Dispatch from Kerry 3

He carries no compass, recognising no need
For an arrow quivering northward from his palm.
Nor does he feel any call for precise coordinates
Beamed from satellites to tell him where he is.

The pattern of the stars is as fixed in his mind
As the junipers that doggedly clamp the embrace
Of their roots into these scree slopes, whose steepness
In the darkest night his feet can read like contours.

By day it’s easier. The high sun makes everything clear,
A clarity so insistent that sometimes he must escape it.
Now it’s the quick scurry of the lizard that informs him,
And the circles woven by falcons in the blanketing sky.

Sometimes his routes are traced along the lined faces
Of the old men along the way who pour him tea;
A stone stairs made the year the gorges were flooded,
A dry stream that leads by midday to the shade of figs. 

Thunderstorms among the high peaks, he knows,
Will tumble a wind withershins across the plain below,
But by daybreak the river surging through the gorge
Will have said its piece, and calmed, and moved on.

At times he navigates by landmarks he cannot see
But has heard about from people he has not met:
A foreboding of illness or death along that gorge,
The promise of fresh water below a distant overhang.

He knows winds by their smell, by their texture:
The dust-bearing summer wind that clogs the nose,
The spring southerlies beloved of the high villages
And the iron wind that nomads say can crack a bone.

And always remember, he says, to look for droppings
On any likely path. The goat’s quick path may lead you
To dark, blank walls. But the path slowly trodden by mules
Will always lead to campfires, stories, a place to sleep.
Navigator by Paddy Bushe

Another big day in very wild surroundings. First up something I was really looking forward to- a visit to St Buonia's ecclesiastical site way up on a mountain which had recently been cleared and sort of partly restored - and of course it has a well. We gathered at St Finán's Bay where it was blowing a mighty hooley and the waves were colossal. Apparently St Finán himself is partly to blame for he was coming across from Skellig Michael and had just landed near the shore when a wave knocked him off his feet and he got his sandals wet! He was so annoyed he said there would be a ragged and large wave forever in the bay, and apparently there is though they all looked pretty large and ragged today. 

A group of about 20 of us then car pooled and headed up to the incredibly remote and incredibly boggy site,  Astonishing to see the terraced site complete with impressive gable shrine and cross slab. The well was like a swamp but in the middle is a little cairn with some wonderful carved stones, blipped before. We were led by Paddy Bushe and Irish poet and a man in tune with the land and its stories. That's one of his poems above.

Back to the house and R&F had headed for home. Himself and I visited another well I know say nothing and then went for a bit of  a blow on Derrynane strand. It was actually quite hard to stay upright and the wind was whipping up the sand into a frenzy. The choughs were enjoying themselves though, handsome black birds with red legs and red beaks.