It's a
mountain, but it feels more like a large hill from this end. It’s not like you
have to do any mountain-climbing to reach the top. The cost is two euros a
person because it's on a farmer’s land, private property in a way made
public. The path going up slopes gently to the top, straight through pastures filled
with sheep. The sheep don’t really bother you, but they’ll run if you get too
close. Mostly, they simply sit and stare at you, unhappy you’re there but not
afraid, as though their glares are saying, “Why are you here? This is our land.”
But that land has been shared against their will and the occupants begrudgingly
allow passage.
The other side
of this mountain is less forgiving. There is no path down, and though the cliff
isn’t sheer, it would be a long fall with many ledge-like crevices, mostly rock
in nature. The view is that of the ocean. Hidden bays void of anything but saltwater,
rock walls, and a fishing boat, only visible because of the elevation. To the
left, more ocean. To the right, a stone wall, built years prior, running the
length of this stretch of land, down the sloping hill as though it owns it.
Behind, Dingle Bay, the houses, the little streets, the boats coming in and
going out.
Like a
centerpiece to the whole expanse, on the crest stands the tower, solid all the
way through, so far as it seems. Built of blackened rock, uneven pieces forming
a perfectly cylindrical tower, its presence one of many established to avoid shipwrecks
in years past. To its right lies a WWII outpost, cement, clearly of newer
making, though now overcome with graffiti and lack of upkeep. Two sentinels of
time, these physical markers represent the motion of history, the passing of
what is finished and yet the continuance of the same. This is old land with old
history, with new history, with the now barely impressed upon it except through
the life of the land itself.
