The Cliffs of Moher > Audio on Patreon
I step onto the path at the Cliffs of Mohr, early morning, wrapping me in a fine, misty rain that clings to my face like a soft veil. The sky stretches wide, a pale white-gray glow, not dark or heavy, but pulsing with quiet life.
The cliffs loom before me, their massive forms draped in light mist, their vastness spilling along the coastline, unhidden, eternal. My boots press into solid rock, a granite mass that feels old like it’s anchored the earth forever, a thin skim of soil barely covering its ancient heart.
Tiny plants, some no taller than my thumb, curl inland, bowing to years of relentless breath from the Atlantic, their delicate arcs telling stories of endurance. Shrubs and stunted trees lean away from the sea, sculpted into gentle curves, as if sculpted by an unseen hand.
Below, the Atlantic surges with a deep, steady, and hungry thud, pounding the cliffs with unyielding force, announcing its might. Swirls of foam and whiteheads dance in its retreat, carving eddies in the dark water.
The wind, the soul of this place, roars across the cliff tops, tugging my coat, lifting and spinning my bag, daring me to stay upright. It carries that misty rain, stinging my face, sweeping over the land like a cleansing breath, not just nourishing the stubborn lichens or the grazing cattle on the nearby hill, but lifting centuries of Ireland’s grief, its struggles etched into this harsh, unyielding terrain.
Settlers fought to carve lives here, their days shaped by sparse soil and ceaseless gales, and I sense this wind is here to heal, to transmute that hardship into something lighter, something sacred. Birds, gulls, and puffins soar early, slicing through the mist, but as the wind grows fiercer, they hunker down, tucking into crevices or nestling among low shrubs.
Stone paths, worn smooth by countless footsteps, guide my way as I lean into the gusts, laughing as my coat flaps wildly. There’s a fire inside me, a spark I summon to stand tall against this wind’s challenge, mirrored in the cattle grazing steadfast and the trembling plants fighting to hold their ground.
The cliffs hum with mysticism, whispering of shipwrecks swallowed by the sea, of settlers wrestling with this brutal land, and of the countless souls drawn to these edges seeking its timeless pulse.
As the morning deepens, the wind softens, its wild gusts easing into a gentler breath, as if it’s decided I’ve proven myself. The misty rain settles, cooler now, less driven. The cliffs stand resolute, their granite heart unshaken, while the ocean’s deep pounding slows, its eddies swirling quieter.
The tiny plants, curled inland like dancers in mid-arc, seem to rest, their resilience glowing. Cattle graze steadily on the hill, unmoved by the fading gale.
That inner fire, the spark that kept me upright, burns warm and steady now. The mist thickens, rolling in heavier, wrapping the cliffs in a soft, foggy hand. Their majestic edges blur, fading into the haze, a quiet goodbye. I turn from the path, heart light, carrying with me the cliffs’ ancient wisdom and charm as they melt into the fog’s embrace.
TK (with CI)
Recent Posts > Loughcrew
