Open heart, cold sea : 15.8.15

I checked the sea temperature today. Not much more than 13/14 degrees centigrade anywhere in Ireland. This year the cold sea water was harder to bear. 

By the time we arrive in Kerry our friends are already a couple of weeks into the rhythm of twice daily swims. They glow from endorphins, icy water and warm wine. Dingle is their annual pilgrimage, and a sanctuary away from everything. 

As a brief respite from the awful summer, the sun appears. It calms the icy water and the waves in Coumenoule are a bit less terrifying. I tingle all over from a fair few dunkings and summer holiday happiness. 

On the way back I listen to John O'Donohue talking to Krista Tippett in a re-released interview from 2007. While I always found John hard to read, his lilting voice confirms so much tonight......

"Well, I think it makes a huge difference when you wake in the morning and come out of your house. Whether you believe you are walking into dead geographical location, which is used to get to a destination, or whether you are emerging out into a landscape that is just as much, if not more, alive as you but in a totally different form. And if you go towards it with an open heart and a real watchful reverence, that you will be absolutely amazed at what it will reveal to you. And I think that that was one of the recognitions of the Celtic imagination: that landscape wasn't just matter, but that it was actually alive. What amazes me about landscape, landscape recalls you into a mindful mode of stillness, solitude, and silence where you can truly receive time."

It's called friendship #Pilgrimage August

Out west the beauty of the landscape would make you weep, but it's the people and the chat that would warm your heart. It's summer in Kerry and there is no shortage of talk. From morning until night we are discussing the situation in Gaza, the decline of the Labour party and the travails of Johnser. 

Somewhere in Dingle, girls are eating three flavours of ice cream and coffee is being brewed "at exactly the correct temperature". A farmer fixes his gutters and three men are standing at the edge of the turquoise Atlantic wondering about the state of the world. Maybe Putin will blockade the Kerrygold butter next? They won't touch the baby formula though, one re-assures the other. On a tartan rug they rail against the travesty that is Garth Brooks and whether or not the GAA has lost the run of itself entirely.

The hot tea served from a flask on these beaches is of a very high quality, we Irish like our tea bursting with flavour. Later when we gobble our Kerry lamb or monkfish on a risotto of roasted tomatoes, we will still be sharing stories about family, the economy, or how we love those Scandanavian dramas on Netflix.

Along the coast, christened recently the Wild Atlantic Way, the sun is setting and the swimming rituals continue. There is a buzz of conversation from assorted picnics and shadowy squeals of joy coming from the shoreline. The elders have comfortable chairs. The younger generations wear wet-suits so they can stay immersed in the waves for longer. 

It's getting late and still we are talking away for Ireland. It's what we do around a fire on a winter's evening but tonight we are under the stars, barely believing the "real summer" that we are having this year, honing a true art form; it's called friendship. 



Browse more photos from my home in Ireland here

Raindrops

When the rain rolls in from the western Atlantic we can be enveloped for days. The greyness hangs over the whole island like a wet blanket. We struggle to communicate about anything but the weather.
Showers gather, deluges threaten, scattered downpours are aggravated by strong winds.

We laugh about towing the whole country a few degrees southward. We have the temperament of the Mediterranean countries but the weather of the Vikings. We like to think we are Cuba without the sun.

I try to remember the positives, the green it brings, the trees who thrive on it, the cosy pitter patter on the roof at night. But the worst effect has to be the absence of light. It can be scarce enough at the best of times but on these days I pine for it, scouring the sky for breaks of blue.

During a gap I head out for a short ramble. Everything is weighed down with watery raindrops. Full fat globules of liquid silver. One of the most precious commodities in the world. One of the scarcest human necessities in plentiful supply here, sparkling like garlands of jewels.

And I notice the smell of the land......soft, sweet and damp.

......and just at that moment......

Special times come and go so fast. The one beautiful evening this summer. That last photo opportunity of the day. The final moments of the slithering sinking sun.

After a pet day on Rossbeigh Strand, that elusive sun is tracked until it's very last golden seconds of light. Lads stop playing football on the sand and have a few beers. A woman lingers at the water's edge of her evening swim, absorbed. Now the cameras of all shapes and sizes are lined up and at the ready.

It seems as if we all pause.....and just at that moment, there is so much love and gratitude for all of this, so much, I think I can feel it in the air..........

The sea o the sea.......

Sunny Sunday drive. Around the winding coastal tracks checking out each of the beaches along the route. Garrarus, Kilfarrasey, Annestown, Benvoy, Boatstrand, Kilmurrin Cove........

Swims had here earlier in the year are discussed. Cliff erosion is inspected. Winter storm damage assessed.

Some slight afternoon sunshine warms the rocks. The Atlantic, full of energy and diamond lights, is a dazzling presence. We sit in silence soaking in the salty air. We are giving the old brain cells a strong dose of ozone and crashing waves. Cobwebs are instantly cleared from the brain.

A wet dog, head cocked to one side, stares at a black stone, and whines at his owners, but today this performance all goes unnoticed.