Romie Lambkin

A glittering day, blinding.

A cliff-path day, if ever there was one.

Seconds later, sunglasses on, I'm heading down Hoth's Main Street, off to Balsgaden Road, where the sea on my left is already speckled by Sunday's first yachts.

Number one start-the-race cannon shot cracks at my eardrums and frightens garden-based dogs into barking fits of hysteria.

But Ireland's eye floats serene and still out there, at ease with the light and shadow play tickling its green midriff.

Immediately below me, the rock-bound swimming pool gleams clear and green, alluring, undisturbed.

A little further on, the long and low white cottage Yeats once lived in stops me dead, as it always does, to read the semi-distempered over-blue plaque singing his words to me.

I have spread my dreams under your feet.

Tread softly, for you tread on my dreams.

So I do tread on, lightened in mind and foot, watching a horizon-bound schooner go it alone, scarlet-sailed on turquoise water.

Dawn Cottage is behind me now, creamy, inch-high wild roses lining the cliff path's rough-footed beginnings.

I pant upwards through the prickling gorse strands to that first curve.

There, even the gulls mute their cries, scraping the cliff sides in swoops so far below me that my eyes widen at the black-backed beauty of their gliding wings.

Far, far off, the Wicklow Hills, courtesy to the yellow sun, like graceful ladies delicately dropping mist-grey gauze wraps from their shoulders.

And oh look, there's the Kish Lightship, and God bless my long-distance eyesight anyway.

It's a day to believe that mysterious grey shaping on the horizon is the Welsh coastline.

No mystery, though, about the white campion flowers carpeting towards the aquamarine water like snowflakes, springtime's purpley-blue violets and bluebells half-hidden amongst them.

Grey-green fern fronds pause in the act of unfurling.

Bees buzz in a frenzy.

A comatose, honey-drunk bumblebee lets my forefinger stroke his furry back before I put on speed again.