Kalliope 2015 | Page 19

ground is less swampy up here but still soft. We do not stand too close to the edge because the green cliff drops into the sea. Here I get a picture of myself. My pink hat that says “Slainte,” Irish for “cheers,” pops against the grey sky. Ten minutes later and that hat will be soaking wet. I’m smiling in that photo, and I have never looked more American with my toothy grin, cross-body purse, and yoga pants. I take a picture of the sheep running across the mountain top. This is the Ireland we expect: chilly and beautiful. The landscape is a postcard in some travel agency far, far away. The sky and mountains painted on an old moldy canvas, unreal and ancient. Tomas wants us to continue walking along the tops of the mountains to reach a Megalithic tomb. We had seen one already in Carrowkeel. Built during the Neolithic era or “New Stone Age,” the tombs are the resting places of the monks who inhabited early Ireland. Scattered across the tops of mountains, the tombs are clumps of large stones. They look as fresh as the newly cut bog, but the bodies have disappeared. The tombs provide a reminder that despite how little they’ve aged Ireland’s history is old. Life in western Ireland has never been easy. Like the unexpected bog flowers, the natives of Achill Island are accustomed to the wasted beauty of Achill Island. It is Ireland’s largest island at 148 square kilometers, but it is lonely with a population of less than 3,000. Tourists visit in the summer months, but the long stretches of winter are dark filled with rain and empty vacation cottages. In Dooagh, our particular location in Achill, there is one pub and a grocery store, both of which are owned by the Gielty brothers. The grocery store closes early, but the owner, Diarmuid, opens it just for us since our classes do not end until six or seven. More sheep than people inhabit Dooagh. The beasts have blue and red paint splashed on their backsides to indicate ownership. The area is littered with fences that the sheep hop over as if it were a game. The entire countryside is their home. They cry out periodically throughout the day with their secret conversation. There are more sheep than cars on the main road through town. Back on the mountain, I put up my hood and tie it tight to keep my pink hat from blowing off in the sudden storm that has caught us exposed. The sheep somehow disappear into the mountain. There is no protection in the bog, no trees to break the wind. It is just us and the storm, and we are not making it to the Megalithic tomb. Tomas begins 19