The Writer's Life: Film & Book Reviews, Observations, and Stories
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Tomorrow Gordon is taking us on a nine-mile hike across the local mountain, called Cappanawalla, along the route I tried to find last week. It is supposed to be a sunny day of 50 degrees, so I’m looking forward to it.

Drew, one of the students here who is working with a local farmer, said that the tails of the sheep are tied so they wither and fall off, and when they do, the foxes come to eat them from the ground, running among the herd as if they’re old friends. sheep.jpgThe sea gulls also have a strange relationship with the sheep. At times, they’ll swoop down en masse and walk among them eating something from the shorn ground. Maybe it’s coincidence. I don’t know. The farmer’s son where I live, who is perhaps all of ten years old, wears wellies and strides through the fields with a stick exactly like his father, counting the sheep each day. When he passes by the house, I flash him the peace sign, which he ignores. Sometimes a football will fly over the stone fence and land in the field, and one of the players from the local team will hop through the gap and retrieve it.

In County Clare, it is so insanely green it makes you want to scream.

February 21, 2008   1 Comment