Sitting on a park bench in Dublin, writing in my journal about the wealth of green in the grass and shrubs and damp trees. "The smells of fall and decay and cold are everywhere I love to come out of variously odd-smelling buildings into the crispness."
Taking a break between museums.
Enjoying a respite between colds.
Probably better rested than in previous days, after buying earplugs to drown out the sounds of Temple Bar glass bottles being sorted at 11 every night and metal kegs rolling down the cobblestone street at 6 every morning.
Contemplating the course of our group's travels at that point, north from London along the eastern edge of England, all over Scotland and most recently on a long, rainy three-bus trip from Belfast to Dublin.
Realizing an appreciation for the art of Jack Yeats.
Still high on the wonders of Iona, and yet to encounter the glory of the Aran Islands.