We’d cram into Dad’s Austin Wolseley, 

like tinned kippers, unrolled 

and unsalted in the back seat. 

Smoking class was reserved, up front,

on our Sunday pilgrimage to visit Nana.

First to spot the waterfall was the winner.

Ben Bulben was fixed on our horizon,

feeling like a compass point,

it arced our path along the south coast of Donegal.

We never felt far from ho...

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