Save Log in , register or subscribe to save articles for later. Save articles for later Add articles to your saved list and come back to them any time. Got it Normal text size Larger text size Very large text size This story is part of the June 8 edition of Good Weekend.
See all 20 stories . I am standing in an emerald valley with trails leading this way and that. There’s a ringfort in the distance, blanketed in mist, and a ruined abbey up on a hill.
Word has it, there’s also a farm nearby where the hens have been taught to pray – The Lord’s Prayer, no less – and an ancient well said to cure diabetes. “True?” you ask. Well, it all depends on how you look at things.
Certainly, it doesn’t make much sense but, then again, neither does the answer to the persistent Irish question: “How do I get there?” “Well, jaysus,” the old farmer is prone to telling you, grinning down his sleeve. “I wouldn’t be starting from here.” And, of course, that gets you thinking you shouldn’t be going to wherever you thought you were going, not from here anyway, and that you might as well accept you’re very lost.
Either that, or there’s somewhere much better to go that you haven’t thought of yet. Oh dear, how to get there? One thing’s for sure, it’s not by using the logic of a rational mind, certainly not on the west coast of Ireland. Over here, voices come out of the sweet waters and ancient limestone hills, and they tell tales barely believable, certainly ra.