Zylmor rambling 1

Having lived in many towns and many cities, in many countries on many planets I find it strange to find a "home town". But within the archaic regime of rural Kerry life; drawing the water by hand at dawn, drawing in the turf on warm summer evenings, drawing a fire and sitting listening to pipe and fiddle I find a peaceful calm descend over even my most tumultuous thoughts. It is at this moment I feel at home, on Zylmor I was an hermitically sealed artist; I drew portraits of politicians and higher order fellows, I knew much of the impending war - they did not see the artist - a mere servant to their glowing pride. I was not allowed outside to feel rain on my face, the rush of wind whistling past my ears, I did not see the first blush of Spring, the dance of the satellite moons, I was not allowed to draw anything. Here in Kerry we draw everything but my abilities with a pencil have long since receded and I am left only to imagine how the sweep of charcoal on paper would show the willow bending double in this summer wind.

This home is hard work, back bent over stacking turf, fighting nature pulling weeds, fixing the genrator every other day but the rewards are tremendous; watching storm clouds gather, chasing foxes away from the hens, working with the dogs, laughing as the cats try to follow, rhythmically weaving the willow into ever more extravagant shapes, harvesting the first earlies. This is life, this is where we make or break, there is a power here that will never be found at the tip of a nuclear warhead, there is a bond of love with the land that binds a spell twisting and turning and making us return to this place we call home.