Sanity lies in Killala Bay!

Thanks as always to Allan Cavanagh of caricatures-ireland.com

Fleeing the madness that has been Galway City for the past few weeks, I head for north Mayo, where I lived for three happy years.

My god, it's empty.

The road from Crossmolina to Killala takes in sweeping Big Sky vistas, and I feel more relaxed with every empty-road mile that goes by.

Stopping at the lisheen to visit a much-missed friend, I see another car drive up.

A stranger? Somebody to invade my new-found space? No, lovely, it's a close friend.

We hug, part, and I am alone again.

Even though I lived within it, I have forgotten the power of this silence.

There is no noise, save for the wind, the rain, the crows in the trees.

If it's not too Irish a suggestion from an Englishman, compared to the melée of Quay Street or the chaos of the Headford Road roundabout, these noises offer a heavenly silence.

North Mayo is Ireland's, and very possibly Europe's best kept secret, and I want it left that way.

So hear me now. Upon finishing this colyoom, you will forget you ever read about it.

Driving straight through the village and on, out westwards, I pass the houses of all the people I want to visit later, and head straight for the nearest beach.

Pulling into the car park, I notice straight away that this beach has changed once again. The long stretch of sand to my left has gone, doubtless washed away in a brutal summer storm.

Where footprints sat glowing there now lie bruising boulders, bladder and wrack, dead jellyfish and molluscs a-million.

Looking far across the bay, I can see the sand that was once here now lines an extended shore of Bartragh island.

Some day the beach will return.

Right now all I want to do is get out of the car and cavort, waddle and stumble in ecstasy at my return.

Out of sight of everyone, I head off to the wormcast meadows of soaking sand stretching out to the lowest of tide lines.

Suddenly overloaded with memories of many afternoons and many walks, just here, just me alone with my thoughts and North Mayo's Forty Shades of Grey, my heart fails to cope, and yikes, I'm leaking from the eyes.

As if to harden myself, I turn around so that I'm facing the westerly wind, which whips my face with wet lashes.

Up above on the clifftop is the long thin house, where windows are open... and yes, an alarm is ringing.

Ringing ringing; the pointless ringing of a burglar alarm, where no burglar has ever trod, taking over all I can hear, mocking our species.

Is that the best we can do?

Does that boring ugly noise represent the sum total of our contribution to this wondrous universe?

All around me nature is gently permanently splendidly doing its thing. Out there in the grey blue green waters of the bay, I have seen dolphins leaping, Brent geese resting and seals lazing, yet what do we have to offer the scene?

A noise that serves no purpose.

50 yards further on, and the noise has gone. The wind picks up, and I hide under my jacket's hood. 

Waves build and crash in the distance.

Gulls screech and dive, plummeting into the ocean to spear their dinner.

Inside my hood I hear the rain on the outside; my heart pumping after my rock-hopping exertions; my raspy breathing.

I can hear my breathing.

Smiling smugly, I feel so happy I could weep again - but I don't.

No need.

I have arrived at my place.

For a second, I think of the crowds back home. Right at this moment, there's many-a punter and a shed load of workers who'd give a limb to be here, listening to the sound of their own breath.

Hallelujah.


©Charlie Adley
19.07.07.