false 6439202 1 1 http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/6439202-privacy 2799552 Molly Young 5 3 2 1 false Sat May 02 03:40:18 -0700 2009 Sun May 03 16:30:52 -0700 2009

I cycled out to Howth which is not a daunting prospect in itself, but I barely know the roads and accidentally tackled Howth Hill. I have no gears, you see, or at least cannot fix them, and the bike weighs more than its fair share.

Somewhere half-way up I was weak and wheezing and there was a gap in the wall and a trail leading down through the gorse. I strapped my steed to a well-nettled lamppost and set off down what I thought was the cliff walk, but I was sure of nothing. The day was warm sunshine with a chill gale. Fleeting greyness rather than fleeting sunshine.

I walked for some half a mile along a mud path at the edge of the cliffs. It was a tiny, less-used thing, small latch-gates dotted ever fifty yards. Most led into ill-kept gardens or the woods at the back of houses. Old cliff-side homes that seemed remote through the trees. A short-lived fence appeared between myself and the sea and then a hole appeared in that sudden fence. I climbed out and wrapped my hand through a blue rope tied to the concrete fencepost. It was four feet almost vertical drop and then a short walk sideways allowed me to sit out on an earthen throne, from where I could see Howth lighthouse away to my left, the north, and the cursive cliffline looping away to my right. A half-formed pier was forty feet below, and the blue rope extended down for my benefit, but I was alone and it seemed unwise. And I would have sacrificed my view.

Ham sandwiches were lunch, with lots of lettuce. I read Ms. Young's book sitting in an increasingly cool breeze from the south. It almost got away from me, once or twice, taken by gusts, and I almost let it, taken by the idea of the review it would leave me writing.

A man climbed down past me after I'd finished eating. We said hello but that's all he wanted. He continued down leaning heavily on the rope, and I watched him. Feeling responsible. I watched him even after he was down and taking photographs from the headland. I watched him climb up too, not even pretending to read.

Few books can be read in the space of a sitting. It ties them to a time and place. They become part of a wider experience and not an independent signal. This book was lucky then, I suppose, in this regard. I bit into my apple as I rose to leave, having to hold it in my teeth for the vertical portion. It tasted like ham sandwiches.]]>