The father-in-law's anniversary mass was on Saturday, overseen by a Nigerian-born priest. Three years already. The next day we woke up with sore heads and carried on. Des purloined the dog, and later came for the husband and I, and we, three humans and three dogs, headed to Tullan Strand. We walked down a steep stony path onto a vast beach. Keep the company of small creatures, I think, as the dogs scrambled across the sand, sniffing dead seagulls and passersby, and chased each other into the sea. At the half-way point, the husband turned and walked back to the car. Des grabbed my hand and said, "Your husband needs to quit smoking." We kept on anyways, reaching the estuary, a vivid blue strip of water where a river met the sea. Here mackerel followed shoals of smaller fish, awaited by fishermen. Afterwards we had a couple of drinks in a bar in Kinlough, followed by idle chat over Coronas in Des's back garden. Our first afternoon off in a long time. Elsewhere shifting sands shimmered, foot and paw-steps disappearing in a cool breeze.




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