Sunday Irish Walk

A gentle rain on a Sunday morning and no reason to avoid the daily walk, so off I go in LL Bean blue raincoat, years old. I walk down Abbey Lane. It is so quiet, only the sound of rain on the leaves, and I keep craning my neck to see the estuary. There are hedgerows almost seven feet tall, something I have only read about in English novels. Now there is a real hedgerow along this narrow path filled with wild yellow irises. And I think of my grandmother yet again naming her first child, a girl, Iris. I walk until I get to the end of the lane, to a fishing area, marked no trespassing, requirements of how big trout to keep, and that the car park floods in spring. There is a white van and a grey sedan, and two men talking. I greet them, walk to take a picture, turn and leave. Before I head back to my place, I follow the signs to St. Patrick’s well. Now I understand why people wear boots. My black New Balance tennis shoes (aka sneakers) are soaking wet from walking the grassy path to the well. I don’t care. I am stunned by what I see: ribbons and rosary beads on a tree and a formal statue honoring this place. It is the little investigations that surprise me most.