When I was a working class kid growing up in England, nobody talked much about Ireland. The
Troubles hadn’t started yet and it wasn’t the popular tourist destination that
it later became. And yet I once heard the name Connemara and it struck a chord
like no other place name did (although Mandalay
came close.) It felt warm, homely and romantic, and I wanted to be there.
I also had a recurring dream in which I was walking down a
lane on a summer’s day. A little way in the distance I could see a whitewashed
cottage or croft to the left of the road, and on the right was a gently sloping
green field where black and white cows grazed contentedly. Ahead of me I could
see an azure sea topped by a blue sky replete with white, fluffy clouds.
I always associated the scene with the name Connemara, and all my life I’ve had the notion that one
day I might go there and find the exact location, right down to the white
cottage and the Friesian cows. I never did.
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