From Westport, Mayo we made it to the outskirts of Galway, Oh lord the fields of Athenry. We had a fantastic time staying with friends who have a lovely stud farm...hang on, Susi’s just lost the use of her good arm re-opening a bottle of wine. Only one tooth missing though, so where were we. We were staying in the Gatehouse. Sounds cosy but in around Michael Collins’ time the Gatehouse was occupied by the steward who collected the taxes. He was highly disliked, shot and killed. The whole area has been beset by tragedies, which I spent two exhausting nights clearing. It was a very active time, energetically, endless presences making themselves known. Even throwing our vast tupperware container off the table. Don’t believe the hype, by the way, tupperware does break! I went quietly, if rather urgently, back to saying 'this is neither good nor bad this is just happening'. We thought we might get a break the second night, as we’d had a great supper, chats and watched Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe. Infact, new, even more disturbing, information arose. It took literally hours to bring everything back into a sufficient state of stillness for me to nod off without being rudely awoken, moments later!
The highlight was an amazing ride. Many many miles. We suspect that our hosts hadn’t done that hack since the motorway was built so we found ourselves having to take on an aerial view and cross it. Rosie lost half her body weight in fear. Her racing name is Grainne Whale - please excuse spelling - and she was bred at this stud!
Oh come on Franc, Don't tease, tell us what happend in Wesport
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