Summer, “Samhradh” in Irish, starts on May 1. Yesterday I was at the Salthill promenade. A chill wind was blowing and the sun was shining. I sat in the windbreak of a cement structure and enjoyed the atmosphere.
A Pied Wagtail was darting and hopping about eating flying bugs.
A young man stripped down to his swim trunks and ran into the cold water of the bay wherein he began to yell about the cold.
The salty scent of seaweed filled the air.
The cool cement sucked the warmth out of my shoulder, an effect that would have been welcomed in the hot dry desert of the American Southwest but here just made me cold.
The persistent sound of the crash of waves on the shore and the near synchronous sound of traffic on the road above intermixed with the putt-putting of the Mr. Whippie van.
The crunch of shoes on stones.
The low murmur of people talking, punctuated with the occasional call of a child.