He parked the expensive black coupe on the rough gravel, and we started off down the uneven gravel laneway. Through latched gates and over makeshift bridges we followed the path the cattle had made along a bog water stream. The sand beneath us slid in small landslides into the dark bog water. The marram grass seemed greener than during the summer and the wind sent it blowing in curls like a fur coat at a winter wedding. A pair of whooper swans migrated over us, and we reached the beach in an unscripted way, treading over submerged seaweed and broken shells. The tide was receding slowly, but the sand was shifting like a spectral ghost over the beach, hitting our faces. We proceeded onwards, against the wind to the south. Sometimes, we would turn around to relieve our faces from the burn of the sand-spray. And finally, we saw it, a glimpse of the little white place we were staying in on a distant shoreline. It is called Milk Harbour for historic reasons, but to me it stood there like a surely little pint of white milk on the doorstep of Ben Bulben. Its lines were crisp and its rooms pristine. A promise of a warm afternoon.
The wind picked up and the clouds darkened over the ominous Classiebawn Castle as the sonorous sea sent white horses to chase sand ghosts around our feet. Ben Bulben turned to black, and I knew the rains would come soon. Best to find that pint of white and snuggle down in Milk Harbour to watch the tide from safe windows.
