Joint winner of the RIAI / Architecture Ireland Student Writing Prize 2023.

How better to think about a place than to be immersed in it? On Saturday, 17 September 2022, I walked from the back door of my family house in Fearran to the cliff edge on my father’s farm, twice. First, I decided to walk and sketch; then, to walk and write. This farm stretches from the Atlantic Ocean to the cliff, leading into fields and then down to the farmyard. After that, more fields, then to our house which meets the road, and the bog which leads down to Béal Bán beach. This is a walk I have grown up doing my whole life. Each time is different: the weather, the time of year, the company, never the same.

I push the door handle down, timber floorboards to doormat to concrete paving to the crackly mix of pebbles and beach stones. Long shadows. Bláthanna fiáine that live in the sleepers, and eleven sunflowers, put a smile on my face. I walk over to the ‘entrance’: a large steel galvanised gate to my right for the animals and a small, galvanised gate to my left for us and the others who come to walk. I swing it open, a loud scratchy steel sound. Nettles, tabhair aire, ankles are exposed. Mhmmm sméara dubha, some still red, some green but many ready to eat.

I’m now walking on the grassy path: long grass, short grass, briars, thistles, and buttercups in-between. Wiring to my right, timber stakes every few metres. There’s a buzzing in the air, sometimes louder and sometimes fading away. I stop, look over into the field and up to the electricity pole standing tall. I hear the electricity rushing through it; it’s that still.

I walk on further and hear the stream flowing, louder in my right ear and as I cross over the bridge, now louder in my left ear. Gravel and beach stones are scattered through the rough grass. Patches of rushes pop up in the field alongside me. Marshy ground.

I come to a sort of crossroads, an opening to a field on my right, although closed by a single blue rope tied around two timber posts. On my left, another opening, this one closed too. Ahead, a gate with a little black sign saying ‘PUSH’.

The gate is heavy, weighed down by a rusty mallet, a weighted contraption my dad made to keep walkers from leaving the gate open after themselves. A large rock with a badly painted white arrow points towards the cliff. Wiring again, this time the stakes are further apart. The stream is softer now and at a slight incline. I walk along the narrow paths made by the sheep. The grass is worn away, light brown in colour. Hardened sheep droppings are scattered on the path. A chirping bird, the protected, red-billed chough, flies past me and perches himself across the stream on a little briar.

Smell of cac bó, a scent I find oddly comforting, reminds me of growing up here. The path curves around and up to the left. The tall hedgerow of New Zealand flax appears, which my father planted for shelter against the harsh West Kerry winds. The stream now drips underneath. Large rock with an arrow. Longer grass, less smooth, bumps and lumps. I spot a black Kerry slug.

The sun is starting to set above Cheann Sibéal. Bright sky, almost white, with a few clouds. I hear a hiss in my ears from the wind, starting to pick up as I get closer. I cross the stream, over the small but wobbly wet rocks, water running downwards.

I hear sheep pulling up grass. I notice they’re all facing in the same direction, towards the cliff, north-westerly. Chomh ait a deirim liom féin. Now I’m walking along a path which looks like it’s been made by the quadbike, two narrow strips with a piece in the middle with longer grass. The pre-famine potato ridges on my left. Layers of history beneath the soil. The deepest part of the dike on my right. I used to cross this dike as a kid on my pony, Róisín Bán, and thought it was as deep as the Grand Canyon.

I stop, noticing a butterfly with many colours, resting on the other side of the Grand Canyon.

Next to the butterfly, feathers, lots of them, all small. Oh no ...

I continue.

Bits of sheep wool are scattered in the grass, more droppings too. The loud flapping of a lark startles me. I’m taking notice of my breathing as it gets steeper. Sheep all around me now, some making way and others taking no notice.

I cross the bridge, walk on and up a little. Pssssssss, a sheep stops and starts to pee. I cross over the next bridge, smaller this time. I hear the stream less and less now. Wild mushrooms are growing, some broken up from being stepped on. Longer grass, coarse, and brown.

The powerful sound of the ocean emerges. I see the sky meeting the sea. The ‘meditation rock’ sits proudly close to the cliff edge. I feel the fresh Atlantic breeze on my face. I sit on the rock, and look out, taking everything in. There’s a small fishing boat. Most likely it has come from Ard na Caithne to collect lobster pots. I wonder can he see me?

I look over to the Béadrach, the small rocky cove where the shipwreck lay that was scavenged to build the old house on the farm which now is used as a bothán. Over to my right, keeping me company are An Triúr Deirfiúr: Binn Diarmada, Binn Méanach, agus Binn hÁnraí.

And over to my left somewhere out there is Hy-Brasil. The mythical island steeped in lore that I’ve been dreaming of since I was a child.

I get a great sense of presence up here, me and my own thoughts. The wildness, the powerfulness, the land, my home.