Honeymoon

One or two dead sheep lay by the road. We saw a hairpin bend signed 'Beware of Blind People Crossing' as we drove from Dublin, West to Connemara's wild Atlantic shores To black rock crags patched white between with Coral sand, backed by bog the other side of the Deserted coastal R341 and a cottage Between Ballyconeely and the Mannin Bay Blueway. Farmers parked their Morris Minors Where the river flowed half a metre deep Across the road though we had no choice but To go through with water lapping to the doors As our engine choked and stuttered. There was not a thing on bare shop shelves Save what the tide and storms brought in, Or so it seemed. Just a single skate wing In a solitary wooden box stood centre On a warehouse floor, as though awaiting Bomb disposal, far from the great shutter door Opened for us when we called for something For our supper. The weather was the worst in living Memory. "'Tis wild, 'tis wild," the shepherd said, Nothing more, driving him from his hitch-hike To the nearest village pub Where, with two halves of Guinness down for us, He retired to a corner table to drink alone across The room in an empty bar. Cottage number 94 Was dark and damp. We had dragged the sofa Out to try and warm and dry on the only fine Afternoon when a sheepdog came by and into the Compound, low walled with broken breeze block Placed to mark the cottage ground. He beckoned us to follow him way back into the bog. It seemed he had a mission and so we went Along a mile or two at pace until he turned tail at No particular point on the path and disappearing From our view left us alone and panting. A hotel waitress took pity on us at our only Venture out to lunch. "Would we be wanting Another lobster ? - its on the house," she said. They had boiled too many for the service. Could she tell we were on our honeymoon? To be sure, still awkward, shy and out of place in Galway's wildest weather and Atlantic autumn storms.