There's nothing like the air on your face to lift the cobwebs. Notebook in hand, actually pocket, I took to the boreens. They never let me down. There along ankle length grass, wild blackberry brier and rusted fern the scribbling came fast and furious. There's a lot going on in Connemara that you'd never know, passing through or along the coast road. Seems quiet. Laid back. Odd bit of traffic. And up until last month the dusk time hauling of turf. Clunks on the roadside the only evidence next day. There's always fodder for a murder plot or two. Maybe even an awakening deep within. It's My Time. And staring across at Aran or Burren I am in my writing zone. The grass whispers here, and tree branches rattle. Even the wind through the stone walls has something to say. Today's story took root by a field. A man and his dog. Contented pair. Him digging spuds from his plot of land. His dog lying in the grass, watching, by his side as the spade turned the earth over and over. There in the clay this season's potatoes, just in time for tea and my wee notebook. Stories, they sprout everywhere and anywhere.
