a glen for a hermit

Glendalough ("glen of two lakes"), in the Wicklow Mountains of Ireland.  A fellow called St. Keven decided to camp out here in the 600s.  In keeping with the hermit theme, I made a day of it at the lakes by myself.

(This is the upper lake.  Interestingly, it is quite smaller than it looks.)

Some monastic ruins still remain.  (No thanks to the English, who raided them a few centuries later.)

Kevin picked a good campsite.

If you wade through thick trees, eventually you get to the top -- a quite good view.

(I sang, "The hills are alive...")

Breezier than the bottom, perhaps.

It made me think of the lyrics to "How Great Thou Art":

When through the woods and forest glades I wander,

And hear the birds sing sweetly in the trees;

When I look down from lofty mountain grandeur,

And hear the brook, and feel the gentle breeze:

Then sings my soul, my Savior God, to thee,

How great thou art, how great thou art!

when you get outside Dublin...

...you see more exciting things, like the sea:

These are from a little coast town called Howth, which, our hosts rightly told us, had excellent cliffs from which to see the sea:

...captions not needed.

four bits of Dublin

Trinity College, which houses the Book of Kells

One of the many, many pubs (and not quite as many horse-and-wagons)

Christ Church (characteristically, I spent an hour writing in its yard -- my favorite part of the day)

And a harpist on the sidewalk (this made me look forward to going home to my own)

needly rocks and other isle intrigues

On the western tip of the Isle of Wight are some crags called the Needles.  They look rather blunt for needles, but here they are, nonetheless, shrouded in a mysterious fog:

The way down to the Needles:

The deserted Needles shore:

We trekked over half the isle today and yesterday via bus and foot.

Buses are good for overhearing things.

While I was waiting for one of them, the lady next to me suddenly remarked – staring contemplatively at nothing – “Pigs are closest to humans, I think.”  This surprised me because she looked perfectly normal.   I twitched an eyebrow in agreement and companionably stared at nothing.

On another bus some scruffy middle-school boys lounged at the front.  Impressively, they were discussing grammar:

“What’s the past tense of brake?  Is it braked or broke?”

“I think if it’s coming from you, it’s braked.”

“I braked my bike – no, that doesn’t sound right...”

Soon the conversation rabbit-trailed to the cramped bus seats.  “Nothing’s made the right size for a man.”

More photos:

On the Yarmouth pier:

“The hills are alive” – wayside field on the footpath to Fishbourne

All Saints Church in Ryde

(we stopped and wrote English-major stuff in our journals)

The "Wight" kind of isle

The long-neglected Wales installment will soon come - but for now, I'm going to ignore chronological order. Instead here are some photos of where I am at the moment - the Isle of Wight, off the coast of southern England.

Ferry boardwalk:

View from our cabin window:

Favorite part so far:  Live chickens.  Our cabin is inside a fenced yard with four very-tame hens.  I couldn’t believe it when I walked up the path and saw them scratching around at the gate.  They come right up on our doorstep.   The landlady’s daughter told me their names.  Nothing makes me happy like friendly chickens.   (And fresh eggs for breakfast.)