Lost in a Fairy Mist

You can’t see the fairies unless you were born in the evening, or so the saying goes. I was a dawn baby, so I doubted I’d see them, but I knew they were there in the fragrant Irish woods. The cascades and narrow paths behind the Anam Cara retreat tingled with magic that lingered long after I scraped the mud and grass from my shoes. I had no blackthorn or hazelwood sticks for protection, but I didn’t need them. The fairies, in this part of Ireland at least, seemed friendly enough.

Yet they caused their share of mischief. The weather was hot and dry, and before I left Cork City for Eyeries, I had to shop for warm weather clothes, which I never bring to Ireland. During my first night at Anam Cara, youngsters partying across the stream lit a campfire that quickly spread and would have devoured those fragrant woods if a gallant neighbor hadn’t doused the flames with the retreat’s fire extinguishers. Worst of all, crows robbed the duck house of two precious ducklings.

The fairies’ antics couldn’t override the glory of the Beara Peninsula, however. Each day I cranked up my laptop and wrote while gazing out at Coolagh Bay and the Iveragh Peninsula beyond. I watched the waves roll in, and instead of wincing at the racket made by cars and trucks and planes, I savored the lowing of contented cows. When I needed a break, Anam Cara’s walking paths provided tranquility that let my thoughts make themselves known, and I thanked the fairies for allowing me into their domain.

I know I imagined them.

I know they weren’t really there . . .