|Briney Pickled Ancient Wood|
|trip down memory river|
Myself and brothers or sisters would disappear through the wood, under the barbed wire , through Kelly's meadow and climb down the cliff to the Diving Rock and time would become meaningless as we were absorbed in swimming, fishing, and finding all sorts of treasure in the mud..and we were always caked in it.
We knew the time of the full and low tide as it ruled the day...in the summer hols we knew the time by the length of the shadow and the height of the sun over Cnoc na Dtobar Mountain. The call of the Curlews is a call that comes to mind when I think of that place where the membrane between sea and land, real and dream, past and present is little more than a whisper.