know each other. Deeply. As deep as the ocean, You might say. Their presence is enough. That we're all here together. Doing what we've done. For as long as anyone can remember. I walk down the steps slowly. The stones are slick in places. And uneven. Worn by years of boots and weather. The dark stays just ahead. Stopping now and then. To sniff at seaweed dried into the cracks. Or something left behind by the gulls. The morning has settled into itself by now. Clear. And full of light. A kind of light that makes everything feel a little more honest. When I step onto the beach. I take off my boots. And the damp sand gives slightly underfoot. I look out across the stretch of the strand. At the others moving along the tide's edge. Some are already bending low. The curve of their backs familiar. The rhythm of their hands steady. The gathering has begun. It's never rush. That's not the way if this works. You don't beat the tide. You work with it. Or you don't work at all I walk towards the place I usually start. Just west of the largest rock. The one split down the middle. Something old and broken. In a clean way. I set down the creel. Take off the coat. And hang it on a piece of driftwood. Stuck upright in the sun. The sea air. Reaches in through my shirt. But doesn't chill. It's just there. Reminding me I'm alive. I bend down and take the sickle from its place inside the creel. The handle fits my hand like it always has. I look down at the first line of weed. A thick tangle of dark fronds, Still wet with the ocean. The first cut is always the quietest part of the day. I take my breath. Find the right line. And begin The blade slides through with that soft sound it makes. Not sharp. Natasha The sea doesn't say anything. It just keeps being there. Beyond the rocks beyond the we. Beyond everything. I cut slowly. Working in a rhythm that doesn't need watching. The sickle moves through the wet fronds. And I gather them into small bundles. Shaking of the sun and the small creatures clinging to the strands. The weed is heavy. But not in a way that burdens. It has weight the way a loaf of bread does. Something useful. Something full. This is not waste. It goes on to do things. It goes on to help people. That's always been part of the work I think about. When the back starts to ache. Where the hands go numb from the cold water. Some of us will be burned. Made into kelp ash. Carried to the mainland in sacks lined with wool. They'll use it for glass. Or so. Riodine. I don't know the steps after that. But I know it helps. I know people in cities far from here. People I'll never meet. Rely on the thing I lift from the sea with my hands. Other times it's spread across the fields. Left to dry in the sun. Then turned back into the earth. It feeds the soil. Makes the potatoes grow stronger. When there's a bad year. And the blight comes. You can still see the difference. Fields where the sea has touched the ground. And fields where it hasn't. Dash measures. And then there's the healing boiled down into tonics. Warm around aching limbs. It draws things out, People say. Takes away the sting from the joints. Eases pain in the belly. The old women in the village have used it that way. For longer than anyone knows. They don't talk about it much. But I've seen the look in their eyes when they ask for it. They don't ask for favours. But they ask for this. The tide begins to turn. And I know it's time to stop. You feel it in your bones before you see it. The shift in the air. The change in the pull of things. I gather the last of the bundles. Stack them neat beside the driftwood post. And wipe the sickle clean on the inside of my sleeve. My hands are raw now. But not hurting. Just. . . Well used. The others are finishing too. Lifting creels. Straightening their backs. Saying little. There's no need for talk. We all know the hours and what they ask of us. The dog waits near the steps. Tail still. Watching. . . He knows the day is done. The walk back is slower. My coat is over my shoulder. In my boot. Are away. But I don't mind. The warmth of the cottage is close enough to feel. Even before I see the door. Inside. I lay the tools by the hearth. Peel off the boots. And the dark circles once. And flops down in his spot. The light in the room is gold now. Stretched long across the floor. I sit in the chair with the arm worn smooth. And let the fire warm my feet. I take a book from the shelf. Sin. The cover soft from use. But most wouldn't think someone like me could read. And maybe that would have been true. If not for my mother's brother. He taught me when I was a boy. With an old psalter. And the patience of a man who had once been meant for the church. But left the calling behind. He showed me the letters, Slowly. Made me sound them out. Taught me the shape of words. Like he was teaching me how to mend a net. Retire not. I learned. I still remember the sound of his voice. When I get to a hard passage. I open the book now. And read a few lines. The pages fall open near the back. Where the poems are I read aloud. But quietly. There is a peace beside the shore. That only comes. When winds are still. Receive. And sky. And land agree. And time forgets its will. The grasses lean. The tide is low. The birds have gone to rest. And every breath. I draw out here. Sits quiet. In my chest. I pause for a moment. The dog. Lifts his head. Then settles again. I turn the page and read another. One I always return to. The such is sick. Above my head. The stones are cold and true. But in this quiet room I find the world made clear. And new. Let others chase the things they chase. I let them pass me by. There is beauty. In a single flame. And comfort. In the sky. I keep reading. The words are like a tide of their own coming in. Going up. But never asking anything of me. They ask only. That I sit and listen. And that. I can do. When I finish reading. I close the book and set it gently on the table beside me. The light has faded to that soft blue. That comes just before full dark. The fire is still burning. Though low now. Just enough to warm the room. I get up and move about slowly. Putting the kettle aside. Checking the latch on the door. Folding the coat over the back of the chair. I light the small lamp on the wall. Just long enough to guide me through the last bits of the evening. I wash my hands in the basin. Roll down the sleeves of my shirt. And run my fingers once. Through the dog's fur as he sleeps. He doesn't stir. He knows the hour too well by now. I sit at the table one last time. And open the journal again Just a few lines tonight. Evening quiet now. Good day. The sea gave enough. The fire held. I read again. And it helps. There is a peace in the air. And in my soul tonight. And I am thankful for it. I close the journal. Blow out the lamp. And let the darkness settle into the room. I undress by the fading lice of the fire. Unfolding each piece of clothing the way I was taught. And slide beneath the blanket. And the lower back The mattress is worn. But I know every curve of it. The dog curls back into his corner. One soft sigh. As he turns. The wind is still quiet outside. The sea is still out there. Beyond the stone wall. Steady. And its breathing. I lie on my back for a while. Listening. Letting the last thoughts Slip. Away. There's nothing else I need tonight. And I less. Myself. Rest. You are reading a book. It is a calming book. A comforting book. The kind you settle into on a quiet evening. With the rain against the window. And a lamp casting its steady glow over the pages. The paper is thick beneath your fingertips. Worn soft at the edges. As though it has been read many times before. The ink is dark. Pressed deep into the page. The letters unwavering. The book is old. Its spine creased. Its cover smooth from years of handling. And it begins like this. The west of Ireland. Long ago. The rain has been falling since dawn. Drifting in soft veils over the hills. Gathering in shallow pools. Along the narrow, Winding lanes. The air is thick with it. With the scent of wet earth. And the distant, Briny breath of the sea. The sky is a deep, Quiet grey. The clouds resting low over the land. Wrapping the world in mist. Beyond the hills. Past the stone walls laced with moss and wild ferns, There is a cottage. A small house of whitewashed stone. Its thatched roof darkened by the rain. Its windows glowing faintly in the dim afternoon light Smoke rises from the chimney. Curling into the mist. Vanishing as quickly as it appears. Inside. The air is warm. A peat fire burns low in the hearth. Its embers shifting and settling. Filling the cottage with the scent of turf and thyme. The walls are lined with shelves. Cluttered with earthenware bowls. With wooden spoons worn smooth by years of use. A kettle hangs over the fire. Its surface blackened with age. A faint trail of steam curling from its spout. The room is still. Save for the quiet crackle of the fire. And the occasional creak of the roof beams as the wind moves over them. And in this house. There is an old couple. They have lived here for as long as anyone can remember. Their names are not yet given, But they are known in the village. Known along the lanes where the hedgerows grow thick and the foxes pass unseen in the night. They wake with the dawn and move through their days in the slow, Steady rhythm of the land. The world outside changes. But here. In this house. Time drifts. Like the smoke from the chimney. Unhurried. No fear of the clock as they say in these parts. You read these words. And something shifts. The book is not simply telling you about this place. It is bringing you into it. The fire's warmth reaches you. The scent of beet lingers in the air. The rain drums softly against the thatched roof. You are no longer just reading about the cottage. You are in it. The fire crackles softly. The old couple moves about the cottage in quiet harmony, Each knowing the rhythm of the other, Without needing to speak. The old man sits by the hearth. A small knife in his hands. Carefully shaping a piece of wood. His hands are broad and lined. His fingers thick with the memories Of years spent working the land. A small pile of wood shavings curls at his feet. He does not look up. But he knows his wife is near. He always knows. She is at the table, Slicing bread. Your hands steady. Her movements unhurried. The loaf is dense, Dark-crusted. Made with the flower she milled herself. She cuts thick slices. Spreading each with soft butter from a wooden dish. The butter is golden, Rich with the taste of summer grass. A jar of honey sits nearby. Its lid loosened. Wasting. The book describes all this. And do you see it? More than see it. You feel it. The warmth of the fire the scent of fresh bread. The way the light catches in the honey. As she drizzles it over the butter. And Zen. As though the book itself has been waiting for you to notice. Something shifts again. The old woman looks up. Arise, Warm and deep set seem to meet yours. There is no alarm in them. No startle of surprise. Which we simply see as yet. The way she might see Robin perched on the windowsill. Or a neighbour passing along the lane. She tilts her head slightly. Studying you. As though she has known you were here all along. You're just in time. She says. Her voice is soft little thing. Carrying the music of the West. The rise and fall of a land shaped by wind and tide. She gestures to the empty chair beside the hearth. The one that has always been there. Raising. The old man glances up now, Setting aside his carvings. His face is lined with age. But his eyes are bright. Steady. Filled with something you can't quite name. He nods toward the chair. As if to say. Well, Go on then. Take a seat. You do. The warmth of the fire settles around you. The chair creaks slightly. As you ease into it. Its wooden arms worn smooth beneath your touch. The bread. Still warm from the oven. Is pressed into your hands. The butter melting into its soft crumbs. You must be tired. The old woman says. A long journey, Was it? She says it as though she knows. As though she understands something about you. That you have not yet put into words. The rain falls against the thatched roof. The fire crackles The honey pools on your plate outside. The world is cold and wet and endless. But here, In this cottage. You are known. You are home. The old man leans back in his chair, His hands resting on his lap. He studies you for a moment. His eyes glinting in the firelight. Weighing something. Deciding where to begin. Then he glances at his wife. And she. Without needing to ask. Knows exactly what he is thinking. I'm sure you might as well tell the story, She says. Brushing the crumbs from her hands. You always do. The old man chuckles. A D. Rolling sound. That seems to come from the very heart of him. He shifts in his chair, The wood creaking beneath him, And fixes his gaze on the flames. You'd think, He says. That we mess on a fair day at the village, Wouldn't you? Have a proper day. With the stalls up. The music playing. . . The smell of roasting apples in the air. But no. No, It wasn't a fair day at all. The old woman laughs. Shaking her head. It was a day for staying inside, Truth be told. It was the worst kind of day. The old man continues. Cold, Wet and wild. The kind of rain that doesn't fall straight down, But sideways, Slapping at you no matter which way you turn. And I was fooled enough to be out in it. Running messages for my uncle. His wife folds her arms. Your uncle who could have done it himself if he weren't so fond of sitting by the fire. Bye. Well, The old man grins. It worked out, Didn't it? He turns back to you. I was coming down from the hill. The rain so thick I could barely see the road in front of me. And there she was. Standing under the eaves of the old mill, Trying to shake the water out of her cloak. The old woman rolls her eyes. Trying to shake the water out of my cloak. I was drowning in the sink. And you. She points at him. You were soaked right through. And looking like a half-drowned sheep. I was. The old man admits. But I still had enough sense to stop and look at you. And that was the moment, I tell you, That was the moment my life changed. The old woman shakes her head. But her smile softens. You were shivering so badly you could barely speak. I wasn't shivering. You were. The fire crackles between them. I looked at her. The old man says. Quieter now. And I in you. Just like that. Knew I'd be standing beside her. For the rest of my life. The old woman glances at him. Something warm and unspoken passing between them. Then she turns back to you. Her smile gentle. And I looked at him, She says. And thought. This poor man is going to catch his death out here if I don't do something. They both laughed. An easy, Familiar sound The kind that comes from years of knowing every part of a person. Their kindness, Their stubbornness, Their way of telling a story, Just to hear it told again. And so she saved me. The old man says. Brought me to her mother's house, Wrapped me in blankets, Put a hot mug in my hands, And she's been saving me ever since. The old woman exhales, Shaking her head. Not saving you, Just keeping you right. The rain falls continuously. The fire glows steady and sure. The old man reaches for his wife's hand and squeezes it gently. His thumb brushing over her knuckles. And in this small cottage, In the warmth of their world, You feel something settle deep inside you. Something steady. Something sure. Something perhaps like love The old woman shifts in her chair, Still holding her husband's hands. Her fingers curled around his, As if it were the most natural thing in the world. The firelight flickers across their faces. Touching the lines around their eyes. The soft creases of love do. Of years spent side by side. Outside, The rain hums against the thatch, Steady as a heartbeat. The world beyond the cottage is cold and endless, But here within these walls The air is warm There is time. There is the quiet comfort of two people who have built a life together. One day. After another. Like stones in a wall. You never did bring your uncle his messages that day, The old woman says after a moment. The old man chuckles. No, I did not. And when you finally did go back to him. . . What did he say? The old man sighs. Tilting his head back. Oh, He was furious. Said I was the most useless messenger ever to set foot on a road. Said he'd have been better off sending a goat. At least the goat would have remembered to come home before dark. You laugh at that. And the old couple turns to you, Smiling. But I told him. The old man continues. That I'd found something better than all the errands in the world. And he said, Oh, And what's that? And I said. . . I found her a woman I'm going to marry. The old woman gives a short laugh. You did not say that. I did. You did not. I did? The old man insists. And he said, Well, You're a fool, But at least you're a fool with conviction. And that was that. I had no choice after that but to make good on my words. The old woman shakes her head, Though her smile lingers. A fool with conviction. That does sound about right. The old man leans forward, Resting his forearms on his knees. Looking at you now. That's the thing about love. Isn't it? When it's rice. You know. Not in your head. Not even in your heart. Put in your bones. The fire crackles. The rain whispers. I wouldn't have married anyone else. The old woman says quietly. And I wouldn't have asked anyone else. The old man replies. The words settle into the space between them. These lives. Their story. Together. Is unbreakable. Then the old woman exhales and pushes herself to her feet. Brushing her hands over her apron. Enough of that. You'll have us talking all night. And I have a loaf to put on for the morning. She moves to the hearth, Lifting the heavy kettle with practiced ease, Pouring hot water into earthenware mugs. The scent of calming chamomile tea rises into the air. Mingling with the peat smoke, The dump wool. The warmth of the fire. She hands one to you. Her fingers warm against yours. Drink, " she says gently. You'll sleep better for it. And something about the way she says it makes you believe her. You take the cup. Feeling the warmth seep through the clay, Through your skin. Into something deeper something tired in you that you hadn't even realized was there. The old man sighs. Leaning back in his chair. Watching the fire. It's a fine night for sleeping, He murmurs. And outside. It is dark. And the rain agrees. The old woman watches you for a moment as you sip your tea. Arise warm and knowing. Then she nods, As if she has made a decision. You will stay the night, She says simply. It is not a question. The old man hums in agreement. Stretching his legs towards the fire. No sense in sending you back out in that rain. You glance toward the window. The glass is misted. The dark beyond it, Heavy with falling water. There is no road to see. No end to the night. Only the steady hush of rain, The deep quiet of the land. The old woman sets her mug down and moves toward the far end of the cottage. Drawing back a curtain. Reveal a small, Low-ceilinged alcove. Its walls lined with rough-hewn wood. Its bed covered in thick wool blankets. A small window, No larger than your hand, Sits at its head. The rain tracing slow silvery lines against the glass It's warm, She says, Turning back to you. And dry. You will sleep well here. The fire crackles softly. And the scent of peat and tea fills the air. The blankets on the bed are folded neatly. Layered against the cold. Waiting for you. You rise. Feeling the weight of the evening Settle into your bones. Not a heaviness. What a burden. But something quiet. Something steady. As though you have stepped into a world. That has been waiting for you. Longer than you have known. The old man lifts the candle from the table and carries it toward the alcove. Setting it down on a small wooden stool beside the bed. Its flame flickers. And it adds a deep coziness There now, He says. Nodding in satisfaction Nothing to do now but sleep. The old woman reaches up smoothing the edge of the blanket with her hands And in the morning we'll have bread and butter and tea, And we'll see where the day takes us. She looks at you then. There is something in her gaze. Something kind. Something knowing. Something that tells you this is not just any house. Not just any night. You'll be safe here. She says softly, And you believe her. You step into the alcove. Feeling the warmth of the blanket. The scent of wool and old timber. The quiet of the night settling around you. The candle flickers once. Then stills. The old man draws the curtain partway closed. Leaving just enough space. With the glow of the fire to reach you. Sleep well, He says. Then they retreat. Their footsteps soft on the wooden floor. The fire crackles. The rain falls. You close your eyes. Sinking into the water. Into the quiet. Into the steady rhythm of this place. And before you can think. . . Before you can even try to hold on to the moment you. Sleep. Your body is softening Your mind is quieting You are exactly where you are meant to be you can let go of any thoughts that do not serve you You are wrapped in warmth. And safety. And rest. The world is taking care of itself. You can let go You are supported. Just as the earth supports you. Your breath is slow. Steady. Peaceful. Every part of you. Is unwinding into rest. You are allowed to rest. Without guilt or worry. You are floating deeper and deeper. And to sleep. You can trust that everything is unfolding as it should. You are weightless. Um. . . You can surrender to the quiet rhythm of the night Sleep is washing over you. Like a gentle tide. You are drifting. And too deep. Nourishing rest. Your thoughts are subtle. Like clouds passing by. You are welcoming sleep with open arms. You are loved. You are cared for. You are enough. Nothing is urgent. The night holds you. You can let your body sink. Into comfort and ease. Your breath is guiding you into sleep. Everything you need. Is already within you. The world is quiet. And you are part of that quiet You are arriving. Into the deepest peace. You have ever known. Sleep is a gift. And you are accepting it fully. You are safe. You are at peace. You. Are. Asleep. Your body is softening Your mind is quieting You are exactly where you are meant to be. You can let go of any thoughts that do not serve you You are wrapped in warmth. And safety. And rest. The world is taking care of itself. You can let go. You are supported. Just as the earth supports you. Your breath is slow. Daddy. Peaceful. Every part of you. Is unwinding into rest. You are allowed to rest. Without guilt or worry You are floating deeper. And deeper. And to sleep. You can trust. That everything is unfolding as it should. You are weightless Calm you can surrender to the quiet rhythm of the night Sleep is washing over you. Like a gentle tide You are drifting. Into deep sleep. Nourishing rest. Your thoughts are soft like clouds passing by You are welcoming sleep with open arms You are loved. You are cared for. You are enough. Nothing is urgent. The night holds you. You can let your body sink. Into comfort and ease. Your breath is guiding you into sleep. Everything you need. Is already within you. The world is quiet. And you are part of that quiet You are arriving. Into the deepest peace. You have ever known. Sleep is a gift. And you are accepting it fully You are safe. You are at peace. You. R. Asleep. Your body is softening. Your mind is quieting You are exactly where you are meant to be. You can let go of any thoughts that do not serve you. You are wrapped in warmth. And safety. And rest. . . The world is taking care of itself. You can let go You are supported. Just as the earth supports you. Your breath is slow. Steady. Peaceful. Every part of you. Is unwinding into rest You are allowed to rest. Without guilt or worry. You are floating Deeper. And deeper and to sleep. You can trust. That everything is unfolding as it should. You are weightless. Calm. You can surrender to the quiet rhythm of the night. Sleep is washing over you. Like a gentle tide You are drifting. Into deep. Nourishing rest. Your thoughts are soft like clouds passing by. You are welcoming sleep. With open arms. You are love. You are cared for. You are enough. Nothing is urgent. The night holds you. You can let your body sink into comfort and ease. Your breath is guiding you into sleep. Everything you need. Is already within you. The world is quiet. And you are part of that quiet. You are arriving. Into the deepest peace. You have ever known. Sleep is a gift. And you are accepting it fully You are safe You are at peace. You are asleep. Your body is softening Your mind is quieting You are exactly where you are meant to be. You can let go of any thoughts that do not serve you. You are wrapped in warmth. And safety. And rest. The world is taking care of itself. You can let go. You are supported. Just as the earth supports you. Your breath is slow. Daddy. Peaceful. Every part of you is unwinding into rest. You are allowed to rest. Without guilt or worry. You are floating. Deep breath. And deeper. And to sleep. You can trust. That everything is unfolding as it should. You are weightless calm you can surrender to the quiet rhythm of the night. Sleep is washing over you. I get gentle tides You are drifting. Into deep. Nourishing Rest. Your thoughts are soft like clouds passing by. You are welcoming sleep with open arms You are loved. You are cared for. You are enough. Nothing is urgent. The night holds you You can let your body sink. Into comfort and ease. Your breath is guiding you into sleep. Everything you need. Is already within you. The world is quiet. And you are part of that quiet You are arriving. Into the deepest peace. You have ever known. Sleep is a gift. And you are accepting it fully You are safe. You are at peace. Yeah. R. Asleep. Your body is softening. Your mind is quieting You are exactly where you are meant to be. You can let go of any thoughts that do not serve you You are wrapped in warmth. And safety. And rest. The world is taking care of itself. You can let go You are supported. Just as the earth supports you. Your breath is slow. Steady. Peaceful. Every part of you. Is unwinding into rest You are allowed to rest. Without guilt or worry. You are floating deeper. And deeper. And to sleep you can trust. That everything is unfolding as it should you are weightless calm you can surrender to the quiet rhythm of the night. Sleep is washing over you Like a gentle tide You are drifting. Into deep. Nourishing rest Your thoughts are soft like clouds passing by. You are welcoming sleep. With open arms. You are loved. You are cared for. You are enough. Nothing is urgent. The night holds you. You can let your body sink. Into comfort and ease. Your breath is guiding you into sleep. Everything you need. Is already within you. The world is quiet. And you are part of that quiet You are arriving. Into the deepest peace. You have ever known. Sleep is a gift. And you are accepting it fully You are safe. You are at peace. You. R. Asleep. Your body is softening Your mind is quieting You are exactly where you are meant to be you can let go of any thoughts that do not serve you You are wrapped in warmth. And safety. And rest. The world is taking care of itself. You can let go You are supported. Just as the earth supports you. Your breath is slow. Daddy. Be peaceful. Every part of you. Is unwinding into rest You are allowed to rest. Without guilt or worry You are floating deeper and deeper. And to sleep. You can trust that everything is unfolding as it should. You are weightless calm You can surrender to the quiet rhythm of the night. Sleep is washing over you. Like a gentle tide You are drifting. Into deep sleep. Nourishing rest. Your thoughts are soft. Like clouds passing by. You are welcoming sleep with open arms You are loved. You are cared for. You are enough Nothing is urgent. The night holds you. You can let your body sink. Into comfort and ease. Your breath is guiding you into sleep everything you need. Is already within you. The world is quiet. And you are part of that quiet You are arriving. Into the deepest peace. You have ever known. Sleep is a gift. And you are accepting it fully You are safe You are at peace. You are asleep. Your body is softening. Your mind is quieting You are exactly where you are meant to be You can let go of any thoughts that do not serve you. You are wrapped in warmth. And safety. And rest. The world is taking care of itself. You can let go You are supported. Just as the earth supports you. Your breath is slow. Steady. Peaceful. Every part of you is unwinding into rest You are allowed to rest. Without guilt or worry. You are floating deeper And deeper. And to sleep you can trust. That everything is unfolding as it should. You are weightless calm You can surrender to the quiet rhythm of the night. Sleep is washing over you. Like a gentle tide You are drifting. Into deep. Nourishing rest Your thoughts are soft like clouds passing by You are welcoming sleep with open arms You are loved. You are cared for. You are enough. Nothing is urgent. The night holds you. You can let your body sink into comfort and ease. Your breath is guiding you into sleep. Everything you need. Is already within you. The world is quiet. And you are part of that quiet You are arriving. Into the deepest peace. You have ever known. Sleep is a gift. And you are accepting it fully You are safe. You are at peace. You are asleep. Your body is softening Your mind is quieting You are exactly where you are meant to be you can let go of any thoughts that do not serve you You are wrapped in warmth. And safety. And rest. The world is taking care of itself. You can let go You are supported. Just as the earth supports you. Your breath is slow. Steady. Peaceful. Every part of you is unwinding into rest. You are allowed to rest. Without guilt or worry You are floating Deeper. And deeper and to sleep you can trust. That everything is unfolding as it should You are weightless. Um. . . You can surrender to the quiet rhythm of the night. Sleep is washing over you. Like a gentle tide You are drifting into deep sleep. Nourishing Rest. Your thoughts are soft like clouds passing by You are welcoming sleep. With open arms. You are loved. You are cared for. You are enough. Nothing is urgent. The night holds you. You can let your body sink. Into comfort and ease. Your breath is guiding you into sleep. Everything you need. Is already within you. The world is quiet. And you are part of that quiet You are arriving. Into the deepest peace. You have ever known. Sleep is a gift. And you are accepting it fully You are safe You are at peace. You are asleep. Your body is softening Your mind is quieting. You are exactly where you are meant to be You can let go of any thoughts that do not serve you. You are wrapped in warmth. And safety. And rest. The world is taking care of itself. You can let You are supported. Just as the earth supports you. Your breath is slow. Steady. Peaceful. Every part of you is unwinding into rest You are allowed to rest. Without guilt or worry. You are floating deeper. And deeper. And to sleep you can trust. That everything is unfolding as it should. You are weightless Calm down You can surrender to the quiet rhythm of the night. Sleep is washing over you. Like a gentle tide You are drifting. And too deep. Nourishing rest. Your thoughts are soft like clouds passing by You are welcoming sleep. With open arms. You are loved. You are cared for. You are enough. Nothing is urgent. The night holds you. You can let your body sink. Into comfort and ease. Your breath is guiding you into sleep. Everything you need. Is already within you. The world is quiet. And you are part of that quiet You are arriving. Into the deepest peace. You have ever known. Sleep is a gift. And you are accepting it fully You are safe. You are at peace. You are. Asleep. Your body is softening. Your mind is quieting You are exactly where you are meant to be You can let go of any thoughts that do not serve you. You are wrapped in warmth. And safety. And rest. The world is taking care of itself. You can let go. You are supported. Just as the earth supports you. Your breath is slow. Steady. Peaceful. Every part of you is unwinding into rest You are allowed to rest. Without guilt or worry. You are floating. Deeper. And deeper. And to sleep you can trust. That everything is unfolding as it should You are weightless Calm You can surrender to the quiet rhythm of the night Sleep is washing over you. Like a gentle tide You are drifting. Into deep. Nourishing rest Your thoughts are soft like clouds passing by. You are welcoming sleep with open arms You are love. You are cared for. You are enough. Nothing is urgent. The night holds you. You can let your body sink. Into comfort and ease. Your breath is guiding you into sleep. Everything you need. Is already within you The world is quiet. And you are part of that quiet. You are arriving. Into the deepest peace. You have ever known. Sleep is a gift. And you are accepting it fully You are safe You are at peace. You. Are. Asleep. Your body is softening Your mind is quieting You are exactly where you are meant to be You can let go of any thoughts that do not serve you. You are wrapped in warmth. And safety. And rest. The world is taking care of itself. You can let You are supported. Just as the Earth supports you. Your breath is slow. Steady. Peaceful. Every part of you. Is unwinding into rest You are allowed to rest. Without guilt or worry. You are floating deeper. And deeper. And to sleep you can trust. That everything is unfolding as it should. You are weightless Calm You can surrender. To the quiet rhythm of the night. Sleep is washing over you. Like a gentle tide You are drifting. Into deep. Nourishing rest Your thoughts are soft. Like clouds passing by. You are welcoming sleep. With open arms. You are loved. You are cared for. You are enough. Nothing is urgent. The night holds you. You can let your body sink into comfort and ease Your breath is guiding you into sleep. Everything you need. Is already within you. The world is quiet. And you are part of that quiet You are arriving. Into the deepest peace. You have ever known. Sleep is a gift. And you are accepting it fully You are safe. You are at peace. You are asleep. Your body is softening. Your mind is quiet again. You are exactly where you are meant to be. You can let go of any thoughts that do not serve you. You are wrapped in warmth. And safety. And rest. The world is taking care of itself. You can let go You are supported. Just as the earth supports you. Your breath is slow. Steady. Peaceful. Every part of you. Is unwinding into rest You are allowed to rest. Without guilt or worry You are floating deeper And deeper. And to sleep you can trust. That everything is unfolding as it should. You are weightless calm you can surrender to the quiet rhythm of the night. Sleep is washing over you. Like a gentle tide You are drifting. Into deep. Nourishing rest Your thoughts are soft like clouds passing by. You are welcoming sleep. With open arms. You are love. You are cared for. You are enough. Nothing is urgent. The night holds you You can let your body sink. Into comfort and ease. Your breath is guiding you into sleep everything you need. Is already within you. The world is quiet. And you are part of that quiet You are arriving. Into the deepest peace. You have ever known. Sleep is a gift. And you are accepting it fully you are safe You are at peace. You are asleep.