.Are things starting early or is it me that's getting old? The whooper swans arrived on Wednesday on a 3pm flight from Iceland, as winter there begins to take hold. The sheep are keen to greet them, leaping as they run, but the poor old swans are tired from flying and only want to be left alone. Two hours sleep from the sheep was granted in the grassy fields beneath the ancient tombs, but bleats soon warned of trouble, sighting a patrolling quad on its daily tour. The whooper swans take flight across the mound of Newgrange to seek sanctuary beyond the hill of Slane. Duck hunting will kick off shortly, and such sights will be but short glimmers through the winter's veil of darkness, or the echos of retreating trumpeters when the dampness of dawn begins to take its first airy breath.
The moon has not yet turned its back, before the giggling otters are out splashing in the river and chasing one another over the arched bridge of the canal. No seals about for the past while, perhaps there is enough food at the entrance of the river.
Our Wednesday evenings are still all about currachs, trying to tweek oarlocks for newly planned oars. The trailer seems harder on the boats than anything else but as Mark calmly remarks...'Its all about tender loving kindness'.
The moon has not yet turned its back, before the giggling otters are out splashing in the river and chasing one another over the arched bridge of the canal. No seals about for the past while, perhaps there is enough food at the entrance of the river.
Our Wednesday evenings are still all about currachs, trying to tweek oarlocks for newly planned oars. The trailer seems harder on the boats than anything else but as Mark calmly remarks...'Its all about tender loving kindness'.
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