the misty mountains moor

Today I traveled to Downpatrick Head in county Mayo. I've never been out this way, and it is indeed incredible like the rest of Ireland. It was the kind of drive, the scenery, that inspires art - whether it be writing, painting or poetry. It had the familiarity of art you'd find on an old puzzle: the clouds were a heavy grey that only makes you think of a slow, long-burning fire with a rug on the floor and quilts draped over the chairs. A small nook of a room being kept warm by the hearth. The muted shades, yet vibrant colors of orange,  yellow and red trees contrasting with the dark green hills with the dark grey clouds, makes you think of apples and hay bales and last-minute outdoor activities before the early dark nights of winter.

When the sun behind the blanket of clouds sunk further into the grey sea, we climbed Downpatrick Head in a heavy grey mist with gusts of bitter wind that howled across the grass. My hair whipped in my face as I stood at the top of the cliff, and I could start to see lights from houses nestled into the hills flicker on like the first stars of the evening. The waves were crashing below - the loud foomph as the white cap hit the face of the cliff. I watched the silhouettes of two fisherman below, bending into the wind as they walked across the fields to take home the day's catch.

Even now as I write, I can hear the wind howling across the land outside my window.