The afternoon was silent with the sound of water - falling water from this stream and from the sky as a gentle rain persisted. It was soft, so soft in this hidden rift near the ocean, behind the graveyard of an abandoned church. We walked up along the stream, near an estate owned by someone. And to imagine owning something as sacred as this spot, as noisy and quiet. As much as anything I'd experienced, it boggled my mind.
I returned from Ireland on Thursday, jet lagged and content to be in my own home. And as I started through the hundreds of images, this one struck home. When I shot it, I knew it would - at least it would if I managed to deal with the overcast. What I felt at the moment was that this place was perfect as it was - that simple bridge (that seemed to go to and from nowhere) and the coursing water beneath. If the Irish built Japanese gardens, this is what they would look like. Walking on sponge-like bodies of leaves, years of decay providing the grounding for our feet and the reminder that we, too, would follow.
Still, at the moment, it wasn't about thought. It was simply a holy site. I was glad to be there, glad that Bill knew this spot and that Rain took the time to suggest I walk up there. Glad that it remains there, behind the graveyard, for anyone to visit.