It was a Sunday afternoon in Killarney, and I was alone with no time pressure. In a situation like that, there’s no difficulty in knowing where to go—it has to be Killarney National Park. The paths are basically endless there, winding as they do through the mature forests that grow along the lakeshore and up into the mountains. The fields, the ruins, and the trees all have long histories, histories that bleed their weight and significance into the air and make quick steps—like mine—ring with impertinence.
My manners were mended when I was forced to step aside from the main path in deference for a horse that was pulling a jaunting car. As I waited, I noticed a narrow track worn into the ground at the very edge of the lake. This new way called to me with the eternal appeal of the road less travelled, and I was not disobedient. There were no horses on that tiny trail, and no other people, either. The sound of my own heavy feet on the ground was all I heard, accompanied by the occasional rustle of the leaves above me and the endless quiet splashing of rippled water against ragged outcroppings of rocks and roots beside me. When I stopped my noisy shoes on a protruding boulder, the stillness immediately enveloped me.
Continue reading Steeple Mountains
sethlewis.ie 