A thin rain drizzles continually from a limestone sky of such uniform colour it is difficult to see any movement in the blanket of cloud, despite the breeze that licks the lake into a light ripple. I think of Bill, now stooped and grey, his striding gait slowing to the inevitable shuffle, only his hands monument of the man. ‘When the wind is from the west the fishes bite the best’. Sometimes he cast a mournful sigh and turned methodically to his work, and on other occasions gave a sidelong glance at the clock and a wink. We stole moments from the day, stowing spade and trowel and heading for the river, him working magic with his wand of cane and I doing my best to imitate his dexterous ability…
Mayo News, 24/04/12. Read the article ‘Blackthorn, birdsong and April’s bounty‘.
