Urban Coutryman

The southerly gale gained in bravado as it blew through the open lands in lee of the Sheeffry hills to the south east. It surged across Carrownisky Strand to hit the exposed Atlantic Ocean head on with all its unruly force. A fusion of wind, waves and swell combined to create a tuneless roaring drone, like a drunk blowing across the top of an empty Guinness bottle. Waves relentlessly pushed forward, determined to reclaim what was rightfully theirs. The gale of course did its best to stall progress and continually tore at the curling water, squalls of white flecked spray hurled downwind to dissolve into the aquamarine sea from whence it came.

The beach ran from the north way down to the south for further than the eye could see. Not a single person in either direction, only cows nonchalantly grazing the marshland and an occasional gull playing on the wind gave physical life to the scene. A burnished sun hung above fast racing clouds and cast a dappled dancing mosaic of light and shade across both landscape and seascape. Rising boldly from the ocean, the impressive form of Clare Island morphed to and fro between silhouette to vignette depending upon how the light struck her, subconsciously changing in mood from benign to foreboding as if at the flick of a switch.

I watched mesmerised from the comfort of the car, momentarily taken aback by the grandeur and ferocity of the scene, spectator to a beautifully untamed battle between earth, wind and water. I just had to experience the elements for myself. Leaving the sanctuary of the car was like stepping into a different world, the noise of howling wind filled my head to the exclusion of almost everything else. Walking briskly towards the raging sea, buffeted and unwillingly hurried along by the wind, felt as if I’d been summoned for a meeting with the Celtic sea god. But the rays of Spring sun soon warmed me through and the sharp smell of ozone helped refocus my mind. I found myself enjoying this raw experience. It was invigorating, exciting.

Intermittent bird song cut through a swathe of blue sky, a euphoric sopranos’ lyric pouring through clouds to crash and be lost within the heavy baritone bass of wind and wave. I stood and looked up for the heavenly creator, it took me a few seconds to find the little bird such was the height it flew, a speck of a creature hanging on a blur of whispering wings. The Skylark continued to soar in joyous song-flight. No wonder Percy Shelley was inspired to write his romantic ode to this crested streaky brown songbird, which he believed to be an ethereal spirit embodying joy and happiness.

Another celebrated poet, W B Yeats enjoyed childhood holidays on the west coast of Ireland and much of his poetry was born from observations of everyday Irish life, scenery, traditions and folklore. Words of a favourite Yeats poem, appropriate for this day, surfaced to the forefront of my mind…

Come away, O human child!

To the waters and the wild.

With a faery, hand in hand.

For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.

These few simple words and the spectacle before me unexpectedly stirred emotions and I felt a sudden urge to share the moment with those who matter most. A video call to my son, cooped-up within the walls of university in England, only partially worked in that he could see me but couldn’t hear a thing! So I hurried back to the car, jumped in and announced to my wife “this is just unbelievable”. She could see the emotions running through me and to my surprise expressed similar feelings too. Together we raced to the water’s edge, got caught by the incoming tide and with wet feet retreated to take shelter on the edge of the sand dunes to watch, enjoy and dry out in the warmth of the mid-day sun. For the first time in a long time, we elementally felt alive.

Grudgingly, we eventually headed back to the car, hand in hand as Yeats prescribed. Other folk appeared, seemingly keen to make the most of this dramatic weather. A lone surfer, a couple walking dogs and then a young family. Each with their own reason for being there. All of them to witness and pay homage to the waters and the wild.