Ballad of Mallard > Listen on BandCamp

The ride from the airport was short but heavy with the weight of travel, lighter chatting with new friends. Home (Ballinamallard), our bags clattered onto the hallway floor, and before the jet lag could settle deeper, Brad and Craig nudged us gently toward the back door and back outside. The house itself was charming, but it was the backyard that opened its arms to us.

Late afternoon light poured in from the west, unusually warm for Ireland. The painted yellow walls of the garden glowed like they had been dipped in honey. The garden stretched long and neat, framed by waist-high stone walls, with flowers bending toward the sun and vegetables reaching upward as if in celebration. Their pup Winston is playing around our feet.

The garden seemed to lean closer, fruit trees flickering in the warm light, the shed in the corner humming faintly as if it were listening in.

A table was set under the awning, the smell of lamb stew curling through the air, mingled with roasted vegetables and potatoes crisping on the barbecue.

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