They say a picture’s worth a thousand words, but I’ll write a few anyway.
While traveling around Western and Southern Ireland with my parents during Christmas, we stopped in Limerick, widely known for the river Shannon that dissects it and some dude named Frank McCourt. I had brought along Angela’s Ashes to read during the trip and found that Limerick was kind of like he described it: forlorn. Ugly. Worthless. We saw three people who morning, all walking dogs. It was Christmas Day and not even church bells rang.
We walked through an old cemetery through a broken gate. The place had tombstones dating from the early 18th century, mausoleums and, when looked at through the lenses of my dearly departed Panasonic Lumix, seemed serene on a morning with soft light and not a sound around.
I left McCourt and his depressing childhood in the train station at the Geneva Airport a few days later.