Discovering the Secrets of Ireland’s Southwestern Coast

By Tara Austen Weaver

The man at the bike rental shop in Cork warned me against riding the Beara.

“There’s nothing there,” Mac explained, his southern Irish accent delightfully atwang. “You’ll be cycling along here,” he pointed to the map of southwestern Ireland, “and all you’ll see is gorse on one side, sea on t’other.

Then, when you get here,” he slid a callused finger down the jagged coastline, “all you’ll see is gorse on one side, sea on t’other.” Mac had worked the fishing camps that dot the peninsula. He could only see the Beara through the eyes of one who wanted to be somewhere else.

“You’d be better off cycling the Ring of Kerry or Dingle, ” he suggested, citing two peninsulas north of Beara, both more touristed. I listened to his advice but remained set in my plans.

Mac shook his head. “I don’t know why you would go to the Beara,” he said again. “There’s nothing there.”

The Beara Peninsula is one of several peninsulas reaching out like crooked fingers from southwestern Ireland into the Atlantic Ocean. It is a rugged land, regularly buffeted by storms off the Atlantic and first landfall for birds from North America who accidentally head too far east. I’ve come east as well, though not by accident, and rugged land is what I seek.

After an overload of leprechauns in Dublin’s quaint Grafton Street, and one too many tour groups in Temple Bar, I am searching for the back of beyond—but my timing may be off. After years of watching people leave her shores, tides have changed and now tourists and immigrants are flocking to Ireland in search of misty green fields and fabled friendliness. As I pack up my bike in the harbor town of Glengarriff, I wonder if this myth of Ireland can still be found.

Glengarriff, a seaside resort from Victorian times, claims to have some of the best weather in Ireland—a country not known for nice weather. A series of brightly-colored shops and restaurants strung along the main road, Glengarriff serves as gateway to the Beara Peninsula. There are boats waiting offshore to ferry visitors to nearby Garnish Island where a variety of tropical plants flourish in the mild climate.

Five minutes after I leave town, it begins to rain. So much for nice weather. The Irish talk about their “soft” climate and even in August the weather is bound to turn wet. Donning a windbreaker I find it still pleasant to cycle, the fine mist cool on my face.

To my right, fog-shrouded mountains jut upward from thickets of gorse and underbrush. A clear stream flows alongside the road and I pass a pastel blue shrine dedicated to the Virgin Mary before rejoining the coast once more. From here I can see the silvery gray waters of Bantry Bay and a rugged coastline dotted with small houses tucked into rocky coves. In this wild place, the leprechauns and shamrocks of Dublin feel a million miles away.

By the time I reach the small town of Adriole, I have discovered that persistent mist, given time, will prove itself the equal to any downpour. Soaked to the skin I embrace the wisdom of hot tea at a roadside teahouse, where the motherly owner fusses over me and offers fruitcake. At the combination general store and post office, the proprietor grins. “Been avoiding the rain, have ye now?” he asks as I drip water onto his well-polished floor.

The Beara Peninsula has managed to stay off the Irish tourist track due to one factor: the roads are too narrow for tour busses. Just to the north, the Ring of Kerry and Dingle Peninsula are swarmed during the summer season, small towns flooded with visitors each day.

Car tourists have discovered the Beara, however. Zooming past me on the road they stop at scenic viewpoints where one member is entrusted with the camera, sent to brave the weather and bring back a decent photo.

I have no doubt these people pity me—on my bike, in the rain. Their expression says as much. But in their rush they are missing things: the sweet smell of chamomile and honey in the air, picking wild berries from a roadside embankment dripping in dew-covered ferns, the greetings called out by old men working in the fields as I ride by. Even in the misty wet, it feels magical.

The rain continues as I push onward and into Castletownbere (full name: Castletownberehaven), 23 miles into my ride for the day. Home to Ireland’s largest fishing fleet, Castletownbere provides the restaurants of Dublin with their nightly order of whitefish. There are boats bobbing offshore and a busy waterfront to the left of the main street, but I decide my pint can wait until Allihilies at the tip of the peninsula, my goal for the night.

The truth is, I don’t want to stop biking. I love the soft air, fragrant with the smell of hay from the fields. I want to continue cycling past small white cottages, farms, and hedges of flaming red fuchsia in full bloom. I am charmed by the oncoming traffic: tractors, whose drivers tip their hats to me as we pass.

Not far past Castletownbere I see a sign for Dunboy Castle. The arched windows of the castle gatehouse are blocked with slabs of stone, vines twine over a graceful façade.

Leaving the main road, I cycle into piney woods and pay the entrance fee of a few coins to wander the impressive ruins of a stately Romanesque manor. This is not Dunboy Castle but Puxley Mansion, built in the 19th Century by a family whose wealth was drawn from copper mines on the Beara Peninsula. The mansion was gutted and burned by the IRA in 1921 during the Irish Civil War. The roof is now open to the sky and weeds sprout from cracks, but the main hallway is still flanked with Italian marble columns. Arched gothic windows, free of their panes of glass, stare blankly out to sea.

A little past Puxley Mansion lies the real Dunboy Castle—all that is left of it. Built in the 13th Century, the fortress belonged to the O’Sullivan clan who ruled the Beara for three centuries. The castle was destroyed in 1602, when the English attacked and—after 11 days of fighting—succeeded in killing all 143 men, including a priest who walked out waving a white flag of surrender. There was an attempt to rebuild the fort in 1654, but today there is little more than mossy ruins and a view across the water to Bere Island. I cycle back to the main road, past these two monuments to the Anglo-Irish conflict, destroyed more than 300 years apart.

Continuing southward I find myself at a crossroads and, minding the words of the poet, take the road less traveled—an old and narrow route that climbs into the fog.

I lose sight of the coast and am engulfed in clouds, climbing higher and higher between hedgerows of brilliant green. I hear clomping steps and, out of the mist, two children appear astride a gray horse. They nod solemnly and disappear again into the clouds, only the sound of hooves keeps me from wondering if I imagined the encounter.

I push forward, knowing the hill must eventually end. Slowly the road begins to slope and I coast downhill, gathering speed. Emerging from the clouds I can see below me a wide valley of green farms, arrayed like a verdant patchwork quilt. Nestled in the folds of the valley is the small town of Allihilies and beyond is the grey-blue sea.

Twenty minutes later I am sitting in Jimmy’s pub, in the town of Allihilies, cheering along as Meath plays Westmeath in a televised soccer match. I have ordered a Guinness and, as a proper pint takes time to pour, am sipping hot tea and warming my hands. No one blinked an eye when I walked into the pub, damp and disheveled in my cycling clothes. It seems one must go to great lengths to shock the Irish.

After a time my pint arrives and the deep, rich flavor is the perfect thing. As the evening progresses the pub fills with people, kids, and a dog or two until I wonder if all the town is here. The soccer game draws to an exciting conclusion, babies are passed from knee to knee, stories are told, and everyone who enters is greeted warmly. The pub is comfort, but after a full day of riding I long for sleep. I slip out of Jimmy’s and walk through the moonlit darkness to my bike. It is time for bed.

********

“Will you be having cereal, mesuli, or porridge?” Irene Harrington’s friendly face appears from behind the kitchen door.

I opt for mesuli, a decision that is greeted with an approving nod before she closes the door and I hear her rustling around the kitchen. I help myself to bracingly strong tea, fruit juice, and moist brown bread with jam.

I appeared on the doorstep of Irene Harrington’s Beach View Bed & Breakfast after my pint at Jimmy’s, having followed a hand-painted sign posted along the road. She ushered me in, gave me my choice of rooms, and seemed not at all fussed about wet gear.

Yes, she said, the bike could be locked up behind the house, breakfast was in the sunroom in the morning. One hot bath later, I drifted off to sleep next to a window that looked downhill to the beach and bay beyond. I could almost hear the waves.

I’ve eaten my fill of mesuli, tea, juice, and brown bread and am enjoying the view of green fields and clear skies when the kitchen door swings open again.

“Here ye are, a full Irish breakfast,” Irene announces, and sets before me a plate of fried eggs, bacon, grilled tomatoes, and slices of both black and white pudding.

I sit stunned, silent, without the heart to tell my hostess I’m full. Instead I try to make inroads in the huge plate of food in order to be polite. Fuel for cycling, I tell myself.

After breakfast I set out for a quick ride to the tip of the peninsula, speeding past tumbledown stone cottages and brilliant green fields. Off the end of the peninsula lies Durnsey Island, home to six people, a couple hundred sheep and cattle, and numerous shore birds.

The island is connected to the mainland by an aerial cable car, suspended 100 feet over the choppy waters of Durnsey Sound. The creaky cable car—the only one of its kind in Ireland—accommodates one cow with two calves, six tourists, or up to ten sheep at a time.

Animals take priority over humans, except on Sunday when the cable car is timed to get people to mass.

Today Durnsey Island is a sanctuary for wild birds and whales, but its past is less peaceful.

Viking marauders used the island as a base in the 9th Century to stage attacks on the coastal villages of Cork. Captives were kept on Durnsey until they could be sold into slavery in Scandinavia or Spain. Centuries later, when the English attacked Dunboy Castle, 300 people took refuge on the island. The English found them and slaughtered every last soul—women, babies and the elderly—throwing their bodies over jagged rocks to the sea below. More bloodshed in this ages-old conflict.

Turning my sights northward, I cycle up the western side of the Beara. Unlike the eastern side of the peninsula—cultivated fields and farmhouses—the west is a wilder place entirely. The road snakes over hillocks covered in brush, the wild sea lashes a rocky coastline. It is just as Mac said it would be: nothing but gorse and the sea.

He forgot, however, to mention the fierce beauty, the unparalleled views, the sense of exhilaration at being alone amongst such stunning desolation.

He forgot, also, to mention the sheep.

Wheeling down a hill I find the road blocked by a wooly flock. Waving my arms wildly I shout at them to “shoo,” but the sheep stand impassively before me.

I dismount and navigate my bike through the flock. It’s clear who owns the road here.

Sheep are not the only inhabitants of this remote stretch of the Beara. The ghost of history is a presence as well. Past Allihilies there are signs for a “Mass Rock,” a stone altar dating from penal times when the ruling British attempted to outlaw the Catholic faith. The Irish worshipped secretly in remote locations, posting guards to keep watch for British redcoats.

The Beara is littered with historical sites, dating back to 1,000 BC. There are stone circles, wedge tombs, and the remains of a settlement that includes stone huts and an early church surrounded by a ring fort. The next village along the western side of the peninsula is Eyeries, which boasts not only cheerful streets with houses painted every color of the rainbow, but also the tallest Ogham Stone in Ireland (17.5 feet high). Dating from the 4th to 7th centuries AD and inscribed with an early Irish script, these stones are thought to mark ancient grave sites.

I planned to stop for lunch in the flower-bedecked town of Ardgroom, 20 hilly miles into the day, but still full from breakfast, I push through to Lauragh, located on the silvery shores of Kilmakilloge Harbor. From here the road splits and I turn right, cycling upward into the fierce rockiness of the Caha Mountains.

Here again is the desolate beauty of the Beara, sheer mountains cloaked in brush and encircled with wispy fingers of fog. Though the uphill is unrelenting, the scenery makes up for it and the air rushing past on the downhill rips my hair from beneath my helmet in a dose of pure exhilaration.

On the gray-blue shores of Clonee Lakes I come across a roadside inn. Though I am not far from Kenmare, the end of the Beara Peninsula and my goal for the night, I decide a bowl of soup is in order.

Once inside, I fall under the charge of the friendly, white-haired manager Sean. He sets me up with a bowl of steaming hot vegetable soup and more of the brown bread I have grown to love. “You’d be needing something warm after cycling that mountain, you would,” he says as he serves me.

My bowl of soup proves to be so good, and the view of Clonee Lakes so lovely, or perhaps it is Sean’s friendliness and the fact that I don’t want to leave the Beara, but I find myself asking if there might be a room available for the night.

“Ah, sure there is,” Sean replies and dons a raincoat to show how I can store my bike in a large, wood-floored hall built on the shores of the lake. “We be having dances here,” he tells me. “There was one last Friday.”

Suddenly I wish I could stay until the next dance, imaging wicked fiddle music and dancing till dawn. Truth be told, I’d be willing to stay on the Beara indefinitely.

But the next day dawns clear and the road is calling.

Having learned my lesson, I turn down cereal at breakfast and am prepared for the hefty plate of eggs, bacon, grilled tomato, sautéed mushrooms, and sausage. The dinning room staff clucks over me and tries to offer more food—fruit cocktail, toast, cereal, a variety of juices as well as tea. Breakfast, it seems, is not taken lightly in Ireland.

Packing my clothes—now clean and dry thanks to Sean—I am sad to be leaving the Beara. A few more miles and I am in the market town of Kenmare, situated along the Ring of Kerry and the end of the Beara Cycle Route. Kenmare is overwhelming, clogged with traffic, filled with tour groups, recorded Irish fiddle music broadcast from shops draped in shamrocks and green. I miss the beauty and desolation of the Beara already.

Ten days later I turn my rental bike into the bike depot in Galway. Having cycled the entire southwestern coast of Ireland—from Cork to Galway—the rugged beauty of the Beara still stands out in my mind. And I think about Mac in the bike shop and his advice to skip the Beara.

I wonder if he was truly warning me away from boring desolation, or just trying to keep the best bit of Ireland for himself. A ploy for which I wouldn’t blame him one bit.

Oh, the Beara? I wouldn’t go. There’s really nothing there.

On a Fijian island, paradise awaits

By Tara Austen Weaver

I lie awake in the dark and listen to the scratch-scratching of a crab as he tries to make his way through the bamboo slats that form the walls of my thatched bure. The noise blends with the lapping of the ocean and the cry of a million different Fijian insects. The crab is persistent and soon is crawling about the sand floor of my hut. By daybreak he is gone, leaving behind hundreds of tiny crab claw tracks in the sand.

I wake early and breakfast on papayas the size of melons. There are bananas as well, an entire branch of them hacked off the tree with a machete and hung to ripen in the outdoor kitchen. I sit at a table under the palm trees and watch gentle waves break on shore, the persistent rhythm now a backdrop to all that I do. I have not been out of range of the sound of the ocean for weeks now. I have ceased to hear it, as I cannot hear my own heartbeat.

There are four small islands lying offshore in a chain, like bits of earth flung off the mainland. I point my kayak toward them in the early morning light. It is not yet noon but the sun beats down with a tropical intensity as my boat slices through water clear as glass. Below me the coral, distorted by the waves, looks like a miniature magical forest. The third island out has a small sandy beach and I pull the boat ashore. It is my island for the day—three trees, a few bushes, rocks, and sand. Clothing is discarded as I don my snorkel and rush to explore the magical kingdom under the sea.

Purple starfish drape over rocks of blue, green, and yellow. Tiny turquoise fish hover around a peach-colored coral, like bluebirds perched in a tree. Snakes are striped black and white like zebras, and sea anemones extend tentacles of green and gold. It is like a dream, a hallucination, stranger than imagination, yet as real as the salt on my skin and the sun on my back. I lie on the sand and savor my world.

Stretched out on the beach I can hear the laughter of a pack of local schoolboys echoing over the water. They laugh like all Fijians laugh, a cascade of sound pouring forth. It is laughter that is unrestrained and joyous, impolite and utterly entrancing. I have laughed more in these islands than ever before in my life. Laughed more, and heard more laughter, than anywhere else I have ever been.

I sink into warm sand and wonder what it would be like to stay here, to laugh every day and never know cold. To breakfast on fruit I pick myself and to drink kava each night around the campfire as the guitars are strummed and songs sung. What would it be like to chase crabs from my hut each day at daybreak, to live within hearing distance of waves crashing onto beaches and reefs, to float daily in warm water, to dive and splash and play?

My lunch is simple, a pancake-like roti folded over and stuffed with curried potatoes bought from the woman who runs a stand in what can barely be called a village. She smiles at me every day and serves tea, milky hot, sweet and strong. Though I am here alone, I never feel lonely. Friendly eyes watch over me and people I have not yet met call out my name, rolling the pronunciation so that it sounds like an invitation, an incantation, a bond between us. “Bula,” they greet me. Life.

Afternoon finds the kayak heading back to the mainland. The magic kingdom will wait for another day, another explorer. For me it is a long walk down the dirt road, into a flaming crimson island sunset. Later I lie in the dark—tired, invigorated, mystified, and satisfied. I listen to the lapping of the waves, the faint crash of the surf as it breaks on offshore reefs, and the scratch-scratching of a crab trying to get through the bamboo slats of my seaside hut.

Cycle commuting across the Golden Gate Bridge

By Tara Austen Weaver

It’s still dark as I pull myself from a warm bed, thinking briefly of those who slumber on. Shuffling around the house I fill water bottles and stuff work clothes into bags while pulling on leggings and lacing up shoes. I clatter noisily down the stairs in the chilly pre-dawn silence and wheel my bike out of the garage. There is no traffic on the roads, bar the clanking garbage truck, and I glide past houses still dark.

There are those who think I’m crazy, waking long before necessary in order to bike to work. There are questions they ask—about showering, transporting clothes, changing flat tires. There are answers I give—the environment, exercise, traffic—but they all fall short. It’s hard to explain what can only be experienced.

Merging onto the bike path I speed past the salty marshes and wetlands of the bay. The tang of the air tickles inside my nose. Lights from the distant road reflect on calm waters rippling into infinity and I hear the tide swishing under wooden bridges as my wheels roll over them. The air is cold as it whips past, stripping away any vestiges of sleep. Soon there are houseboats and sailboats bobbing offshore, white beacons in the paling dark. There are joggers out now and we nod in greeting as we pass each other, sharing the bond of the early riser.

I was not always a bike commuter. There were days when I drove my car to the ferry terminal and sipped coffee as I read the paper, crossing the bay safely ensconced in a window seat. Other days I shuffled three steps up and onto the bus, feeding money into the machine and taking a thin paper transfer, fighting drowsiness as the low and steady sound of the motor threatened to send me back to sleep. I always seemed to arrive at work only half awake.

Cycling through the bayside town of Sausalito the image of my bike flashes on storefront after storefront window, creating a staccato pattern as I pedal smoothly onward. There is a break in the storefronts and suddenly the panorama of the city is before me: streets and houses and skyscrapers still outlined in twinkling lights, reflecting in the silent waters of the bay. The sky is blushing in the east, pink and gold fingers stretching upward.

Past Sausalito the road begins to steepen. I breathe deeply and the cold air knifes at my chest. Pushing harder my legs begin to warm and burn, first the right then the left, as I steadily climb the hill. Head down I push past stands of eucalyptus trees, fragrant in the morning moisture, and the delicate lacy green of fennel bushes lining the road.

My first ride into the city was serendipity. Deciding to bike from my house to the ferry I misjudged time and arrived just as the stout boat was pulling away from the pier. I had two options: leave my bike locked to a lamppost and take the bus, or ride all the way. Emboldened by the early morning light I decided to go for it. I’ve never looked back.

Cresting the hill the Golden Gate Bridge is before me, glowing red in the radiance of dawn. The cars are thick now, bogged down amongst themselves, and I speed past them on the walkway. The bridge hums from the vibrations of many motors and I feel the movement through my handlebars. Leaning forward I wheel across the slight incline, stopping at the middle of the span.

Suddenly the flaming gold of the sun bursts over the eastern edge of my world, flooding the city, the bay, and the mountains with a generous light. The bridge is illuminated now, more golden than ever before. The moment is precious, worth waking up for, worth the work to get here, worth it just to hang suspended high over water—on a shimmering link of gold—to watch the day begin.

Eventually I move on, wheeling across the span in the warming light. Descents wait for me on the other side—coasting down hills to the sandy wetlands of Crissy Field and the manicured green lawns and sailboats of the Marina. Cresting another grassy hill I glide down the curve of Aquatic Park where waves break rhythmically on a crescent of damp sand. The wharf is here, eerie without its daytime clamor. Restaurants are just beginning to stir as I speed past, busboys sweeping the sidewalk, a bakery churning out fresh bread. The air smells of yeasty dough, fresh fish, and the alluring scent of possibility.

There are days when I simply can’t bike. Days when logistics require a car, or evening plans preclude bringing a bike along. These days are never as good. Try as I might, I am cranky, still sleepy at three, my brain set on some slower speed. I need the cycle spins in order to function properly. If this is addiction I am not complaining.

Clearing the wharf I roll onto the smooth sidewalk of the Embarcadero. Piers flash by me on the left as I swoop around joggers, walkers, and graceful rollerbladers enjoying the early morning sunshine. The world seems new, and waiting in patient readiness for something to happen. The water of the bay glistens to my left and I wheel past the soaring dome of the ferry terminal, its arched façade disgorging early commuters scurrying to offices, meetings, and industry.

The Embarcadero curves around the city, embracing towers and buildings, and I follow the smooth pavement and wide sidewalk that borders the water. Here are the docks of yesteryear, haunted by the figures of longshoremen, the days when San Francisco was a real port. Rotting now, the sodden wood is slowly falling into salty waters; a century of history being forgotten.

To my right are the gleaming towers of the new San Francisco, an era of electronics and ideas replacing the might of ships and men. Here are the machines, the engineers, the high tech speculation, the new concept that rules all. Never let it be said that San Francisco had only one gold rush.

The clear bright of the day is reflected in these sharp windows, the waters of the bay dancing with light. In a groove now I coast past coffee shops—the deep aroma coaxing me onward— and toward the end of the Embarcadero. Here are the last of the boats, pristine sails a brilliant white in the early morning sunshine. Here too is the ballpark, its rusty brick solidity anchoring the shoreline. Memories of pitchers and peanuts cling poignant to the empty shell and, as I sail past, I glimpse a moment of velvety green through the open porthole door.

Leaving the Embarcadero I find myself on city sidewalks and dismount to cross the busy street. The train station bustles with commuters, coffee cups and briefcases in hand, eager to start their day. The flower vendor is stocked with deep purple irises, tender roses, and fragrant daylilies. The newspaper seller calls out headlines to a wakening world.

Crossing at the light I stand before the low brick building that is my destination. Removing my helmet I shoulder my bike and clankity-clank my way up the stairs, maneuvering the landing, and up again to my floor. My bike clicks quietly as I wheel it down carpeted halls and into my office.

“How was your ride?” my co-workers ask each morning.

“Not bad,” I say with a smile. Exhilarated. Invigorated. Alive. I am already eager for the ride home.

One last run on a favorite route before moving on

By Tara Austen Weaver

The house is silent as I wander through dark rooms. My boxes are packed and sealed, ready to be moved first thing in the morning. A thousand miles away an empty house sits waiting for my arrival, but I am not ready to leave yet. There is one last thing I must do before I go.

My running clothes and shoes sit on top of an overnight bag, the last thing to be packed. In a bedroom filled with crates and brown cardboard I change quickly, slipping my house key onto the laces of my running shoes and tying it in place. I realize this is the last run with this particular key; I wonder how many times, on how many runs, it has accompanied me.

The streets are quiet as I slip out my front door and head south. Though it is dark between the street lamps, I don’t need the light. After three years I know this run instinctively—what patch of sidewalk has uneven cracks; which neighbors leave their garden hose looped across my path; where the rainwater tends to puddle.

I try to search my memory for the first time I took this route, but there’s nothing there. I can’t remember a time before this run. As I think, a series of images come flooding out, a catalogue of the past three years.

I remember joining the neighborhood kids as they sprinted through sprinklers on hot summer afternoons; listening to cheers of the little league fans as I ran by the park; racing through summer sunsets of dazzling orange and red.

I remember leaping over piles of brilliantly colored autumn leaves, carefully raked and waiting to be hauled away; dodging the big, black walnuts that fall from the ancient tree on the corner every autumn; night runs under a full, orange, harvest moon.

I remember winter runs through snowy scenery, my breath freezing before me; bundled up carolers wishing me well as I sprinted by them on icy streets; the magic of starlight on fleshly falling flakes. Though the seasons changed and the years moved forward, my favorite run remained a constant.

Warming up now I hit my stride and coast through the neighborhood, past house and cottage, car and driveway. I do not know all the people who live here. We wave to each other when I run by, but I do not know their names. Instead I know when they mow their lawn, rake their leaves and prune their trees. I know what month each garden is at the height of bloom. There are gardens here I will miss: the cheerful daffodils on the corner, the roses mid block.

There will be new gardens where I am going, new gardens and new runs. As I think about it I become excited for the discoveries that lie ahead, new territory to explore. I wonder how long it will take me to find my favorite run. Will it be hilly or flat? Will it have a park or a river?

There is a river here and as the road curves around I reach it, water gurgling softly in the darkness. This is the start of my distance training route—a slow uphill along the river to open fields beyond our town, wooded mountains looming in the distance.

This is where I turn back tonight. I am not training for anything, my races here have all been run. I ease into a loping stride as I let the downhill work for me. There will be new races where I am going, and new challenges as well. I relax as I glide past houses, gardens and park—the scenery of my last three years. I try to take everything in, to affix this place in my mind.

The porch light burns warmly as I round the corner and make for home. I bound up my stairs for the last time. Untying my house key from my shoelace, I am smiling. This has been a good place, a good time in my life. I unlock the door and think about that empty house waiting for me, a thousand miles away. My farewell now complete, I am ready for the next good thing.