I have been domestic from England 3 weeks now. Hunkering in my residence in Coronation highway. looking forward to a letter or a telephone name. yet nobody had contacted me. I didn’t understand the place I stood. I didn’t be aware of something. I drove north via Ballypatrick and Ballycastle and Ballintoy. I parked on the Giant’s Causeway and whilst the rain cleared off I bought out my Walkman, zipped my leather-based jacket over my hoodie, and went out onto the rocks so far as they might pass into the north Atlantic. It was once good after nighttime. there have been no humans, birds, whatever. i'll see a couple of lighting from the villages at the Kintyre peninsula in Scotland. not anything else. I sat on one of many hexagonal columns closest to the water and positioned Led Zeppelin’s homes of the Holy into the participant. I fast-forwarded the cassette until eventually I received to “No sector. ” I burned a bit hashish resin and rubbed it right into a roll-up. I lit it and pulled again my hood. The sky used to be mirrors. Bleary-eyed stars whose actual names and tales we have been destined to grasp not anything of. I drew within the black hashish. I held it. I allow it move. The moon knew. a lot she had visible in her four-billion-year ellipse. it'd be many years ahead of she forgave our sacrilege of coming unbidden into her presence in 1969. I closed my eyes. It used to be hot. there has been an scent of salt and spray. the ocean breaking lightly at the cape, in this hidden course among the kingdoms. the trail that also exists when you can actually see. I lay again at the flat rocks. “What’ll I do now? ” I stated aloud to the ocean. “What’ll I do now that i've got set the area to rights? ” the ocean, as consistently, saved her personal suggestions. I’ll lie right here and supply myself to Lyr, the god of damaged water. The cassette ended. The water lapped the stones and the good stave of evening had basically this one faint word in all that epic silence. I slept. Dreamed. grey gentle. Yellow gentle. sunrise over Scotland. I bought up and shook the stiffness from my bones and walked to the automobile. I drove to Ballycastle and stuck the 1st ferry of the day to Rathlin Island. i used to be the only passenger and the crossing used to be calm over a wierd, milky, phosphorescent sea. We docked at the little stone pier in Church Bay. I requested instructions to Cliffside apartment. Up alongside the line towards the West Lighthouse, i used to be advised. I walked the hilly highway and located where. It used to be on the finish of an remoted lane via oak and hazel timber. I had anticipated this. i may pay attention the sea throughout. the home was once a three-story medieval fortified manor equipped of big stones that have been repointed and whitewashed. The gate used to be a wide iron swing bar over a farm animals grid. an indication acknowledged “Strictly No Trespassing. ” I opened the gate, stepped around the livestock grid, and walked below great white oak timber. front door was once painted pink and used to be Canadian maple 4 inches thick. The home windows have been bulletproofed. I knocked on a brass knocker formed like a goat’s head. “It’s open,” she yelled from within. I grew to become the deal with and went in. i discovered myself in an eighteenth-century manor condo with thick stone partitions that have been embellished with shields, old bows, and claymores.