My upcoming trip

When I made this blog, I thought I would have more time to post. Unfortunately, my upcoming trip to Ireland has made this a bit difficult. I was fourtunate enough to qualify in the Fleadh Cheoil in four categories, so I'll be off in August! Lots of fundraising and other work to do before I go.

My last trip was certainly an experience... there really is no way to describe how amazing it was. For instance, hiking in Donegal. My dad and I hiked the cliffs of Slieve League. The roads on the way up are narrow and bumpy, but it is worth it. When you reach the cliffs, great stone steps, worn from time and weather, pave a way up from the low road. Broken fragments of limestone are abundant, and closer observation will reveal that they are veined with shining metals, glistening like gold and silver. Scruffy heather lines all the pathways, ant its sweet, piney scents will beguile the olfactory at the slightest provocation. Wherever there is no heather, grass grows soft and green, for it has been tended by goats who both mow and fertilize. Buttercups and wild daisies blend yellows and whites into the verdant turf and purple heather

The path grows less steep as one approaches the precipice, but gaping holes lie hidden in the foliage, anticipating unsuspecting hikers. The stiff sea breeze tangles the hair and creeps its cold fingers through one’s shirt. The brave may venture near the edge of the cliff and see the pounding surf below as it attempts to scale the impenetrable walls. The less courageous will not be disappointed, for even a view away from the brink will reveal the island of Inishmurray, shrouded in mist. On a clear day, one can see all the way across Donegal Bay. The sun in those parts is full of sport, and will play across the bay like the most impish child. It will peep through the clouds, and send beams of light to glare on the undulating waters, only relenting when the waves are crashed into rocks. Looking away from the sea, the little town of Teelin lies nestled between the mountains, dappling the valley with white.

There is no path down, so the weary hiker must cut through the fields to reach the town. Exercise and fresh air make for a good appetite, and nothing satisfies hunger like deep bowls of seafood chowder, complemented by thick slices of brown bread smothered in butter. At night, lying in bed, with the salty air still blowing the scent of flowers into the room, one will be left in utter contentment, except for that small longing to do it all again.

The best part of a trip is reliving it once you arrive home.

New Life (a poem for spring)

When subtle breeze has swept all bitter cover
From rot and growth, the gay and creeper,
Then does the watcher under azure hover
Have chance to view the ponderous sleeper
Wake her gentle children to the joy of Spring.
Here the queer and twisted growth of newborn life
Does often prove to be a reckless blot
Next to her sister, sweet, green, and blithe.
Whether from some rain or growth's chosen spot,
Poor watcher can only surmise, that place was born
Malicious in such purity, exaggerated in comparison
Earth's soils welcome new harmonies from beds warm
And discord swells a loathsome note to join the perfect song.

First blog

For those armchair philosophers, a kindred spirit is posting those insights made without the interference of the world. Music, literature, mathematics and spirituality, though diverse, all are links of that great chain... and I partake in the constant endeavor to forge them together.

I welcome your input on my many musings.