Slogging through mud and over a fence, I work my way up the hill. The vegetation is either brown ferns on the steeper bits, or close cropped heather and grassland where the sheep graze. The ground squishes as I walk, no matter the slope. A stone fence runs parallel to the inlet, which is churned white for its length with spray and foam. I find the dún, a u-shaped rock structure, waist high, open to the west. Inside I gain respite from the wind. Many sheep have too, their pellets litter the ground in neat piles.
The wind has been fierce and steady from the north all the way up. I find a flock of turnstones resting in a swale, a hundred feet above the water. They walk out of my way. If they took to the air they might not find land again until Spain. My tripod is a windvane, wanting to cant against my direction of travel. I set up and work the washing-machine of sea below me. A momentary shower passes over, lightly drenching me and the gear. I put my tongue to the camera. Salt. Spray that came over the headland behind me, 150 feet high. This is too much abuse to the equipment, even for me. I bag up and head for the top.
Downwind, behind me, is a long smooth meadow. If I tumble it will be a harmless somersault. The drop is before me, waves furious against the rocks. And the wind is the strongest I think I’ve ever stood in. I spread my legs, plant my feet, and lean forward. It supports me. My snug polypro cap threatens to peel away, and I have to hold it on. I lean into the gale and yell and yell and let the wind take my sound.
Doug Plummer
Dingle, Co. Kerry
