We first laid eyes on you over drinks and dinner in the Latin Quarter, a short stroll from the Spanish Arch, its historical significance gone in a heartbeat along with all expectation of ambush by austere beauty on those wind swept stepping stones Inishmore, Inishmaan and Inisheer.
The River Corrib gleams like vintage vinyl beneath Wolfe Tone Bridge, grainy and black as your liquid image glowing serene on screen, countless heartbeats of moonlight mingling quayside with the sea in a salty embrace that stings my eyes and seizes me by the throat.
The windows of St. Martin’s frame the timeless river. Soft chamois of morning lifts the stubborn tarnish of dawn from its braided embellished tales. We tuck into our full Irish and drink watery coffee while you float outside time to the rhythm of the tides in your small brackish sea.