Ancient magic lives here still

From O’Brien’s Tower they seem to stretch beyond horizon. The limestone walls painted in ten thousand shades of green extend forever to meet the sky, where ocean gives way to fog. Rolling fords blanket the cliff tops, ephemeral sea-spray ponds dot the pastures—a scene where Cuchulainn and Ferdia might have fought. Be wary of spancel hoops. Down toward the edge, under the liability fence: “exercise extreme caution beyond this point.” Two hundred meters below waves crash against jagged rock. The wind blows in every direction as gulls float along its twisting currents. “No quiero morir aqui!” a woman yells into the gusts, muffled by the din. Places inherently bring to mind certain ideas. Death seems prominent among them here. Death and awe. To peer over the precipice, as one must, reveals it would indeed be a magnificent fall. Sea-foam confetti erupts from the chasm, littering the sky, dancing between the birds. And from the distance, or the world below, a mystic song spreads across the air as if an invitation from the Danann to commune with Tir na Nog. In time, history and mythology fold inseparably together: action becomes legend becomes myth. Who knows where we fall? Ancient magic lives here still.

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