Tide Blues

We reached the landlord’s garden. Roses, lavender, ancient trees. In the distance, the manor where a contemporary landlord resided. You photographed me in front of a wind-whipped Monterey cypress. Its crown bent eastward. We meticulously identified the trees in the garden: a Norway maple – Crimson King – purple to the tips, a sugar maple with pink-gold buds, a finely leaved Japanese maple.

“Imagine,” I said conspiratorially among finger-high foxgloves, “weddings were celebrated here.”

“And now we’re standing here.”

Over our worn path to the cliffs, the light flowed like melted butter. The gorse hedges glowed gold. We strolled hand in hand. You carried the picnic basket, I the blanket. We heard the sea’s hissing breath and the birds’ cries.

Topographical markers preserved a Gaelic heritage. Cuan na bhFeileach – a sheltered harbor. Draíocht na mBramball – a bramble hollow, matching the shrubs along the path. A name like something from a children’s book. Uisce Milis – the sweet water.

Stone walls and wildflowers. Poems of spray, tide blues, seoda Ceilteacha and filíocht na gCeilt – Celtic war poetry and the legends of the clans.

We were back on the ridge—left and right, the terrain dropped away dramatically. The cliff path had been a centuries-old mule track, deadly in rain and wind. Now the path was reinforced, yet the thrill remained. Anyone crossing the bridge felt fear in their bones. Spray shot upward like a primordial warning: here, you weigh no more than a feather in the titanic storm of the elements.

Once, women weighted their skirts with stones so as not to be carried away.

With pounding hearts, we began the crossing. It was something of a gauntlet. Airborne berserkers battered us. For the first time in our shared life, we faced fear together as a couple. I felt an uncomfortable distance from you. Even in this extreme moment, I no longer felt the sensation of a first-time experience.

In a hollow, pacified by undergrowth of intertwined brambles, we spread the blanket. The picnic basket held wine, bread, cheese, apricots—and dark chocolate.

I lay on my back, staring at a sky undecided between blue and haze. You honored my center with your devotion. Your hands touched me tenderly.

“That feels so good,” she said as the wave rolled in. In the post-coital pause, I admitted to myself—without voicing it—that I was seriously afraid of the way back.

How wondrous love was. Back at the hotel, we washed each other. We scrubbed dust and sweat from our bodies, experiencing it as an act somewhere between ritual and sacred. In bed, you placed the last apricot in my mouth.

“What shall we do tomorrow?” I asked.

“Tomorrow is far away,” you said. It sounded, to me, already a little trite. By now, I lacked the strength to idolize.