cats. rainbows. sweet home alabama.
here are a few words about our trip (we just returned an hour ago):
Atticus is about to jump out the window, I think. And Harley is in the garden, chasing a bird. She is a black and white, smallish mop of a cat, flat now as she stealthily moves across the brick walk. Unfortunately, the bird is a tease and has flown away, peeping. So, Harley has abandoned her predator pose. She scratches her ear. Meanwhile, Atticus is still contemplating the window jump. He's sitting on the dining room table, looking out on Harley's adventures. Today, he is the most mindful of cats. Tiger-striped and tall, he boldly wears a white patch on his chest. He has been my table partner all morning, sitting on the chair next to me, gazing. There has been no begging, no demand for attention. He has simply sat, breathing evenly, with green slits for eyes and a smile. For an hour.
And why not. We've got a rainbow right now. Nicole has got to see this! I call her down: come here! And Nicole is suddenly taking pictures of me and the cat and the rainbow.
She is gone now, off to blowdry her hair.
The rainbow is nearly gone as well; a phantom appearing and disappearing between eyeblinks.
So this is Sunday morning at the Downhill Hostel. Nicole and I are travelling girls now, finding our way around the winding country and coastal routes of Ireland.
I understand Atticus' desire to jump out the window. We have, right in front of us, a mercurial ocean with phantom rainbows right overhead, keeping watch. And we have the green and shadows of Donegal. We've got train tracks and tunnels bored through cliffs. (Here comes the train now, through one cliff and now another.) Right in front of us, we have creation bearing witness. And Atticus is a smart man.
Later that night.
Such a day of familiar hiking up to the Downhill House and Mussenden Temple. Across to Castle Rock. To my favorite cliff. I saved the life of a white faced yellow lab this afternoon and we saw countless rainbows.
And then we drove. We were supposed to get to somewhere near Galway tonight, but I didn't even look at the map until we left. So, exhausted, we arrived in Strandhill, near Sligo tonight, hoping for a room at the hostel, which we found by divine happenstance. All night, we've sat at the bar across the street, playing cards. We were supposed to hear traditional music; what we got was four men and guitars, playing covers of everything from David Gray to Lynyrd Skynyrd. However, guitar man number four also doubled as Sligo's own John Mellencamp, in his tight jeans and yellow t-shirt. He traded guitar for celtic drum early into the gig, and played it with eyes closed, carefully avoiding the tear in the skin, all the way through to "Sweet Home Alabama".
The locals will love you because you're American, Trevor told us the other night. And he was right. From bartenders to the guitar guys in the corner, we were the Strand Bar princesses tonight. We even got a free lighter.
pee ess: please read (if you're so inclined, which i hope you are...) my review of
rosie thomas' when we were small cd for
relevant magazine HERE.
