ago, in the trip, two different fascinations: the movement and purpose. Long ago I know that movement, however small, is indispensable to me. Something in my brain has been programmed to organize fraying along a shifting landscape. I sometimes even in everyday life, to prefer the longer trip, simply because I do not know and thought that my trip better, clinging to the discoveries of tiny rotating images too well known.
Here, I roll with the deliberate effort to reach me lose. He who knows the Irish roads will forgive me my carbon footprint. Within hours, I does not use more fuel in your hour of daily traffic. I drive slowly, glad to have time to find that really, by the gorse did not smell like home, I had not exaggerated their absolute sweetness that goes ice fishing the woman in love.
I am, this time, equipped with gloves and a knife to renew the strands, each day in my car.
And then there is the goal, which is always an arrival of borrowing, more or less happy, more or less available. I am currently in Portmagee, one of the places that you had no reason to hear and that is exactly where I wanted to come. there is a tumble of houses to the sea that sinks so far into the earth it appears there is a lake. There across the island which takes so much shades of purple and gray backgrounds.
There are two or three fishing boats that make the fried sole of copious Bridge Bar marvel.
ago this extraordinary silence of the night because it is on tens of kilometers that sheep are more likely than men and that lous night, they sleep.
there too, but that's another story, the Irish are back before the big monumental slap that they were flanked by the financial crisis. Of the three young men who populate me with the impeccable Portmagee Youth Hostel, one hopes Australia, Germany and other third came back from New Zealand to try to leave again.
They think the goal and I, moving ...
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