Back to the vast stretches of beach where Oystercatchers and Curlews called, back to the jagged cliffs of Donegal where Fulmars held in the windswept air. Nothing of the land seemed changed, but the lighthouse dwelling where we used to live was derelict. I was back to the scary childhood bedroom where shadows danced in the candle light and monsters scrabbled on the slate roof. In the morning our monsters were gulls which rose as we ran through the wind to peer over the white stone walls at the everlasting sea 300 feet below. Had we fallen, there was nothing to save us but air and the chance of landing on a Fulmar's wing.
Fulmars still soar.
The first roaring wind of autumn battered and swirled about us and lashing rain soaked us through. The ocean, way down there, thrashed and tumbled. Two Choughs landed on the moors to our right, red beak, red legs, black body, looking for shelter. There was not a Robin in the place as we strove to keep from being blown away over the ocean to America. It was a dramatic start.