He hoped never to see her again. At least that was the story Daniel told himself as he turned onto the R571, spinning gravel onto the road. There was no room in his life for someone as vulnerable and temporary as Annie Crowe. She was a windmill ready to fly apart, and he wasn’t the one to pick up the pieces. She would return to her world; he would remain in his and try not to make the same mistake—attempting to salvage a life that wasn’t his to save. It cost too much, this push-pull of opening and withdrawing, sharing and covering up. He’d worked too hard to create a life where the ebb and flow of his emotions were as steady as the tides.
He was heading for the Kilcatherine Peninsula. He’d promised Malcolm he’d walk this stretch of the Beara Way, making note of fence damage and trail washouts from the recent rains, while clearing the worst of the brush and debris. This maintenance was part of the unwritten contract between hiking tour companies and the farmers who allowed the national trail system to pass through their private lands. The farmers took pride in their breathtaking patch of Irish soil, but they were also acutely aware of the millions of dollars the trail system brought to the Irish economy.
Daniel slapped the steering wheel. Here was yet another argument against the copper mine. Those tourist dollars would be washed out in the tailings of scrap metal and wasted rock and soil. Who would want to amble past the open sore of a mining pit or stay in a B&B just off the road, within range of the rumble of trucks and clash of machinery? What brought people to explore and invest in this wild land was the hunger for untouched places within easy reach of airports and ferries, where hikers could tramp in solitude for hours all day and drift into the comfort of a hot meal and a soft bed every night.
The arguments circled through his thoughts and distracted him from admitting why he steered the Rover along the contours of the narrow road as it dipped and wound to Ballycrovane Harbor. Margitte was anxious to finish the installation of his pieces in advance of Friday’s show, but he wasn’t expected at the gallery until the late afternoon. He had time.
He told himself another story as he strode toward an Chailleach Bhéarra—the Old Woman—where he’d taken hundreds of hikers on their way to Glenbeg Lough. It could be rough walking on boggy ground, exposed to the winds sweeping in from the bay, but the views of the Slieve Miskish mountains, the Kenmare River, and Ardgroom and Kilmakilloge harbors made it one of the most anticipated days of the multi-day excursions he led a few times each year.
He’d pause at the Hag and share the legends that surrounded this curious, jagged, animated rock face while the hikers rested, took photos, nibbled at biscuits. Now he could add Mise Éire to his storyteller’s repertoire. Perhaps even throw in the detail that he’d heard the woman’s voice from across the sea, carried on the wind from Ballycrovane to Ballycaróg, a poem that belonged to all of Ireland, inspired by the woman who had given birth to this fierce and beautiful country.
The path was dry, and there was little evidence anyone had hiked this way in recent days. It was the hush before the storm of hill walkers who would soon arrive from every corner of the world and walk well into September. But never so many that you lost the sense of isolation and peace.
The Old Woman sat alone on her perch above the harbor. The wonder of the changing light on the Slieve Miskish to the east or the sheet of sparkling blue that tipped over the horizon and disappeared into the white-blue of the sky never failed to exalt his soul. To the west, the land grasped the sea with fingers of green pasture and knuckles of gray stone mountains. The specks of white and black villages looked like pushpins on a map.
He braced his back against the Old Woman’s neck of stone. For once the wind did not push against his skin or pull at his clothing—there was only a faint motion of air. The beeping of a tractor-trailer backing into a drive and the bleated complaints of sheep as they were chased from a pasture rose from behind him. From his pack, he pulled out a wax- and foil-wrapped scone with a thick slab of Irish white cheddar tucked into its sliced middle. He bit and chewed, resting his wrists on the top of his bent knees.
The crunch of gravel and the rhythmic clicking of sticks on dirt and stone caused him to sigh. Not even fifteen minutes alone. He swallowed the last of his late breakfast and shoved the wrapping in a side pocket. The pack was still in disarray after last night’s hasty search for a flashlight, bandages, and the emergency blanket to cover Annie’s trembling legs.
“I’m beginning to think there are dozens of you, spread around County Cork, just lying in wait for hapless me to come stumbling along.”
Annie. Leaning heavily onto his trekking poles, faint lines of sweat running down the sides of her cheeks like tears. Her pallid face was pinched between her eyes and at her lovely mouth, which couldn’t quite manage a smile.