photo: Indian summer wind

Went wandering in the hills again, this is becoming a habit, but it was such a beautiful afternoon I just felt I had no choice. My work was done, the meal prepared, the kids accounted for and the dog at my heel in a manner of speaking. It has been one of those beautiful, end of summer days, warm, susurrus wind, moving the grasses in the high bog, waving to the vagaries of the breeze. I am completely alone up here apart from the dog. But he is tooling around, chasing scents real or imaginary, who knows what goes on in that young head. It’s as though we’re having a parallel wander, aware but independent of each other. I get a feeling I’ve had before, maybe twenty five years ago when I wandered up from Glenmacnass, to find the unknown and unseen Ouler, bog cotton swaying, bending. I am immersed in the warm wind, transported to other times. I think it’s the noise of the breeze in the grasses, that peculiar brown noise which sends me off into a world of my invention, shivers down my spine not fear, not cold, not spooky. It’s something I search out a lot, escapist.