One of the reasons I’m a paranormal writer/lover is all those books I devoured from school and public libraries growing up that fed my imagination, and my absolute favorites were scary ones from other counties and cultures. Face it, we in the U.S. just haven’t been around that long. I was an early reader because my mom wouldn’t send me to bed with such tales . . . so I paged through them myself safely tented beneath my covers holding a flashlight. I did the same last night – only propped up on pillows with the lights on.
It’s hard to walk the steep, narrow streets or climb grassy to stony hills in Dingle without feeling a whisper of the past brushing by you. Or experiencing a tingle of the beyond rolling in on the fog. From fairy circles to standing stones found just up the street from majestic churches, the misty veil brushes against your skin and whispers on the wind.
If ever there was an enchanted island, this is it. My calves are still aching from the countless stone steps and rutted goat paths taken to get a snap of these glorious views. Hiring a car (Thank you, Dolores for being guide extraordinary!!) was the best possible way to see the untouched countryside on roads so narrow you’d think bicycles would bump in passing. But if not for our fearless driver, I’d never have gotten to see this . . .
We’re halfway through our fantastical trip and maybe, just maybe there’s a story (or a dozen) just waiting ahead for me to tell.