It began with immeasurable sadness. My relationship had ended, leaving me adrift in the world. The great tree upon which I’d carved my future had been rent from the earth, its roots tearing up the once solid ground on which I’d made my home. I needed to leave the grey, dishevelled city I’d found myself in; away from the news, so full of divorce and death. Travelling would beat sitting at home living a half-life, staring at my feet and feeling morbid. My mind went unbidden to Ireland, a place I’d never been, and therefore free from memory or reminder. Following the thought through, I pulled a book of WB Yeats from the shelf and read:
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.
