The downy fledglings that broke through their shells of creamy brown or faded jade in May are now spirited juveniles in this waning October warmth. They will remain with their families for many months yet, part of an extended family that nests by the hundreds in the shelter of Ballycaróg Cove.
Sleek, blue-black bodies with crimson beaks prance on red feet, hustling and bustling in the crevices and cavities of the rocky precipice. Pairs at rest warble softly, while others in flight or feeding in the grassy pasture above chatter kwee-ow and chee-a. Not a one utters a ker-ker-ker or karr in warning, for their numbers are strong enough to face the rare intruder.
The birds seem unconcerned by the small group gazing at them from the shore below, their cameras clicking and binocular lenses glinting in the sun. The group is hushed, as though they understand they have entered a sacred place. They lean in to hear the low voice of their guide. Every few words, a slight uh-i slips into the guide’s long i sounds, and her r’s roll from the front of her mouth. She isn’t Irish, they are certain, but on their own last night at the pub in Castletownbere, the group had decided she was Canadian. Either way, she won’t say. But she is Grainne’s assistant, knows her way around the peninsula, and can hike them all under the table.
A statistician and amateur photographer from Berlin shyly proposes taking her for a drink after the week’s photography retreat. Shaking her head, the guide says, “I don’t drink,” and then tosses a rubber ball along the path. The blue heeler that accompanies her everywhere bounds after it.
“Coffee, then?” He tries again.
“That’s so kind, but no. I’m off to London at the end of the week for an art opening. My fiancé is showing at a gallery in Mayfair.”
The small, secret smile tells a complete story. The German wonders who the lucky artist is and whether he’s skilled enough to catch the light in this woman’s eyes. Light that looks like the Atlantic at sunset. The Slieve Miskish at dawn.
“If you come down here at night,” she is saying now, “when the moon is bright and the tide is low, you might hear an Chailleach Bhéarra speak.”
“Who’s that?” asks a graphic designer from Nashville.
“An Chailleach Bhéarra is the Old Woman of Beara, the symbol of Ireland’s women.”
Their guide closes her emerald eyes, tilts her head to the cliffs where the precious crows swoop and chirp, and recites:
Mise Éire: Sine mé ná an Chailleach Bhéarra.
Mór mo ghlóir: Mé a rug Cú Chulainn cróga.
Mór mo náir: Mo chlann féin a dhíol a máthair.
Mór mo phian: Bithnaimhde do mo shíorchiapadh.
Mór mo bhrón: D'éag an dream inar chuireas dóchas.
Mise Éire: Uaigní mé ná an Chailleach Bhéarra.