A river runs through it

Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.
I am haunted by waters.
Norman Maclean, A River Runs Through It and Other Stories


The first frost of the year - everywhere was cold, crisp, clear and gently steaming as I went in to get the papers. A beautiful cloudless day, just right for the monthly West Cork blipmeet. We gathered in the car park in Drimoleague. Drimoleague is a one street town you normally just speed pass through, but behind is a wonderfully rural landscape, green and gently rolling, with rivers and waterfalls. We puffed up steep hills, ambled down soggy little boreens, decided not to go across the stepping stones (giant's paces), watched little birds dancing in the trees, examined fungi growing on beeches and marvelled at the ferny riverbank and cascading water. We ended up at Bat's for scones and jam and restoring tea. Great stuff.
In attendance:
Michael
TJ
Himself
CarolineL
Bat