We were hidden away in a tiny wooden hut at the brink of a bog and I spent most of my days reading, writing or walking in the woods or climbing mountains, sometimes doing both at the same time.
These blueberry mountains reminded my strongly of one of my favourite Yeats’ poems:
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand
For the world’s more full of weeping than he can understand
There’s something mysterious about this kind of country, especially when your path is half-hidden by mists and raindrops cling like tiny pearly to the leaves and grass around you.