A Vision of Ireland

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.