Little Resurrections
Inis Oirr, (Part Three)
Morning friends, as you read this I will be likely driving the dusty hire car down from Liverpool to Devon at the end of the tour with my pal Glen. Everything gets a little ragged in the final week of a tour, the ziz-zag miles across country pile up. And yet there was a lot of joy in it. In Brighton I saw Tommy Tiernan deliver the greatest set of story-comedy I’ve ever seen, and I rediscovered the redemptive power of the late night kebab. I’m not doing much leaving of Devon for the next six months now, and will be diving even deeper into the mysteries we’re exploring here at Beast & Vines. I’m very grateful for our fellowship. It refreshes. Good cheer warmly to all. On my return I’m going to cook my own food, light the fire, feed the cats, uncork a bottle, fire up the sauna. Just. A few. More. Miles.
Ok, back to the Island.
Carry the thing that is too heavy. Take the weight somewhere it’s never been. Get used to it.
I’m thinking about Micheál, and his dog. Micheál, from the plane ride over. Every night I’m carrying that feckin’ boulder, round and round. There’s a few days just like that. But now it’s day six. No wind. Blue sky. Even kids’ voices outside the window. Kids just looning about. Glorious little nutters. There’s a hound barking. It’s a different island out there. There’s been a definite shift. I slide into my Levi’s, boots and tweed and am out the door, not even stopping for a bite. I strike left on a boreen I’ve not taken before. I’m just yomping without a plan, just following my hound nose.
And then this happens.