between the rock and the cold, cold sea

I have been to the hills, for two days' worth of blessed peace. There is snow yet in Wicklow, lying on high stoney reaches and under brown pines like the breath of the north, chill in places with ice that has not melted since it froze before the New Year. I'd forgotten what silence sounds like, under the shadow of trees with no noise but that of wind in rock and branch and the distant clamour of rushing water.

It's healing, in a way. I didn't know how many knots I had in my shoulders until they started to unkink.

I hacked my lungs out, and walked, and ate beef and venison, and ended weak and weary as a half-dead thing. I suspect my body disapproves of what I do to it: by the amount of rest it's been demanding, I need to take better care of it. But I have a slight wheeze now rather that the colony of snot I had three days ago, which is all to the good.

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Tonight I had company, in the form of a couple of friends who came over to watch Sharpe's Rifles on DVD. We've agreed we have to do it more often: Sean Bean is worth a little effort.

It's something to have friends. How strange that is. It's less than six years ago that I can remember having none worth the name, and that's changed beyond all expectation. Sometimes I think I don't deserve to be this lucky. But let me only be lucky a while longer, because dear god, it's so much better than to be alone.

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I have a thesis yet to finish. If I can get my citations inserted and an introduction written by the end of next week, there will still be four weeks before the end of term and six before the exams in which to fit all the studying I have neglected thus far.

(I am a poor student, though an adequate learner. Memorising things is not fascinating.)

So. That is, I suppose, sufficient unto the day.

I'm probably going to be an intermittent presence in the internets from now til Judgement Day (hey, what else are you going to call the beginning of Final Exams?), considering I haven't even written in my off-line diary in weeks. And I suppose I should start making lists.

Perhaps at a point that isn't 0330, though.

Glendalough in the wet spring was... amazing. As always.

Alas, it rained too much to do the serious hiking thing and spend a whole day heading over into the next valley. But I still covered a little bit of ground, so.

I have pictures, some of which may even be pleasant to look upon. The camera ran out of battery juice too soon, though.

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It's definite: I've got my confirmation. I'm going to Crete for definite for six weeks this summer. And probably then thereafter ten days on Santorini.

I'm thrilled. Thrilled!

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But now, I get two hours of goofing off before commencing to essay. Two hours. Perhaps I'll take a nap...

Heading down to Glendalough for a couple of nights tomorrow.

I'm going to bring an essay, a camera, and my running shoes. If I get the essay halfway done, I might even do some writing.

But, god, am I looking forward to a break. I didn't realise how twisted up and strung out I was feeling over the Schols until I didn't have to feel that way anymore. So going away to get some greenery, fresh air, still water and silence is precisely what the doctor ordered.

And maybe I can get my wind halfway back to what it was before I embarked on the crazy examinations programme.

Spent the last three days in Glendalough. The trees there are still green, shading towards autumn-brown, Scots pine and fir on the upland ridges between the valleys. The quiet is silent, truly silent, except for the ripple of running water and the sound of wind in leaves and over stone. At night the dark is next to absolute, even with clear skies and a full moon.

Ghleann Dá Loch, valley of the two lakes, and the water of the upper lake looks black even in sunshine. They're glacial formations, surrounded by granite mountains that have worn down to narrow hills. I spotted feral goats, sheep, red squirrels and deer - only one, a stag with a fine head of antlers - and that's before I mention the birdlife.

Everyone who goes to Glendalough, it seems, traipses round the remains of the churches (there are several) and the round tower, below the lower lake. It's pretty enough, I grant, but to me the really interesting remnants are at the top of the upper lake and across the ridge in the Glendasan valley, where the hillside has tumbled great boulders down onto the ruins of a mining village that operated from the early 1800s (in Glendasan) - or mid-1800s, in Glendalough - to within the last half-century. It's a bleak site, cold and stark - it seems to catch the worst winds in the entire valley - and utterly impressive. You stand there, looking up at the river that rushes down a cleft between two hills, between the boggy remains of the old mining village and the scattered granite boulders; looking down the length of the upper lake with white ruffles on the black water and brown uplands, grey granite, green pine, barren hillside sheering steep to the lakeside, and you could be the last person on earth, alone in the silence of water and stone.

Of course, the walking's more than fair. I think I averaged about 10 km per diem, but I'm a wuss who wasn't prepared to do any serious hillwalking without more confident company. (Some may call this good sense.) Next year, perhaps.

The weather didn't turn really chill until after we'd headed home. Wonderful how things work out sometimes, isn't it?

Also, do I give off knowledgeable vibes, or something? Because being asked by an - American, I think, though the accent could have been Canadian - tourist at the upper lake What's good to see back that way?, quite insistently, and with a rather frantic wave in the direction I'd just come from, well. It makes me wonder. Both about them, and about me.

Perhaps I need a t-shirt. "I Answer Your Questions: Ask Me How" with the graphic of a punching fist beneath it. Because seriously, I get mistaken for a tour guide quite sufficiently enough while on campus.

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The Parks Service people, however, are great and helpful. I have all the admiration in the world for them.

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I have conceived a great love for Matthew Good's track, 'Flight Recorder From Viking 7'. I had it playing in the car across Sally Gap on the way home, and it was very apt.

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Pictures will follow, if anyone's interested.