Remembering Aran

In Germany, when I sleep in my highrise apartment in the city centre, I dream of Inis Mór. She comes to me in the mind’s eye, approaching me over the horizon, as if I am skimming the Atlantic ocean in flight. She looms before me in Galway bay, the sea foam exploding on her southern flank, while the white boats glide softly towards her northern. I smell the milky seaweed, encrusted with salt. I hear the nickering of the horses, the clatter of their hooves. I feel already the harsh karst under my feet, land that has stood, sentinel like and unyielding, for thousands of years. I...

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