my friend picks us up from the airport and drives us to her house among the lofty hills, flying along the narrow snakelike roads like a teenage boy on speed while rolling a cigarette. she dwells with a couple of drummer-hippies high on weed or perhaps mountain air which they plan to sell to American tourists for a fiver per inhale.
we meet a reluctant farmer, hungover and on the lookout for someone to produce a couple of heirs with. sheep have no souls, he tells us, but cows are ok. he owns a large stretch of land, a kingdom of perfection.
kerry is raw beauty, a suitable escape from general post-modern confusion. the kind of place I mention to a London-bound Irishman around 3 AM at a house party expecting to hear ancient tales of banshee sightings and subsequent deaths.
and so I keep returning to the open fields of emerald green that fall cut throat into an endless stretch of turquoise seascape, soft and hazy mountains in the distance, some misty-gone.
fuck the city, I think to myself, the farmer boys are looking for wives.