Thinking about the Cliffs of Moher in Ireland.


Yes, I’m late. St. Patrick’s day was two days ago. I’ll post something about Ireland anyway. My first real little trip away from home – not organized by parents nor school – was a six day camping trip to the Emerald isle, the green pearl which is home to the legends and fairytales I used to devour. Not alone, but with the boyfriend at that time. Which was good, since I didn’t had a driver’s license yet and I wouldn’t be sure about driving on the wrong side of the road – when the majority of the world population drives right, left is definitely the wrong side – or grazing on small cobblestone roads in the middle of nowhere. He was, so he drove.

The car took us to one of the most memorable sights on the Irish Atlantic coast, the Cliffs of Moher. You know how I get amazed by every wonder of nature I can witness with my very own eyes? I think the amazement started here. European mainland has many stunning landscapes and great cities, but at the Cliffs of Moher I realized for the first time how nature could be rough and harsh and beautiful at the same time. How green isn’t just green, but clover-green and yellowish-dry-grass-green and just rained-for-5-days-straight-green. How the sea and its waves beat into the massive stone, day after day and year after year, over and over again, to never stop. How seagulls fly over the walls of rock and the wind howls around your ears, long strings of hair fly in the air and you laugh to never stop, because you simply feel alive. Like nature intended it.


Cliffs of Moher.


Rainy waterfall.


End of the world.


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