No footprints in the sand
Like a magnet, Coumeenoole beach drags me back, drags me down its deep incline, early, always early, before footprints march ugly across my waiting canvas. Approaching the Dingle peninsula, I pass the beauty of Inch Strand, a crime not to stop. I promise I will return, I promise. But I have to get to Coumeenole and I have to get there early.
I drive through Dingle along the seafront, only fishermen pumping boats, town on my right. A quick nod up at Dick Mack's. I’ll be back, I’ll be back. But I have to get to Coumeenoole beach and I have to get there early.
Passing Ventry sea on my left, I'm imagining waves. I can see the Blasket Islands now demanding my attention. Rising, posing, proud and vain because every camera stops for them but not me, not now, not this time. I have to get to Coumeenoole and I have to get there early...
And then I am there, winding down to the beach, waves crashing on rocks, seabirds dancing on the tide, early, always early and yes, no footprints.
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