It has been three weeks below zero. Fortunately King Winter usually goes accompanied by the Sun Queen and the reflection of light on the snow-clad slopes of Slieve Elva softens the shadows of the rocks.
Each morning my stonechat’s flapping reminds me of the fee I owe her for her performance in my New Year’s Address: a crumbled biscuit in an anti-blow-off pan.
In the morning when the day awakens in purple panoramas the sea is as smooth as a mirror. Vanity on skates, though, would sadly drown trying to reach the Aran Islands.
But then a distant breeze approaches and touches the water to velvet with mysterious meanders.
From nowhere a swell rises, crystal clear from offshore winds, recklessly climbs to its toes, opens its maw across the entire span and tumbles, won over by gravity, into bewildering white water with a rainbow in the crest spray.
The cold freezes the moisture from the air and clears the fending rocks in crisp contours.
This morning my third eye was drawn by something bulbous, close to the coast. I walked up the rocks and there it was again. But before I could rest my binoculars in the arches of my eyes it had disappeared again. I positioned myself behind the 'spy rock', a standing slab that hides my being seen from the sea, and a little later it was there again.
No doubt about it, it was a grey seal. He lightthoused his long beak around but missed me. Then he went afloat, hanging off his nostrils just above the surface. Now and again a security look-around and back to relax. Cool, man!
Now it's to be hoped he and Dusty will connect. I have never seen it myself, but heard more than once that Dusty used to play around with a seal. That would have been around Arkeen, some three rock k's from here, but only one from Bridie by Trawee beach.
A little later I saw a bird fly from my dish-rack. Only a few metres, then she landed out of sight, behind a rock. That is not very clever if you want to escape my attention. I heard a continuous tapping and puma-ed closer. There she sat, with a snail in her beak. She tried to break the shell for the snack inside, but that, just like many modern wrappings, wasn't easy. All of the 'Burren' here is composed of limestone, so the shell was rock hard. In the shadows the hoarfrost glistened treacherously and when I looked up again the bird had flown, an incomplete tragedy.
Yesterevening it began to thaw. Last night the wind bullied the bus, blew the buoy from its pedestal and my bin from under the mono lid.
The swell lights up in emerald under a foamy fury. Here beauty is indestructible.