Other than the occasional
jet stream when the clouds
permit, there is not a lot of
activity at Iskeroon in Winter.

The sea hesitates, stage fright on
the last step up to the mainland,
despite repetitious attempts to
overcome its bashfulness.

An occasional Jackdaw perches
on those stranded whale rocks
at low tide, no doubt expecting
to meet a nice Gull.

Kamikaze Cormorants, diving
Ganets, Robins and Finches,
not forgetting Wren's which
were hunted and killed by
Kerry people until recently due
to a Celtic myth that it was
the symbol of last year, thus a
sacrificial offering to some
pagan God which I should not
have accredited with a capital G.

Then there is post, a delivery to
the door, yet we being 2 miles
from the road and with the mail,
comes all the local gossip, of which,
no doubt we are now part of, but,
as we are only blow in's, the delivery
is brief, a mere exchange of our
impressions relating to the days
weather, which by his standard,
is always " Grand ".

About now, I go to put the Hens in,
the radio in their coup is set to Lyric
FM, a 24 hour non stop classical station,
apparently the Foxes are out witted by it.

Our fire is already lighting. It is said
" The burning of turf and the smoking
bacon has kept the Irish in a state of
euphoria, for centuries ".
I'd believe it, for it schmells like
marijuana schmoke wafting in the wind.

That and a drop of Potcheen, and
sure what would be ailing you.


ps.

Time now 16: 55 pm Co. Kerry
Ireland. 16th Nov 2019.
Iskeroon.com