Enga mellom fjella

Julia McCarthy [Not finished 240 words needs 160 more]

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Julia was visiting Dingle for the first time since she left Tra Li in 1853 The sea breeze freshened her face as she looked around at the sailboats. She was mighty thirsty.

MacCartaigh Bar promised a glass of Guinness that she should not drink. Thankfully, it was closed. And the pub that offered fish and chip with mushy peas was closed too. She sighed as clouds closed in to pea soup and drizzle. Ah, it did, it did. 'Twas a great day to be Irish.

Lucky? define that. It's true that she had been dead well over 100 years but what did that have to do with the price of cál ceannann (colcannon)? At least they were growing potatoes again.

And the roses bloomed in May in Tra Li. As they always did. County Kerry was home. She wasn't McCarthy Mor, but she was a McCarthy none-the-less.

She sat down to watch the sailboats and dreamt of taking back Caseal Rock for her clan. Nasty O'Briens.

History lingered in every forgotten graveyard, whispered from headstone to headstone, bantered between bones. Better to not listen too closely. They gossiped like old widowers.

She cackled about that.

Off to America they told her. Herself had married a Hooker. Now her great-grand-children were all dead. Except one.

She waited impatiently. Julia wanted to show her her Eire land, verdent, misty with muck.

When would her great-grand-daughter die. Suredly, it would be on a great day to be Irish!