Morning in the west of Ireland on a perfect day in late June.
The back door of the cottage is open; wood pigeons call softly to one another as blackbirds swoop noisily in and out of the blackcurrant bushes, feasting on the heavily laden stems.
Morning…full of stillness and promise, the prelude to a hot, dry day of high summer.
The cottage will remain a cool sanctuary, as the heat of the day rises golden over the hill of Ballyfermoyle.
Birds will swoop along paths of shade, wings outstretched catching the earthy updraft of chill.
“Summer was our best season: it was sleeping on the back screened porch in cots, or trying to sleep in the treehouse; summer was everything good to eat; it was a thousand colors in a parched landscape; but most of all, summer was Dill.”
― Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird
“Summer set lip to earth’s bosom bare, and left the flushed print in a poppy there.”
― Francis Thompson
The hill at the back of the cottage captures the sounds of the birds, holding them close before echoing onto the walls and through the open door into the cool recesses of the stone.
Leaving this sacred place would never sit easy in my heart, for all that is Bealtaine Cottage has been co-created with the great Mother: Earth, Gaia, Nature…whatever insufficient name we draw upon to express the mystery of the Divine.
My dream to plant a forest will come to pass…in some divine way…
I dream and manifest the vision in sleep and wakedness.
One day, a beautiful morning such as this will shine through onto a young forest floor, illuminating the darkness of a greed-stricken world.
