Ireland is a a seductress. She is charming and clever, rambling streets with hidden delights, songs of solace and solas, of wit and delicate manners, and a pleasing kindness woven of lambswool and an undying hearth.
Babbling brooks and lush green countryside, slippery bog bluffs that toss you thither and lift you up with bracing, unrelenting winds. Hardy cliffs and rocky shores; silky heather and cheeky blush roses.
I won’t get over her, not ever. I’ll dream of Éire all the remainder of my days until the next life where in Wicklow I’ll rest my bones, and in Kerry give way to a sleep eternal.