1972, Morgan Llywelyn

March 19, 2010

I think this is perfect,

The author’s capacity to encompass something I can relate to so ultimately is refreshing!

(Slight revision:)

In his blood, in his bones, was memory. Like music played beyond audible range. Yet when the light fell a certain way or he caught a whiff of some hauntingly familiar smell, Barry was struck dumb by is power.
The overlapping of his grandfather’s life with his own, and his boyhood on what remained essentially a nineteenth-century farm in spite of its twentieth-century improvements, gave him a sense of connection with the past. On more than one occasion he had wandered down some lonely boreen until there was neither house nor barn in sight, then stopped and stood quietly, waiting. Obeying an instinct. Reaching out with something beyond flesh, where houses were made of wattle and daub. Circular walls, conical thatched roofs, pens of woven hurdles to keep the livestock safe from raiders. The smell of venison roasting on a spit flooded his mouth with saliva. He knew with certainty that the fire was being fed with the bounteous timber of ancient Ireland, which the sasanach* had long since destroyed.



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