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Nowhere on earth could possibly live up to those halcyon days. But that’s nostalgia for you, the tyranny of those memories of childhood that feel so golden, so perfect.
A cormorant on a steeple: that’s an ill omen. The devil’s bird, they call it in these parts. The cailleach dhubh, the black hag, the bringer of death.
Hares are shape-shifters in Gaelic folklore; sometimes when I see them here I think of all of Inis an Amplóra’s departed souls, materializing once more to run amidst the heather.
