we drove home today through a thick, damp gauzy fog that was wrapped around the hills and through the branches of the trees. the sunday streets were sleepy and slow, only a lonely little old lady with a scarf wrapped around her hair at the side of the road every now and then. the cat and the child were asleep on the back seat as we floated along through the clouds.

i’ve been remembering singluar images from my dreams recently. the storylines are fragmented and blow away in the wind, but certain images have more weight. like the man’s hand, reaching across my field of vision. holding something in place. his hand was strong, suntanned. and covered in silver sparkles. like he was wearing a very finely made moisturiser with shimmer in it.

earlier this afternoon we went spelunking, wearing wellie boots and carrying a hefty torch, in the caves down at the mouth of the roaringwater river. in single file all five of us crouched down and made our way carefully through the ragged, dripping rock. emma pointed the torch at the walls and copper deposits left behind by the miners gleamed like emeralds. afterwards we walked back up through the forest, following the old stone wall. the rain poured through the trees and dripped off my nose. there were little white flowers, shaped like tiny fluted trumpets, growing in the dead leaves.

when i am out in west cork i feel like i don’t recognise that girl who dresses up in cardigans and goes to work, riding my bike in the morning through narrow streets and up hills. i’ve never been that girl sleeping on the train, 7:48am monday morning. i find myself digging in the earth with a pitchfork. and i like it.

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