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.
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