it’s Spring now, you’d know it in the sky. You wouldn’t in the trees. It feels like we spend longer with no leaves and flowers than we do with their company. My watch tells me it’s nearly six o’clock… and still light. A soft light this evening, and a grand stretch in it too. The sun is starting to leave us a little later each evening, as though it’s enjoying its time here so much it wants to stay a little more each day.
I’d like to go in to Kilronan tonight and feel the hard ground beneath me, as far away as I might be. There’s a bench on the old pier where I can exhale all my tensions; so with a clear head, set eyes on the green and stony hills of Kilronan, Killeany and Inis Meáin. It would be pleasing to see the boats in the bay bobbing about in whatever the temper of the sea allows at that particular time. It would most likely be quiet around at this time of year, but in a peaceful sort of way. The way if, someone was to come along the same stone flanked path you could both share the serenity, but if they didn’t that would be fine too.
There’s colours to be found there when the sun is disappearing. Shades and shouts of summers lost to the memory bank. I think I’ll learn to paint again and I’ll draw the cliffs of Aran strong and tall. As well as that there’s the people. Those who are from here and those that have come to visit tattooing their names in my mind wherever I wander.
I might swing my feet off the pier and walk a while in the village while the sun is still floating. Then, at nightfall take shelter in one of the houses where memories are created filling the air with laughter and music. The houses populated at this time of year by only a few people, a hundred stories and a thousand ghosts. Every person who passes through this place leaves a footprint and their story remains long after they leave. From countries and lands far away, people come. Some come for refuge, for entertainment, curiosity and adventure. Those of us who stay a while longer will leave a key under the stone for them should they ever take a decision to return.
Tonight though, I’d like to go to Kilronan to sit, if only for a while. I’ll watch the water dance in and out of the shore so as to laugh a while, as I think for a moment of all that’s gone before. All is right in the world when one sets foot on Kilronan pier. Stories of nights, stories of days, I’ll dip in to each of them one at a time. Who the people were, how the stories unfolded. Where are they all now? do they remember? do they care?
Tales pass through the lips of many but the visions I see when I think of Kilronan can never be copied by pen or by paint only Kilronan can tell it for me.