SALTHILL PROM AND MY MIND MIX A MIGHTY COCKTAIL!

... a line of gold lit up along the length of the cloud, a shimmering rim of brilliance running across the entire opening of Galway Bay.

 

I had a bit of a moment the other day. With an hour to kill before a meeting in town I drove to Salthill, walked across the car park to the Prom and stood on a rock on the sea wall.

The early evening air was cool and clear. There was not a breath of wind. Under the fading light of a clear blue sky the water in the bay lay perfectly still, a silvery sheen pockmarked by bobbing bunches of seaweed.

Climbing down the rocks I walked along the beach, until I was beyond Palmer’s Rock. The sun was sinking behind a massive wall of dark cloud, towering high into the west, rising from the horizon until it occupied a third of the sky.

As the sun disappeared behind this vast grey barrier, a line of gold lit up along the cloud’s upper edge, a shimmering rim of brilliance running across the entire opening of Galway Bay.

In contrast to this dazzling line of light, the wall of cloud below turned black. Had you just arrived as a stranger in the place I stood, you might well believe that this water vapour was in fact stone; that Galway Bay was a lake, edged by mountains high and mighty, from Black Head to Bearna.

Even though I know a cloud when I see one, something primal deep inside me double checked to make sure that this black monolith was not a tidal wave, rushing to consume us all.

No. Nothing as dramatic as that. So calm, in fact, that the ocean’s edge became indistinguishable from the beach. As the tide edged out it left a glistening shine on the sand, while dusk’s light bounced off the motionless ocean, appearing as a blend of mercury and mirrors.

Despite the roar of traffic in the background and the hordes walking along the Prom, I still managed to find my own space and peace down there.

Staring at a tiny lump of sand, watching as the water lapped over it and receded, waiting, watching, waiting, watching, wondering when will come that moment when the tide might turn.

It’s what I do; what I did that evening and have done everywhere I’ve lived in the West of Ireland. I watch the tide and drift into peace.

Neither Mindfulness nor Meditation, and yet equally both, I have no desire to put a label on it.

I stared for hours at the sunken rocks of Bunowen Bay and the dunes of Doonloughan when I lived in west Connemara. For years in north Mayo I've watched the tide turn along Ross beach, and lost myself many a time in the utter splendour and endless beauty of Kilcummin back strand.

Yet all these natural wonders and altered mental states were only the precursor to my moment. As is often the way, my mind used tide-staring as a trigger to my past.

Adrift within the calmest moment the Atlantic seaboard could ever offer, I suddenly felt lost at sea, washed overboard by a freak wave of emotion.

Replacing my physical vision with a reel of memories, my mind ran a major film event in front of my eyes, showing me reruns of many of the varied events in the last 34 years of my life that have played out on Salthill Prom.

The night in August 1992, when I sat there on the rocks with my new-found friend, as we decided to stay; to try and find a home and make a life here in Galway.

The day when, seven years later, having failed in and fled from America, I stumbled along the Prom, searching for stability, soaking up familiarity.

The night in 1993 when I fell out of Vagabonds and sat on the sea wall with my beautiful date, stole a kiss, sipped whiskey from a naggin, felt thrilled at the opportunities the night ahead offered, and then dropped my house keys into the deep dark void between the rocks.

The day I walked to Gentian Hill believing I would never again take a step without back pain, and the day when I realised it was gone.

The countless out-loud talks I’ve had with myself, like the crazy guy you don’t want to sit next to on the bus. Open dialogues that escape my mind, transforming into voice, in your space and face, as I walk alone along the Prom.

Back in 1992, a few days after my decision to try and build a life in Galway, the weather finally changed and my jaw dropped. Up until then, fog and low cloud had obscured the Burren, so great was my joy when for the first time I saw the sensual purple hills of County Clare.

Thousands of walks along the Prom: my lifeline; my mental health; my physical saviour.

The Prom lifted my spirits, clearing my head of the detritus of everyday life. Along its length I spilled my emotional angst, vitriol and bile, so that by time I returned home my mind was free, my spirit cleansed, my body alive and tingling.

Meteorological marvels have sometimes allowed me to make out smoke rising from a chimney far across the bay in Ballyvaughan. A beam of sunlight picks out a field of rich deep green above Bell Harbour, and when the light shimmers and glows in just right way, all three Aran islands can float into view, vibrating as melting mirages in the distance.

I was silly to be surprised by my moment. I had not been to the Prom for many months and was foolish to underestimate my love for it and Galway Bay.

My heart was almost washed away by the flood of memories. My soul lifted like a kite in the wind, tears swelled in my eyes.

Having paid my respects to the Prom and my past I gave thanks, turned around and walked on.

©Charlie Adley 

16.07.2026

Despite FIFA, this World Cup has brought us all closer together!

 Pics thanks to Bouna/Bendel family

Last night my brother (more a fan of rugby and cricket where England is concerned) sent a message to our Siblings WhatsApp group, asking if my sister and I would be watching the England v Norway game.

I’m sure he knew I would be. He said that they had friends coming over for dinner, but would be insisting that either they left early or stayed to watch the match.

My sister (a massive fan of Wimbledon but not football, although she watched the entire Mexico game) explained how her young grandson was going to watch with his parents at friends, while she would be watching with her little granddaughter on a sleepover.

Apart from weddings and funerals I cannot think of any other event in which we would all be involved simultaneously.

Despite the worst efforts of FIFA, this World Cup has achieved what all previous have done: it has brought us all closer together, as a species.

With more countries qualifying than ever before, the group stage felt bloated and lacking in jeopardy, but it also gave us magic moments.

Hands up here: I didn’t even know Curaçao was a place. I thought it was just an ingredient in cocktails, but the footage of the TV journalist reporting from a bar in the tiny Caribbean island at the precise moment that their team scored a goal was priceless.

The place exploded with exuberant joy, leaving the journo no choice but to join in, leaping up and down like a 7 year-old.

The world smiled at that moment.

We’ve seen minnows Cape Verde holding mighty World Champions Argentina to a draw for 111 minutes, and on the way learned that the place we describe as ‘Cape Verdy’ is known by its own people as ‘Cap Verd.’

Small details that matter a great deal if you come from Cape Verde. 

As an Englishman living in the Republic of Ireland I no longer go to the pub to watch England games.

Apparently it wasn’t Oscar Wilde who said:

“The problem is the English can't remember history, while the Irish can't forget it.”

Whoever it was nailed it. After 35 years here, living with the daily, often hourly challenge of being slagged off for things the English did during their occupation of this island, I no longer find it amusing to be heckled and belittled throughout a game.

Instead I choose to stay home, and enjoy rare times in which I’m grateful for social media, sharing the excitement with my English friends and family elsewhere around the world. 

As for tonight’s match I have my doubts. There are massive parallels between being a Chelsea fan and an England fan. My beloved Blues will beat Barcelona on Wednesday and lose to a tiny team on Saturday.

Norway are in no way a tiny team, but England’s victory over Mexico felt like their final. The intensity of our celebrations and physical exertions were massive, and if we lose to Norway tonight, it’ll match a pattern that has existed for decades: struggle out of the groups; win a major knockout game; start to believe the crazed hype; get overexcited and then lose.

History shows us that the Vikings tend to excel against the English. If Norway win, having already beaten the legendary football force that is Brazil, I will feel gutted, but also delighted for them, along with my friends Line and John in Oslo.

FIFA’s gangster leader Johnny Babyface (aka Gianni Infantino) cares not a jot for the Beautiful Game. He is interested only in money and power.

Hence rules were changed so that Ronaldo’s red card in Portugal’s final qualifying game was suspended, along with the mighty scandal of USA striker Balogun's red card reversal, after intervention from Trump.

Did the president really care about the USA Soccer team? No, as ever you have to follow the money: take a look at the crazily inflated prices the US TV networks were able to charge for advertising space during USA games, and boom! You’ve found the lobby that drove that decision.

 

In the tradition of Morecambe and Wise, here’s a little poem wot I wrote to show how I feel:

Gianni Babycakes decides what is or is not
Whichever way he dives you know he cops the lot.
Seems that Human Rights Violations
Help him choose his host nations
From Russia to Qatar,
USA to Saudi Arabiaaaar      (ouch!)
Gianni is on a mission
To treat us fans with derision.

This colyoom isn’t about the corrupt greed that powers FIFA.
It’s about the pure joy and excitement felt by lovers of the game all over the world.

The pictures here are from friends of mine in London. A Spanish/English family who have cooked a different nation’s food each night, depending on who plays that day. 

When the parents went away for the weekend the kids carried on and cooked for each nation each night. 

When Jude Bellingham was asked how he felt about being booed and jeered as he got off the plane in Mexico City, he smiled and said he loved it, because he admired the passion Mexicans felt for football.

We love loving football. It unites families, friends and nations, offering us all a unique camaraderie (unless you’re Irish.)

I still can’t see anyone beating France, and in the pit of my stomach I see England being knocked out tonight, but I love being wrong, almost as much as I love football.

Maybe, as the landlord of my village pub ironically declared each time I’ve walked in over the last three weeks:

“It’s coming home!”

I very much doubt it, but in the true tradition of the Beautiful Game, let’s hope that at the end of the day, football is the winner. 

 

©Charlie Adley

11.07.2026.

Celebrating a million readers, a special request: Not for everyone, this life where less is more.

A special request from Mike, the editor who awarded me the colyoom and subbed it for 27 years. From November 2001. This is the final visit into the pre-online archive, I promise!

Ever since 1984, I’ve been living on a 24-hour financial cycle, and it’s as tiring as it is liberating.

Rent, food and bills are always covered, and generally I clothe myself in not too disgraceful a fashion. I run a car, visit family and friends in England two or three times a year, and my house is warm.

Most important of all, my life has exceptionally good people in it, but 90% of the time I have not a penny to spend.

Beyond presents for others, and the bare necessities, I do not buy things.

Nada. Zilch.

In the past there were day jobs, night jobs, shift work, temporary, permanent, and on the fly.

I was never perceived as so ‘successful’ as when I was working my backside off as a marketing whizz-kid, for a major Japanese corporate back in the early 1980s. I was earning more money than should be legal for a 23 year-old, and fast-tracking my way up to the Boardroom.

That was when I learned an absolute personal truth: there is no point in earning moolar if it comes in the form of compensation.

So I hate my job? Well, now I can go and spend lots of money, and see if it makes me feel better!

It didn’t, doesn’t and never will.

To me ‘civilised’ means having time to live.

In exchange for the fat wad of folding green every Thursday night, I take a walk on the beach.

Instead of buying CD’s and videos, I listen to the radio and play old cassettes.

Instead of the brimming bank balance, I have all the time in the world.

The stress in others’ lives is palpable. I see the tired black rings around their eyes, listen to their frantic gabbling about how they are trying to ‘fit it all in’, and in those moments, I remind myself that this relative poverty is worth a fortune.

It ain’t all easy. This is a life as tough as any other, just a lot calmer.

My life is less about acquisition, more about introspection; less about buying things, more about less things; less about climbing social ladders, more about spending time living in the present.

Sometimes it is a lonely path, especially when I’m home alone, aware that others are out, living life on the pig’s back.

Still, I’m hardly a slave to suffering, and when a particularly smart editor places one of my features, I drive to the city and splurge a wad in an orgy of consumerist conformism, and each shared whiskey and bite of restaurant food tastes better for the utter badness and excitement of it all.

This colyoom is not pre-scented with smugness. I couldn’t look my loved ones in the eye if I suggested that my life is a breeze.

Of course I get frustrated when I want to take herself out for a posh slap-up dinner, and I feel inhibited when generous souls drag me out to the pub, knowing that rounds only go one way, but hell, they seem to love me, and who am I to say no?

Sometimes, even when you know your friend really wants to help, you just can’t accept any more generosity.

And then you get over it and say

“Well, a wee whiskey would be lovely, thanks Dave!” 

 

©Charlie Adley

12.11.2001

Celebrating a million readers - the 2nd of my faves is from 2011: 'This is my Jerusalem!'

                                                             www.irelandinpicture.net

Happy Ever After... is a pointless ambition. Happiness comes like a swallow in Summer, a snowflake on warm grass.

Happiness lasts for a second or two years, and the important thing is to realise it, feel it while it lasts. 

I felt happiness for a few precious minutes last week, and I drank deeply of it. 

A brief hiatus appeared in the midst of the maelstrom that has been life in recent times, so I packed Blue Bag and headed off to Newport, Co. Mayo. 

Walking into the first Bed and Breakfast I found, just outside the small town, I lingered in an empty reception area as an older man and an invisible woman had a heated discussion in the kitchen.

I paced up and down, knowing they knew I was there, slightly irked that they were ignoring a potential customer, but patient; grateful to be there at all. 

Eventually the older man decided to acknowledge me, walking towards me, asking what I wanted. I was standing by a reception desk with a bag on my shoulder, so I was just a tad surprised when he raised his eyebrow at my request for a room.

He called for Herself, and out she came. Fifty year-old deeply-lined skin on the face of a forty year-old smoker, she refused to return the smile I was pumping at her, instead telling me she had to check her book to see if she had a free room.

While she did that I cast an eye into the Visitors Book. The last entry was made two days previously.

She had a room. She had loads of rooms. She was just looking for the least good room she could award to this single traveller. On the ground floor, two single beds and a tiny en suite, but fine, I’ll take it, I said.

How much? Oooh, er emm, bit steep, but okay. I was tired and even though she pitched her price at the top end of the B&B marketplace, I wasn’t going to argue. 

So I unpacked, put on my trackies and a fleece and lay back on the bed. The wall opposite was one huge window that opened out onto the rear car park, so anybody and everybody could see me.

I boiled the kettle and out in the hallway found in the fridge with some rank smelly milk. The little pre-wrapped 3-pack of Custard Creams on my room’s tea tray was beyond its Best Before date.

Refusing to let anything get me down, I lay back on the bed.
Peace and quiet, hoo yeh baby. I never ever nap or take a siesta, but here, now, I had a chance. 

No I didn’t. Outside my door, noisy as if in my face, fresh B&B guests had arrived. Herself was laughing and chatting and being generally lovely with them and I wondered why I’d lost out on her charm.

She showed them into the room next door and was oh ho-ho having a good old laugh with them, so she was, ho-ho. 

They went to their loo and took a shower and I swear I felt like I was immersed inside the runway of a major airport. Explosive noises shot over under and around me as symphonic plumbing went mental in my lug holes. 

I felt miserable. All I’d wanted was to find a quiet clean place  The place was clean alright but it was neither cheap, friendly, quiet nor private.

Facing Herself again would be a pain, but ah, screw it. 

Dressed and packed, I headed back to reception, where I had to knock on doors and wait for ages. I could’ve just left, but I wanted to be polite, offer her a couple of quid for her trouble and the cup of tea with off milk and stale biscuits (oh come on, of course I ate them - it was only a Best Before date!)

Her face was a picture as I mumbled some excuse as to why I had to go.

She shook her grim chin at my couple of Euro and then headed off at high speed to the room I’d been in, doubtless to see what I’d stolen from her. 

As I climbed back into the car I laughed. What was I going to nick? Her ancient grotty bedspreads? I think not. 

At the top of Newport's hill I headed into the hotel, where Roisin quoted me a price ten euro more than the B&B (ignore any rate cards you ever see in Irish hotels, absolutely). She listened to my needs and gave me a quiet room tucked away far from the bar.

As I opened the door I let out a whoop! It was huge and modern and clean and well worth the extra tenner. The skin-piercing shower alone was worth the extra dosh. All of a sudden I wanted to sing out loud. 

Feeling for the first time that I might be on holiday, I started at the furthest point from the hotel, sliding into each of the five pubs in town, ordering a Jameson in each and being given exactly that. No urban enquiries of whether I’d like ice or water or essence of Christian Dior in my whiskey: just a simple glass with a neat Jamie. 

Many evenings of my life have been spent in rural pubs and small town bars in the West of Ireland, but that night I didn’t really feel like chasing the craic.

I hadn’t the energy, so after I ran out of bars, and while the midsummer sun was still above the distant dark hills, I walked up the road to the church. 

At the top of the hill, I leaned on the stone wall and realised it was June 23rd, St. John’s Eve: bonfire night in Catholic countries.

Below green fields fell away toward the windy wee road, twisting its way to somewhere. Beyond the road the valley rose with stone walls and lush fields, blending into the black distant Nephin Beg range of hills.

Bonfires, everywhere, how many? 12, 13, 17, every house that might have been invisible in the fading evening light became a point on the map. Smoke spires dotted the landscape, as if a thousand new Popes had been announced. 

Small purple clouds clipped the fading sun’s dazzle, as it started to slip below the hills, and I found peace. 

This is my green and pleasant land. This is my Jerusalem.

This was my moment to be happy. I've learned how to spot it now. So many people miss their own happiness. It’s gone before their next bad time hits them over the head. They might then wonder why life is worth it, and that is a tragedy. 

The only thing I didn’t know was how long this happiness would last, but I didn’t care. The sun was gone, the sky crimson and pink as I turned away from the stone wall and took a wander around the church.

Recently restored with shiny pointing and a mini round tower, it was lovely.

A woman in a house behind me suddenly said hello. She was having a ciggie out of her window and I said hello back.

"Hello, lovely evening isn’t it!"
"Lovely!"

Strangers who say hello, just because you’re there.

Around the far side of the church I came across a door with a sign that said Sacristy and Toilets and behind it, I heard a young man singing. He had no idea that I was there, but I could tell he was writing a song. Maybe he was a young priest, composing something for his Sunday sermon.

He sang as a priest might, with a strong steady falsetto voice, ecclesiastical, lyrical and ethereal. 

"La la laaaaaaaa..." 

He was writing a song. I wondered what it was about?  

"Laaa laa la la laaaa..." 

He coughed and then sang the words of his song for the first time. 

“Property Tax, Property Tax,
They’re going to give us a Property Tax,

I’m looking forward to the Property Tax.
Water Tax, Water Tax, 

How will we pay the Water Tax?
I’m looking forward to the Water Tax...

We’ll all go to jail for the Property Tax....
lal la laaa...”   

and then he was wordless again, doubtless penning the lyrics to a second verse.

But it was perfect.

A priest in touch with the plight of his flock.
A scribbler at one with the splendour of rural Ireland.
Happiness, for which I am grateful.

 

©Charlie Adley

27.06.2011

 

Celebrating a million readers, here's the first of my two favourite DVs: 'A loving and thoughtful act brings about my confession!'

 

Jon Lewin

A couple of weeks ago I received in the post a package which reaffirmed my faith in human nature. Although it only contained a simple T-shirt, I was surprised, delighted and emotionally overwrought.

By way of explanation, I have to offer a confession.

Back in September I was sponsored to participate in the Galway Hospice’s Memorial Walk, a splendid and very successful event which raises much-needed funds for the most worthy of causes. Each walker wears a T-shirt on which is printed the name of a person in whose memory they walked that day.

I chose to walk in memory of Jon Lewin, a life-long friend who died of a brain tumour a few short years ago.

Upon arriving at Claddagh Hall I was given a package containing the T-shirt I had ordered, and went off to the Gents to put it on.

At the back of my mind, a wee small irritating voice had been nagging me for days, wondering if they would have spelled his name right. And lo, as soon as I saw the shirt out of its wrapping, there was the name a certain John Lewin.

And then I cried.

Clearly, I didn’t cry because they had spelled his name wrong. There are many things that upset me, as regular colyoomistas know, but an excellent institution such as the Galway Hospice awarding hundreds of walkers free T-shirts in a thoughtful tribute to lost loved ones could never be a cause for complaint.

No, I was mourning, and it hit me like a tsunami. I had written about Jon in this colyoom the week before, when I related our nightmare teenage holiday in Greece, so his memory was fresh in my brainbox, and I felt his presence with me on that day.

'Stop being a prat, Adley!’ I told myself, and put on the T-shirt, but each time I looked at the name, John with an ‘h’, I had a ridiculous and irrational emotional reaction.

This geezer’s name on my shirt was not Jon’s, but what did it matter? This day, this walk, this fund-raising event was not about me and my pedantic neurotic needs.

Somewhat foolishly, I decided to mention what had happened to the organisers, making sure to stress that it really was not a problem to me in the slightest, but that maybe in future, what with there being all manner of new nationalities and names arriving to live in Ireland, attention to detail might help avoid people getting upset.

I hated myself for saying anything, because however I emphasised that I was fine with it, that it wasn’t about me but potential walkers of the future, the more the friendly hospice professionals apologised.

Maybe, through their depth of experience, they could see more in my eyes than they let on. I was certainly unaware of how emotionally messed up I was.

Stepping outside the Claddagh Hall, I stood by the dock and watched all the wonderful walkers turning up in their T-shirts. Nobody seemed to be alone, and even though I would normally loathe to have company on a walk, I felt strangely lonely and, once again sad.

Looking at the Irish names on all the others’ T-shirts, I suddenly had a bit of a panic. Oh no, I should be walking for my little four year-old friend from Mayo who died last year.

How could I forget Alana?
How could I not think to put her name on my T-shirt?

And who is this person whose name is on my T-shirt? It’s not Jon. And why do I feel so nervous?

Why do I feel so scared of being a part of this crowded walk? And why and why and why …

Jon was a very beautiful and calm man. As if he stood at that very moment by my side, I heard his gentle whisper in my ear.

‘Stop being a prat, Charlie! Get yourself out of here, and walk somewhere else. This is not for you today. You’re too much of a mess.’

With the rain starting to fall, I ran away, jumped into my car and drove far away from the crowds. I felt horrible, hopeless, guilty as charged, and could not, for some reason, stop crying.

Eventually I parked at the beach in Furbo, and proceeded to walk long and alone: stumbling over rocks; squidging wet-booted through flooded fields, and finally sitting, breathing, restoring my mental order on a boulder covered with clams.

I walked for all those who had sponsored me.
I walked for the Galway Hospice.
I walked for Jon.
I walked for Alana.

Jon aspired to be a real rock’n’roll person, always cutting his own personal swathe. I felt that he understood and truly appreciated why I’d done a runner from the official Walk.

And I walked for myself, taking time to lie on my belly at face-level with a river, mesmerised by the beauty of the babbling flow, as I regained control of my emotions, and accepted that evidently I had seriously needed to grieve.

What better organisation to be the catalyst for such an emotional outpouring than the Galway Hospice?

So that is my confession: I threw a wobbly, cried a bucket and walked alone. But what of the package in the mail?

Yes - you guessed it! Reaffirming my faith in the future of our species, and going way beyond any hopes, expectations, even idle daydreams, Fiona at the Galway Hospice saw fit to print a T-shirt with Jon’s name on it, and send it to me, with an apology and a thank you note.

At this stage, all I want to say is no, please, let me thank you, for bowling me over and showing so much love and care that I am, once again, quite emotional. Oh and thanks to the Universe for sending us people like that!

©Charlie Adley
12.10.2006

Celebrating a million readers, here's the #1 most read DV of all time: Galway, City, where nobody needs a name!

Thanks to galwaytourism.ie/

“How ya doing?”
 
“Mighty. And you?”
 
“Good thanks. Bit tricky this, but your mate with the northern accent, the lad we were drinking coffee with outside Pura Vida? I’ve known him for years. We’ll often stop and chat. Thing is, I’m not sure of his name.”
 
As my friend stares at me over the table I’m not sure if I’m about to be reprimanded or helped out. How could I possibly be so shallow as to say I know someone, when I haven’t a clue what they’re called?
 
His mouth drops open, his eyes stare at the table as a gathering red flushes up from his chin to the crown of his head.
 
“Jeeze Charlie. Now that you mention it, I’m not sure myself. I think he’s married to the sister of that Dave from the market, because it’s his brother I was talking to. Not the brother from Letterfrack, he’s not been around, the other fella, the one who married the Yank and moved over there and came back after the crash, he’s working in Thermo King now I think, and …”
 
As he rambles I find myself forgetting who it was I was asking about in the first place and no longer caring in the slightest. Over the last couple of decades I’ve become used to this.
 
U2 sang about the land where streets have no names, but the truth is that sometimes in Galway City, people don’t need them either.
 
Even though this city has changed in many ways since I moved here in 1992, all the things I first loved about it remain almost intact, so I was saddened to hear Whispering Blue and Soldier Boy, both raised here, agree that the place had lost what made it special.
 
They felt that the place had grown too big, lost its intimacy and spontaneity.
 
Whenever I walk around Galway City streets with one of my local mates I’m still to this day astonished at the number of people they know. I’m a Londoner and over there bumping into people you know is a rare and special event.
 
To me this buzzing upcoming European Capital of Culture is still also a provincial county town, with an extraordinary smile on its face and a spring in its step. 

Home to dreamers, scribblers, dancers and software designers, you’ll know many people in Galway, just not necessarily by name.
 
This city of 14 tribes has many more now. Scores of Brit blow-ins like me; Europeans availing of free movement; 20,000 students and a welcome tide of others from further afield. Also, let’s not forget those poor souls lost in the limbo of Direct Provision. It’s easy to ignore them. Many of us do, but they live here too.
 
Many wonderful tribes from all over the world on this western seaboard, colliding with local culture, wondering what on earth everyone is talking about. 

If you are one of the many thousands recently arrived in this wonderful patch of the planet, allow me to share the following snippets of advice, gleaned from 24 years of simultaneously sticking out and blending in.
 
Despite what they tell you, never ask anyone if there’s any craic. Nothing, and I mean absolutely nothing will plunge a conversation into silence, a room into panic, a mood from light into darkness than somebody asking if there’s any craic. 

Unless there’s been a very recent death in the community, the air will hang heavy until someone starts talking about sport or a new dress on sale in Monsoon or, thank the Lord for its ubiquity and neutrality: the weather.
 
As a naïve new Galwegian you will at some point inevitably find yourself trapped by a local, who is convinced that you know somebody that you don’t.
 
You need to be prepared. There’s more than a little bit of Mrs. Doyle about it all, but instead of a cup of tea being forced upon you, the other person cannot rest easy until you either admit that you absolutely definitely don’t know the person never have never will now please step away from my face, or simply lie and say oh yeh, him? I know the fella.
 
If for you, as it was for me, you find neither of these options attractive, because you don’t want to upset someone and you don’t like telling porky pies, then learn this my friend, and use it freely:
 
“I’d know him to see him.”
 
Works a treat every time. The Galwegian who was for obscure reasons obsessed with you knowing this absolute stranger will breathe out, nod, smile and like a humpback whale across hundreds of miles of ocean, return the call:
 
“Ah you would! You’d know him to see him.”
 
After this blissful exchange life will immediately return to normal, whatever that might be in Galway.
 
Just room for one more quick-pick of idiomatic signposting. Even though the Irish are fascinated by death, preferring a good funeral to a bad wedding any day, they don’t mean someone’s died when they describe them as ‘up above.’
 
‘Up above’ can mean they’re still at home with Ma in Shantalla or taking a few months rehab in the cottage in Roundstone. I know from experience that this tiny bit of knowledge can save a whole heap of tragic confusion.
 
Only locals truly know how much this place has changed, but for me, never mind the streets, until the day comes when we need to know our friends’ names, there’s hope for Galway City.


©Charlie Adley
02.11.2016

Double Vision hits the million mark - thanks so much to my colyoomistas!

Double Vision started appearing weekly in the papers in 1992 and has been online since 2007. Last night we welcomed our millionth reader. 

A friend in London wondered how many of those visits were 'bot attacks', and certainly there was one day when DV had 6,000 hits from Singapore, so that must've been bot-mania at work. 

Beyond that, most visits are spread over the hundreds of colyooms posted here.

To celebrate this happy day I'll be posting three DVs: the most read colyoom posted here, along with a couple of my personal favourites.

Watch this space to see which ones I choose, and thanks so much for your loyal support.

 

 

©Charlie Adley 24.06.2026.

Thank you, Dagmar - only an artist could help as you did!

Scent of Memory by Dagmar Drabent. - click here to visit her website.

“Write it for fun!” Dagmar said, outside Tigh Neachtain - where else.

She’d asked me if I was writing, and I snuffled and blurbled a few imaginative excuses.

“Y’see, there’s this new nerve pain from a crushed vertebra high in my back...”

“Y’see when I was ill they put me on Disability and now I’m on a pension, and while I do need extra green folding most of the time, I’m loving the beach walks and staring into guilt-free space...”

“Y’see I’ve been rebooting the pre-online archive of Double Vision, as the online version nears a million hits...”

No, I wasn’t impressed either.

Since moving in to my little house, after seven years of overwhelming, all-consuming misfortune, I was happy to be a human just being. I avoided writing anything that required a deadline.

I’d lived off my scribbling for 27 years, and I give thanks for that.

Wooh Yeh. Thank you so much!

I wrote whatever I wanted and newspapers paid me for it. Columns and features.
It doesn’t really get better for a vocational writer.

There’s this play I was writing. The Abbey Theatre were running a competition to submit an idea for a play, and if you won they’d work on it with you and make it happen. I think it’s become a permanent offer these days.

My play is called Townland, and I love it it, mostly because I haven’t written it yet. When it becomes words on paper I’ll love it a lot less. I’ll see only weaknesses and how it could be better, but it’s been in the file for a few years now.

Until, that is, I’m sitting on Galway’s Cross Street with Paul and Dagmar on a Thursday afternoon, and she says:

“Why not write it for fun?"

Fun?
Don’t be writing it for the Abbey. Write it for fun.

How the hell had I forgotten Play, my core modus operandi?

I just finished teaching my first course since my illness, so for eight weeks I’ve been pummelling my poor pupils with the concept of Play, all the while ignoring my own rule; if it is a rule.

Play is my mindset; my canvas; my first draft; my everything. It’s the document I write in, the headspace I create in. 

When you’re playing you can’t go wrong.
When I’m writing I feel free.

Reflections on Galway Bay by Dagmar Drabent - click here to visit her website.
 

Dagmar couldn’t have known that I’d been avoiding Play, because I didn’t know either. Once in a while I should maybe listen to myself. And Dagmar.

For those colyoomistas who’ve spotted an absence of fresh DV content recently, here’s what’s been happening.

Back from Galway, I followed my instincts and trusted my experience. I fished out a bag filled with all the pics that have adorned the walls of my workspace, wherever I lived. They offered constancy in a life of many continents.

A postcard of an Utrillo street scene that evokes my teenage hitching years in France. A Modigliani woman that reminds me how strong simple strokes can be the most powerful and effective. 

 

Photos of my two dead Jons, both with no ‘h’, who used to live a mile from each other in London. Ancient photos of my posse, the Class of ’77. We have shared our lives all our lives. Significant cartoons which either illustrated my work or my ideas.

I didn’t put them up when I moved in, because I didn’t want a workplace.

Play.
Fun.

Then I ordered an office chair online, because if I’m about to write then I deserve it. Then I endured a ridiculous Saturday afternoon failing to put it together, while trying not to trigger the nerve pain.

When that mutha hits it can knock me off my feet. Like someone put my body into a microwave.

I’m sitting on that chair now, with my workplace pics up around me. Home.

 

No, I absolutely am not several thousand words into the play.

I’ve opened the folder called Townland Stuff, and made some fresh notes. I've edited the start of it which I wrote years ago. Less brogue. 

I’m not writing because the Abbey may or may not want to see the play. I’m playing.

I thought it was a rejection letter they sent, but Conor 'Monty' Montague told me it wasn’t.

Monty pointed out that they’d asked to see it when it was written. I’d only seen the words they wrote about not making into their ‘Ideas’ process.

Monty is, by the way, the living breathing Patron Saint of Scribblers. Unsung, unlauded, altruistic, helping scores of writers for the love of writing, and a damn fine wordsmith himself, if you like gonzo madness, gore and ironic excitement. Who doesn’t?

When you’re a scribbler you gain a broad collection of rejections. They differ and dither between hope and damnation. When I lived in Connemara a friend close by insisted that I was a much better writer than him.

“You’ve a much better collection of rejections than I have, Charlie.”

Please take note, one Iris Leal. Back sometime in the 1980s you had just described my writing as ‘a cave painting’, and told me (or screamed wildly at me, if you’re English and not Israeli) that one day I would read a lot of books.

You were right.

Over the last six years I’ve read an absolute shitload of books, mostly modern fiction.

I’ve calmed the fuck down.

The Townland folder is open, and I’m a better writer than I was back when I hid it there, before all those books.

I’m on my spanky new office chair; my pics are up; I’ve written some notes, and realised today that English Tom’s voice needs to be more clipped.

Dagmar could not know how incredibly apt her advice was.

Then again, as an artist she recognises the importance of freedom, of creating for the love of it.

Thanks Dagmar!


©Charlie Adley
12.06.2026

 Dagmar on Spotify

 

Roy Keane’s passage and Ireland’s angriest man!

 

Great artwork as always from Allan Cavanagh at caricatures-ireland.com

(The final collection of clips from the DV archive never before seen online - 2005-2007)

July 2006.
Roy Keane’s passage. 

Alongside all football comes humour, and Ireland has in George Hamilton the greatest exponent of the Colemanball since the eponymous David Coleman started talking nonsense decades ago. 

The following gems are all Hamilton’s own:

“And Hyypia rises like a giraffe to head the ball clear!”

“The midfield are like a chef, trying to prise open a stubborn oyster to get at the fleshy meat inside!”

“He's pulling him off! The Spanish manager is pulling his captain off!”

And my personal fave:

“Redondo is blocking Roy Keane's passage!”

*

April 2005.
"When I was your age, I could flyyyy…!"

It’s the Cheltenham Festival, so I’m on my way to the bookies at the Westside when I stop in my tracks.

A young woman is helping an older lady out of the back door of a small silver hatchback parked next to mine. She appears to be having some trouble, so I hang back.

Gradually she emerges, clutching an extravagant wad of €50 euro notes.

For a moment she stands like a statue, her body pointed toward the shops as a gun dog at a kill, her eyes slowly moving along, scanning her prey.

“It’s over there, Ma, the blue building on the far right!”

Assimilating her daughter’s directions, yer wan marches at high speed towards the bookies, hand with cash held high above her head. A more confident stride I’ve never seen.

How great it is to be living in Ireland, where an older lady can feel safe waving her dosh around like that.

The front door of the same Nissan opens to reveal an older gentleman, who looks like he stepped out of an Irish Tourist Board advertisement.

Impeccably dressed with tweed jacket, flat hat and blackthorn cane, he turns his freckled lined face to me, and I smile back. 

As he talks, his eyes betray the weariness of age, although they shine too, with humour and a sparkle of gentle wit.

“Ye’ll have to be patient young man!”

“Oh, absolutely!” says I, not feeling particularly young, and eager to put him at his ease. “There’s no rush,” I offer, “It’s a lovely day, and the races don’t start for another hour!”

By now he has swung his legs out of the car, and I hesitate to offer a helping hand, because he has about him an air of individuality and independence.

He stretches out his arms in well-practiced manner, and assuredly lifts himself out and up onto his feet.

“Ah, yes, everything takes a little longer than it used to … ” he explains, as he turns back into the car to reach for his cane, “… and on occasion, that can be a very good thing!”

The septuagenarian’s double entendre surprises me a little.
He walks right up to me, and engages me eye to eye.

“Mind you …” he intones, somewhere between a wistful whisper and a challenge, his breath on my chin, “… mind you, when I was your age, I could flyyyyyyyyy!”

As he says ’fly’ he lifts his voice and raises his hand high to the sky, and for a second or two, I believe he could.

We both laugh and wish each other good luck on the gee gees. I’m delighted to be living in Ireland, where a gentle encounter with a perfect stranger leaves me enthralled, charmed and inspired.

*

March 2006.
“He’s my God, not yours!” 

Last week I was attending a training course in a Galway hotel. When tea break time came around, there were three tables laid out with cups, coffee and tea urns.

On top of each table lay a piece of paper clearly stating the different company names for whom these cuppas were allocated.

A small group of women arrived, and much to the consternation of the young Polish lad running things, they started to lay into another company’s coffee.

He turned to them, waving his hands in the air.

“Sorry sorry no! No please no! This is not for you! This is not your coffee. Please to wait five minutes! I have your coffee then! Thank you!”

Even in less than perfect English he made his point politely and impressively. Everyone backed off, save for three older ladies who carried on as if he didn’t exist.

“Please no! Please no!” he repeated, “Then there is not enough for others! Please just wait two more minutes.”

The women completely ignored him and as he walked away, frustrated and upset, he muttered under his breath

“Jesus Christ!” 

Immediately, one of the older ladies turned, waving her finger at him:

“Don’t you go cussin’! He’s my god, not yours!”

However much I think I understand our species, ye lot can still knock me backwards.

Never mind the fact that yer man was very likely a Catholic too, the utter crassness, bigotry and blind ignorance of her comment sent my head reeling.

My god, not yours. My god, not yours.

Having tried it out for size a couple of times, I decided that her simple sentence summed up perfectly the situation in the world today.

What better way to describe a crusade than: ‘My god, not yours!’

Ever since the Cold War ended, the West needed a new official enemy.
Islam and Christianity have been exploited by those with vested financial interests to be the colours of our new war. 

Make no mistake: it is a crusade.

*

June 2007.
Gee it’s good to be back home!  

When I return from England I’m so knackered I can function only after a long self-indulgent soak in a lovely hot bath.

 Ahhhhhhh blisssss... now a flick of the radio, catch up with what’s going on in Ireland ... 

‘... he claimed that he had been falsely accused of being molested by priests when he was a boy ...’ 

Accused of being abused?
How does that work? 

Ahh, yes, back in Ireland.

*

August 2007.
Ireland’s angriest man wants the Irish to apologise to the English! 

Climbing into a Galway city taxi yesterday, I encountered the most abusive and angry person I have ever met in my life.

A local man of slight build, he started hissing and spitting as he turned his car around, temporarily blocking the traffic emerging from Cross Street. 

At first I took his torrent of ‘effs’ and ‘cees’ to be nowt but a burst of road rage, the like of which I suffer from myself, but it continued throughout the journey. 

“Fucking bastards can’t bloody drive. Stupid fucking fuckers. Look at the way he’s parked, bastard. Who does that cunt think he is?” 

For a moment, as we drove down Dominick Street, silence dwelt briefly and happily inside the cab.

 And then I went and spoiled it all by thinking perchance a little light conversation might ease our journey. 

“Well, at least it’s stopped raining. Looks like we’re going to have a lovely afternoon.” 

“Don’t talk to me about the fucking weather. I am so fed up to the back teeth with this bollocks country and its fucking weather, God almighty. And look at the state of those grass verges. That fucking council of ours, they make me sick. Lazy fucking pigs. Fat bloody pigs getting rich while we wallow in the muck they leave for us. Look at those grass verges. All fucking weeds and bloody litter. Really, makes me sick. How dare they sit up there in their bloody council chamber talking bollocks and taking fucking bonuses while they leave the city to rot? Cunts. Pigs and cunts the lot of ‘em. And look at this abomination. Tell me now, what bright fucking spark decided to paint the Prom yellow? And were we asked? Were we fuck! And did we even know until it was done? Did we fuck. Ruined Salthill they have, the pigs. And the city. Lovely it was, and now it’s gone to shit. Shitty fucking Galway run by a chamber of pigs, ignorant cunts and filthy fucking liars. I tell you. I fucking tell you. And look at the state of the grass by the car park. Ignorant pricks. What did they expect with 100,000 people watching the Air Show? Did not one of them think that might fuck up the grass? Makes me sick. I have had it with this fucking country. And yes, we have the Big Wheel now, but only after they had to fight the fucking council for the right to power. Yes, huh. I’ll tell you one thing I know. There’s not much I know for sure, but some things I do know, and this thing I know for fucking sure. Oh god yes, that I do. They wouldn’t listen, but if they had, I can tell you, this fucking mess of a country wouldn’t be in the fucking mess it’s in. One thing I know. Old Garrett was right. Oh yes, you might laugh, but let me tell you, old Garret was right with what he said back in the ‘80s. If only we’d have listened to Garret.” 

Clearly the man was fishing for a question. I was worried that if I didn’t give him what he wanted, he might have a heart attack, or worse, I might be considered a filthy fucking ignorant cunt-prick myself. 

“So what did Garret FitzGerald say back in the ‘80s?” 

“I’ll tell you what he fucking said. He said that we should go cap in hand to the English, and apologise! Yes, that’s what he said, and that’s exactly what we should fucking do. Go cap in hand to the English, apologise, and ask them if they wouldn’t mind taking the country back, and maybe please make it better again.” 

Was I really going to take him on?  

Nearly home, exhausted by his tirade of abusive language, I was feeling a better, more wholesome human being with each disgusting phrase and tortured clause that hammered into my ears. 

“Wow! Did old Garret FitzGerald really say that? He - I - wow! Well, bugger me!” 

“Yes he did. And he said a lot more besides. Fucking pigs. Lazy fucking pigs and stupid fucking cunts. That’s what we have become!” 

“Keep the change!” 

“Why, sir, you’re a gentleman and a scholar!”


©Charlie Adley
24.05.2026

10,000 Galway Howyas, Curried Wisdom and Freedom Fries!

(clips from the DV archive never before seen online - here's come 2004!)

March 2004.

Freedom Fries and a Justice Burger! 

It’s late as I stumble out of Taylor’s Bar, and follow my tipsy chin over the road to Vinnie’s Takeaway. While I wait for my chicken, I’m entertained by the Dominick Street late night show.

Over by the wall, two 20something American tourists are chatting, flirting, cavorting with the lads behind the counter.

One of the girls is quieter, hanging back, while her friend appears to want to embody the image we have of her Mother Country: she’s loud, proud, and wants everybody to know it, standing out like a beautiful sore thumb.

She's the one everybody is watching, and not only is she evidently aware of this, she seems to like it.

Standing centre stage, she yells

“Can I come behind the counter and see your kitchen? Do you have ketchup over here? Do you put beef in your burgers?”

Not USDA baby, I think to myself, but say nothing.

By now the air is thickening with the need for some kind of response, and sure enough, it comes, in a European way that contrasts with the brazen abrasion of yer one from across the pond.

One of the lads by the window calls out (in a thick and chewy Dublin accent)

“Err, couldja change moy orda to a portion of Freedom Froize … yez, oid loik some Freedom Froize and … and … and … a Josstiss Burrga, tanks!”

The place erupts with laughter, a sense of relief and camaraderie spreading throughout the non-American munchers.

I cannot help myself, and laugh alongside them.

The quieter American girl looks up, aware that not all in da Hemmarold Hile are the dingly-dell-leprechaun-luvvin’ folk we’re supposed to be.

Trouble is, I feel unsettled and displeased with myself for mocking the young lass. It’s not fair to exploit her naïveté, just so that we can vent our collective spleens over Dubya’s imperialist ambitions.

May 2004.
More Sligo curry than Tubbercurry.

Just south of Sligo I see a vision of my new Ireland.

We take sanctuary from the wind and rain in the warm glow of a pub, where an Indian gentleman behind the bar is chatting to two older farmers on barstools.

We’re excited to find a comprehensive curry menu, and as we peruse, I sit back and enjoy eavesdropping on the banter between the landlord and his customers.

“Yez cannot be sheerious!”

“But yes I am. I am being very serious.”

“Ye’d seerioushly prefer to have the Hin-glish back than have yer own independence?”

“I am being very serious. With the English yes, we had suffering, but we knew where we were. Now there is much fear. There is sometimes chaos and always there is fear. Fear of a war with Pakistan. Fear of many religions.”

“But but but to be free! Jaaayyyzus chroisht man, what can be more important? How can you shtand there and tell me dat dat’s not the foinest feeling?”

“Free yes, freedom is a wonderful thing, yes it is. But freedom is not about who rules you. It is about how you rule yourself.”

“Sure, and tell that to the millions who starved to death!”

“You are right, and I was wrong, but I am meaning no offence. I think what I am saying is that the country was much more organised with the English. Now it is a mess, yes, messy, and there is not an order to things as there was before.”

“So why are you opening a restaurant here?”

“Because I am not a good cook!”

Flash of toothy smile and all three men laugh together.

Our curry arrives, and it tastes really good, washed down by pints of Guinness.

I am in heaven.

April 2004.
In off the wall genius.

Big Ron Atkinson has taken the football cliché and turned it on its head.

No time has he for the ubiquitous ‘sick as a parrot!’ or the execrable ‘It’s a game of two ‘alves!’

Not a bit of it.

“Zola’s split the defence with a birthday ball. Candles, the bumps, and a sloppy kiss off his Auntie Rita. The lot.”

and

“Blanc’s been caught by the quick ball over the top. He was expecting The Troggs and they’ve gone and hit him with a right Frank Zappa.”

or my personal favourite

“You’ve got to blame the defence there. The left-back came home early for his tea and got jam in his eye.”

April 2004.
We raised the flag of Hollow Strangers on Mount Howya! 

Walking from Nimmo’s - Seeya! Seeya!- through the Spanish Arch and onto Buckfast Plaza - Howya! - over the road to Quay Street - Howya! - Howya!- up to Cross Street - Howzit goin’? - Howya! - Howya!

If I was being watched by a tourist, they’d think I was the best-known person in the country.

But then again, if they watched any Galwegian, they’d see the same thing.

Galway is the Capital City of Howya Culture. There’s 10,000 faces out there that you recognise, and seemingly more that recognise you, and when it suits, when you’re in the mood, or have da hin-inclinayyyshun, you smile and raise an eyebrow, or even go mad and wave a hand to embellish your gesture.

At this time of year, before the tourist madness starts, it’s still possible to spot Howyas in the crowd. Sadly, most of us have lost just too many brain cells to remember who on earth all those Howyas are.

Maybe you chatted her up one night. Possibly you were the friend of a friend six months ago. Perchance he crashed your party, and you made a mental note to avoid him like the pendulous drop of snot hanging from a cavorting child’s nose. 

Some Howyas you wish you knew better. Some you wish you’d never met, but every single one of them is part of this city.

Depending on your mood, your 10,000 Howyas can either be a wonderful phenomenon or a source of horror. If you’re on the up, they create within you a warm spreading glow of community and belonging; feelings of identity as part of the whole; a sense of place, time and history mixed up into a heady brew of humanity.

When you’re feeling down, they seem pointless, hollow and the worst possible representation of how false and fickle Galway life can be.

Sure, you say hello, but you don’t give a damn about any of them. The darkness within you asks ‘What’s the point?’

You don’t know their names, or where they live. You don’t care and they don’t care and yet you pretend to be a part of each other’s lives on some shallow and insincere plane.

More often, it’s neither one extreme nor the other. Most of the time, your 10,000 Howyas are a benign and relatively pleasant part of everyday life.

Sometimes, however, you stray from the path, and all of a sudden, you’re forced to break all the unwritten ways of the Howya.

As I stroll along Mainguard Street, I walk past a tall lad in a grey greatcoat, long grey hair sweeping over his shoulder.

We ‘Howya!’ and walk on, but for some reason, I double take, and look back over my shoulder as he passes me. He is a good five paces away, yet just as I have done, he too has looked back.

We stare into each others eyes.

Had we been old friends, this would be a moment of joyful reunion. We might jump in the air, and run toward each other, clapping manly hands on each others’ backs in that macho hug thing, both talking at the same time as we excitedly pour forth question after question.

But we do nothing of the kind, because we are mere Howyas. Trouble is, we have now strayed across a boundary. We have stopped walking, faced each other, engaged in something more.

A simple single salutation will no longer suffice. One of us has to have the balls, the cojones, to ‘fess up pronto, to admit we thought the other was someone else entirely, but we’re both social cowards.

Now we are condemned to cross into an unknown and slightly terrifying netherworld; a place that lurks way beneath the heights of real friendship, and yet outside the safety of the Howya.

I’m by Pound City, himself by Myles Lee. Slowly we shuffle toward the middle of the street, standing by the cycle racks, each shifting from one foot to another.

This is dangerous territory. One false move and there’s terminal embarrassment to be endured. Too invasive an approach, and the emotional wounding might be severe.

I have not a clue who he is, where he’s from, or what his name is. I do not know if he has led a happy or miserable life; whether he is a teetotaller or a happy drinker. I do not know if he’s straight or gay, whether he has kids; maybe a wife?

For a few moments I am silenced by fear. What if I ask about the kids but should know only too well that tragically he lost one years back?

In his deep blue eyes I see a similar nervousness, but by now we are two men physically facing each other, and so we must walk the high tightrope of Howya.

Without ever looking down, we must engage in conversation.

Stare neither to the left nor to the right. Just ask and acknowledge. Search not for details, specifics or facts.

Let’s test our Galway City skills, push our Howya abilities to the limit.

“So how’s life?”

“Moity!”

“Same here I have to say! Just moved back from the country.”

“Oh, were you out there long?”

“Three years.”

“Oh really!”

“And how about yourself?”

“Can’t complain, life's pretty good. How’s the house?”

“House is fine, same as ever, d'j'yaknow.”

“Oh yes, same as ever. And what about the ...errrm... social life?”

“Not bad. Can’t complain. I get out once or twice a week, not as much as I used to.”

“No no me too, can’t take it like I used to, not at all. So how’s your work?”

“Well, coming along, spend too much time not making enough money.”

“Yeh yeh tell me about it, seems never-ending, really doesn’t it? What about the ol’ love life, eh eh?”

“Well, not much happening there, and yourself?”

“Well, still with herself, so that’s not going to change.”

“Good good, can’t be bad. City’s gone bananas hasn't it?”

“Jaize you’re right there, can hardly hear myself think these days.”

“Ah well, great to seeya!”

“Yeh! All the best now, now so, now, so ... now! Good to see you too buddy!”

Pheeee-yeeeew! We pulled it off. Both of us walked away none the wiser, but with integrity and emotions intact.

Ironically, we now truly have a bond.

We made it!

Together, we raised the flag of Hollow Strangers on the summit of Mount Howya!


©Charlie Adley
12.05.2026