Another walk

A walk around Ballyvaughan via The Wood loop on day 2. The wood in question was a moss and ivy covered trail through hazel groves.
Deep in the wood we passed by a deserted cottage and took a look inside.

It was rather poignant to see the trappings of someones life abandoned and overgrown.


There were letters there from 1985 .

The address on the envelopes was 'The Wood'
Further on we met another sad sight.
I have not seen a badger at such close quarters before dead or alive so forgive me for the photographs.


In a place like this I understand why the myth and literature of Ireland is so rich.

Its the silence that makes it so special and other worldly.
The Burren is a mysterious and magical place,


the hazel woods were vibrant with catkins and the roads were long and almost deserted,

as were the beaches.

When I was a child I read all the books by Patricia Lynch without really knowing anything about her.
Many of them were full of characters and beings from Irish Mythology.
What does it tell you about me that I cycled a mile each way to the library and came home with two books..always one of them a Patricia Lynch and usually a CS Lewis?
Later my Irish Literature was supplied by WB Yeats. I learnt the whole of 'The Death of Cuchulain' for my English O level.
Poem ahead...(indulge me)...I liked this by Yeats years ago when I was young but I realise now how sad it is. The woods made me think about the 'faeries', not cutesy little winged creatures but beings living secret and sometimes malevolent lives alongside the farmers and country people.

WHERE dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water rats;
There we've hid our faery vats,
Full of berrys
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim gray sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Away with us he's going,
The solemn-eyed:
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal chest.
For he comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than he can understand.

The Stolen Child.