(teaser)

I've been in a strange fog of adjustment since arriving in Rodez from Dublin early this morning. My body is certainly back in Aveyron, but my mind and (dare I say it) my heart are still in Ireland.

Seeing something new is always invigorating. Throw in spectacular natural beauty, good company, excellent timing, a small car, adventurous spirits, a couple hundred baby lambs, several pints and a dash of poetry--there's not much more you can ask of a Spring break.

I'm still in the process of managing the photos. Looking through them, I can hardly believe the week I just wound up. I'm completely knackered at the moment, so it's not the time for a giant picture or adventure re-cap. It is, however, the time for me to avow my strengthening attachment to the Irish poet W.B. Yeats (a rediscovery that began the night of the last post, when I devoured a borrowed anthology of his poetry waiting for the sunrise).

I didn't realize it, but that spark of connection to the poet fell in perfectly with my approaching trip, and my Irish experience was far richer for it. Our very first real stop, in fact, was Coole Park (click here)-- the setting for Yeats' poem The Wild Swans at Coole. I wouldn't have thought of stopping there on our way to Galway, but I lucked out having an astute Yeats-lover for a driver who did think of it and got us there. The serenity of the park and lake under a bright, dripping sky quietly astounded me, and set the pace for a week of frequent, soul-soothing and soul-stirring beauty. That said, it's no wonder the Irish have such a rich cultural heritage.

The Wild Swans at Coole

The trees are in their autumn beauty,
The woodland paths are dry,
Under the October twilight the water
Mirrors a still sky;
Upon the brimming water among the stones
Are nine-and-fifty swans.

The nineteenth autumn has come upon me
Since I first made my count;
I saw, before I had well finished,
All suddenly mount
And scatter wheeling in great broken rings
Under their clamorous wings.

I have looked upon those brilliant creatures,
And now my heart is sore.
All's changed since I, hearing at twilight,
The first time on this shore,
The bell-beat of their wings above my head,
Trod with a lighter tread.

Unwearied still, lover by lover,
They paddle in the cold
Companionable streams or climb the aire;
Their hearts have not grown old;
Passion or conquest, wander where they will,
Attend upon them still.

But now they drift on the still water,
Mysterious, beautiful;
Among what rushes will they build,
By what lake's edge or pool
Delight men's eyes when I awake some day
To find they have flown away.

W.B. Yeats