On the rough side

One of the treasure of my Irish adventure was the Dingle. My memory of that place is the starriest night of all. If I close my eyes I see an illuminated window in complete darkness and above it a wisp of smoke from the chimney became confused with the milky way. An explosion of stars. Rounded and bright, agglomerated and fuzzy. My personal cathedral. The more you see the less you can count. Cardinal points melts, coordinates intertwine and the only thing that makes sense is keep looking. A little bit further, a little bit longer. That night I’ve filled my heart with stars.
I was lucky enough to be hosted by a local, Richard who drove me all around the peninsula with his mini van.
To go from one side of the peninsula to the other you have to cross the Connor Pass. If you live on Dingle’s side, you are in the Gaeltacht, the Irish-speaking region and the government could give you funds to work and live there preserving culture and language. But if you live on the other side of the mountain you have no rights. From one side to the other everything is different. Like in life, in this rough land, you have to choose your side. Gaeltacht or Irish side? Beaches and waves or music and friends?
A land of storytellers, men and women made by extreme weather and by the pride of this lush and brutal nature. Everyone there has a story to tell. There’s the old farmer who grows carrots but went dig for gold in Alaska in his early days, the musician who travels the world to study new sounds and come back there, in the last outpost of gaelic culture and there's Richard, a marine biologist that works off-shore. He could live anywhere, but he stays there. That’s the spirit here. Fight tooth and nails to hold on a life that’s disappearing. To preserve the magic hidden around every corner.
One day at sunset we walked on top of a cliff where a stone stand still from ages. No one touches it because of the fairies that lived there. If you start dancing with them, you’re hooked. By the end of the dance you’ll be old and unable to go back to your life.
On top of that ill, filled with tiny mushrooms and under a pinky sky a white horse could really be Puck.
I could breath the power of nature and feel the magic. I was happy, right now right there. With a gentle wind feeding my soul with freedom.
I closed my eyes, danced and sent laughs to the fairies.
On our way home I stumbled in a white horses...
No way Puck, I already know you!