It is a soft, misty morning here in Virginia. The clouds are draped softly on the trees, the grass, the ground. The white swirls around as I drive. I feel as if I am wrapped in a soft fluffy blanket, and I am instantly, happily, back in Ireland on a similar day.
A low whistle, the uillean pipes, the guitar, the lyrical stories in song fill my car’s speakers. I begin to smile, to imagine, to be there.
Sitting in the pub, on a soft misty day, eating an amazing fresh-caught fish, a lovely Smithwick’s pint to wash it down.
Not knowing exactly what will happen next, but blissfully not worrying about it.
Listening to the session musicians, watching the set dancing….people much older than me who could dance as if they had springs underfoot.
The dark, warm wooden tones of the pub wrapping you up to insulate against anything the outside might throw your way.
What a lovely morning of imagining, of remembering, it has been.
Slainte, Lisa
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