These visits leave me hollow, like a body no longer possessed, grasping at the veil as it closes again over questions unanswered and closure denied. And yet… there is hope.
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These visits leave me hollow, like a body no longer possessed, grasping at the veil as it closes again over questions unanswered and closure denied. And yet… there is hope.
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The compulsion to press my face against the train window and drink in that timeless view. The string of ‘Remember when’s that tumbled from my lips like fairy-tale diamonds and pearls. The feeling of coming home.
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Because it is the mark of a great warrior to weep for the passing of a great leader.
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There was more than a little of the fairy-tale to it, and why not? After all, we had come willingly to the land of changelings and banshees and the aos sÃ.
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Can I mourn you now? Now that I have raged until all that was left was a strange new calm? Can I begin now to speak of what you meant to me throughout it all?
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St Mawes is a name that evokes an immediate response from me. Autumn half term, raincoat rattling around my ears, the smell of kelp and the call of oyster catchers and a steaming pasty on the harbour wall.
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In an instant the cloud was upon us, like tunnel vision, wreathing distant peaks and closing in on our still-distant goal. Somewhere, we had taken that all-important step beyond the everyday.
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A spiritual homeland. That’s what I’d once called this formidable landscape of light and shade, of snow and sun, where brightness undercuts glowering cloud and turns green into Green and lakes into glimmering indigo portals.
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Nothing could have prepared me for stepping off the train in that dying October light and walking straight into a fantasy world.
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By the time we dropped with the sun down from the drama of the mountains and to dusky shoreline, we were aching and exhausted. And it was the most perfect day.
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