I had walked that path many hundreds of times before and through all of the seasons, which express themselves more fiercely there than they do in Belfast. It was late summer then, a day with a warm sun that would sprawl in the heat for hours before sinking into the ocean not long before midnight and spreading an obscene blush of colour from the horizon toward the dark sky above.
I don’t write as often as I’d like to, and when I do I hardly ever consider seeking publication. But after completing a cello piece that meant a great deal to me, I decided to get my thoughts about it down on paper. On actual paper – and not just that of my private journal. The result was an essay about quietwild, which my friend David McCann performed so beautifully last May.
The essay was published late last summer in the Northern Irish magazine Freckle, which feels like just the right place for it. Their interest in slow stories about the people and places of Northern Ireland are such a relief from the mundane news cycle of the province.
If you can, I urge you to buy this wonderful publication – if not for my own essay (which is in issue 7), then simply to support this great volunteer-run journal.
