We're in another lockdown, starting today, to end on the 31st of January. The covid infection rate exploded over Christmas. The mother-in-law reports that a load of people in town have covid, including a niece.
Christmas was fine, though perilous, as we visited the in-laws in Dublin. It was easy to forget about the pandemic in their warm and fairy-lit suburban homes. It was our first Christmas in Dublin: nearly a decade of hectic late nights in the pub, run off our feet except on Christmas night, when we'd fall into an exhausted heap in front of the telly.
We skipped stones on Blessington Lake (aka Poll a' Phúca, Irish for "the Púca's hole"), adding to the village submerged beneath the reservoir, and hiked up Killiney Hill to get a view of the city, the Irish sea, Bray Head, and the Wicklow mountains. Near the summit, there was a random ziggurat, a Victorian folly; I joked on Instagram that I had sacrificed a child here, in lieu of a wren (it was Wren Day). Every morning children tumbled down stairs and shrieked holy jesus, and in the evenings we drank too much wine and ate too many carbs, and only now I'm returning to my self.