I wrote this for my Nature Writing Class 3 months after my return from Ireland to share my experiences climbing Brayhead... very spontaneous and humorous at times.
Attempt number one:
Sea to my left, town to my right, mountain stretched before me. This was the third time I’d ventured to Brayhead, just a short train ride away from Dublin, and I was ready to write. I was in the green lands drenched thick with blood and mist, legends and stories. Here, in this very land, Yeats and Joyce dipped their pens into the soil and composed writings worthy of venomous English jealousy. Swift, Wilde, Synge, Shaw, Heaney, O’Casey, Friel… all geniuses beautifully muddied by Irish magic. If I climb this mountain, sit amongst the vine-ridden trees and the bright green grass, perhaps the land will take hold of my pen- like it did for the greats.
Step, Step, Step, stumble, Step. I stumbled a lot actually, but never fell flat on my face. Usually, I locked my eyes on the packed ground thick with muck and leaves and roots and rocks; but when my eyes searched upwards for the large erected cross on the summit, my foot would discover an unexpected rock. It’s the same with my life, every time I try to glimpse my future, I seem to stumble upon some distraction, which keeps me there, locked on the ground, locked on that distraction.
It was a bit ambitious of me, and honestly a bit conceited, to think myself worthy of sitting at the top of a mountain, at the height of life, writing the best I ever would. The mountain laughed at me, I could almost feel it’s vibrating, shaking laughter as I sat on the highest rock on the most prominent point of the mountain. I over-looked the sea, the town of Bray, and the rest of the Wicklow Mountains. It didn’t take long for me to feel the sea laughing too and spraying salty spit into my face as the wind picked up and soared over the bald head of the mountain, tearing the sheets of blank pages out of my hands, gobbling them up in the sky. This was not going to work.
The sea humbled me enough to walk halfway down the mountain where I found what I dubbed, “the fairy tree” because it looked like the sort of tree Irish fairies would live in. It was of dark twisting and contorting wood as if it once were in pain, but now content with its shape. At its base, the tree had lifted up a root for me to sit upon, a seat cushioned by dry leaves and pine needles, a back molded into the trunk. Perfect. I was a legitimate writer, I could smell the magic in the air, wait, patience, let the woodland fairies fill my pen with perfect ink, that writes of passion that could only be wrought from the ghost of Finn McCool. Perhaps beautiful Niamh would ride her horse from Tir na Nog and look here for the ghost of poor Oisin. Patience, the words will flow as if in a laudanum-induced trance…
“Excuse me, can you help us?” I blinked the Irish magic away. A bright-eyed male distraction stood in front of me, his shadow cast over my blank pages. He had an accent, I wondered where he was from, he wasn’t Irish. I glanced behind him- two girls and two guys rested from the climb. They seemed about my age.
“Ya, what’s up?” I asked.
“How far to the top?” French? I’m pretty sure he’s French.
“Not far, once you get to that bare patch up there, you’ll be able to see the cross at the top.”
“Where are you from?”
“Paris. Do you live around here?” French I was right! I told him that I was from the States and was studying abroad in Ireland for four months. After that, we launched into conversation and he eagerly asked me to be a tour guide as I led the French students up to the top of the mountain! It was fun practicing my French with Michael. I dare say I think I practiced the little French I knew more in Ireland than in France itself. He told me liked listening to techno and Nightwish, he studied business and English in school, and he had no problems with Americans as our French stereotypes suggest. The other French students lagged behind, their English and my French were too poor to keep up with the conversation. As I lead them up a steep stretch of dusty incline, the conversation faded so we could concentrate on our breath, and I watched the others. One of the French girls was stunningly beautiful; she had dark ebony hair and golden eyes that radiated with depth. I couldn’t help but think of how matted my hat had left my hair, how muddy my ripped jeans looked next to her immaculate attire. How human of me to jump to such self degrading thoughts.
I started to ask Michael more difficult questions- ones about his dreams and aspirations, and it was here that were encountered the frustrations of idioms. It was like we had climbed so high in our conversation that there were no longer any tree limbs to cling to! There was no possible way Michael could describe to me his goals for the future. We even grasped at the air for something, anything to hold on to- French, English, synonyms… nothing. And once we both admit defeat all there is left to do is awkwardly giggle and comment on the weather.
I led the French students through the spiky bushes with the little yellow flowers. I never learned the name of these plants but they were everywhere, but I loved them. They grew thick together and clung to the edge of the mountain as a huge yellow parasite that seemed to feed off of the dewy mount. The spiky leaves made the thick bushes impossible to cut through, so hikers were forced to follow a weaving trail around them. The French followed me up the large stones and onto the mossy green summit where the cross looks over the sea and town. Michael wanted to meet me at a pub sometime, and a part of me wanted to; what a cool story it would be to say I have a date with a French man I met on a mountain? But I didn’t trust men, certainly not French men... for if we couldn’t converse what would be left for us to do? Snapshots were taken- moments stolen to represent a feeling that was or was not there, and I left Michael and the rest of the smiling and laughing French students at the top of the Brayhead without my number so I could return to my writing. I am a true artist.
Leaning against my fairy tree, I close my eyes and smell the magic in the humid air, I’ve always felt that if magic were real, it would breed in humidity. I hear nothing but the wind- no birds, no critters, no insects… just the scurrying of plant life spiraling up the trees. My pen presses against the white paper, black ink gushing, a deep wound seeping into the white fibers. The fairies take hold of my hand…
“You’re a real writer, I can tell.” This time, the voice belongs to an old man with a Dublin accent. I open my eyes to find another shadow laminating my paper, the owner of the voice stands above me glancing at the single line of scribbling on the paper.
“Why do you say that?” I asked.
“Because you are out here, with a pen and paper. You know, writer’s have the best art in the world- all you need is something to write on with something to write with, and you can do it anywhere you like! You can sit here on this mountain, and while writing you are talking to the president in the Oval Office in Washington D. C., or trudging the snows of Siberia. Writers never have to physically travel, it’s all up here.” He tapped his forehead and launched into a monologue about how he was a screenwriter trying to get his screenplay made into a movie in the U.S. He loved to talk, and I was willing to listen.
He wasn’t some wise old hermit that Nature sent me to teach me the ways of writing, in fact, I disagreed with half of what he said. But his path crossed mine for a reason, this was certain. He placed his hand on the fairy tree’s trunk and said,
“You see this tree you are sitting against, I really want to take my hand and press it into the bark right here, Leave an imprint you know?” I near yelled at him,
“No! It is not ours to maim. Sure, it might look cool, but the tree does not belong to us.” I did not want to tell him that this was a fairy tree, though he of all people might understand, but the imagination is so easily mistaken for madness that I refrained. He sighed and looked towards the west,
“I have to get home in time for the rugby match. Was nice talking to you. Never stop writing. Never!” I smiled. I’m sure in his mind, he was a wise old wizard leaving an apprentice behind as he trudged across the mountains.
The sky faded into darkness, a chilling sea wind shoved me as I stumbled down the mountain, my unwritten notebook bouncing in my backpack.
Attempt number two:
I will sit on the lifted root of the fairy tree and write words that would make Oscar Wilde proud. I will write of pain, of pleasure, of life and death; but most of all, I will write of nature, and it will be legendary. The sky had just rained a good Irish mist, and the leaves hung heavy with moisture. Not one, but two rainbows arched over the sea, and I actually saw the “end of a rainbow” for the first time in my life. Rainbows really do hover over Ireland all the time; I probably saw twenty of them in the course of four months.
I started up Brayhead and it wasn’t long until my ears caught the scent of an Irish flute whistling behind the trees. I followed the sweet aroma until my eyes feasted upon a man standing in the brush, halfway up the mountain, playing towards the town of Bray below. The trees bent forward with their wet leaves listening intently to the man. He wasn’t playing for anyone, not even himself. He didn’t play for nature, or for pride. He just was. Existing is the most genuine and natural thing in the world. And I couldn’t even force myself to envy him. Only admiration would thrive.
I was soon joined by a guy and girl about my age who were trying to find the flute player as well. I pointed towards the trees and they stood there with me in silence until he was done.
“Beautiful” I said. “Where are you from?” The guy asked. I was thrown off by his accent. I couldn’t place it… he could almost be American, almost…
“I’m from the States” He sighed, “I know that, where from?”
“Oh! Sorry, umm… Chicago” He nodded.
“I’ve never been. I went to school in Texas.” God, was he beautiful. I had not found anyone attractive since Jon and I broke up four months prior. He had reddish brown hair with dark eyes to match, and deeply carved facial features that spoke of seriousness, of thoughts unsaid. The girl was plain in every way- it didn’t help that she was paired with someone so attractive. “Where are you two from?” I asked. “Germany”. Why didn’t I study abroad in Germany!
They asked me to walk up the mountain with them and show them the best paths, which I happily did. Their English was much better than the French students and we strayed onto topics of stereotypes, music, politics, and education. He was very opinionated... I wish I could remember his name. He had a darkness to him that captivated me, and I wondered why I always seem to care about the opinions of the dark and blunt and oftentimes rude. I think it’s because I want to impress people who can say no, will say no, that they won’t just go along with a girl because of their looks. I think that’s why I loved Jon so much, because I knew he would say no to a pretty girl, even when I was that girl four months ago.
This young plain German girl… she was in love with him. He might love her, but it was hard to tell behind his brown eyes. I led them passed the prickly bushes with the yellow flowers and the big flat stones. I led them all the way up to the top of the mountain where the salty wind blew our hoods off as we attempted to take pictures, capture these moments in 2-D. A storm picked up as suddenly as they do in this country, and we screamed as we ran down the mountain to escape the wind and the sea spray in our eyes once the pictures were done. They held hands. They cared about each other. We laughed until we clung to the shelter of a tree. I did not tell them it was the fairy tree.
“I’m going to stay and write” I exclaimed.
“You’re not going to some with us?”He asked. He looked genuinely disappointed. Wish I could read the girl… if it was okay for me to join them or not. Her plainness revealed nothing. We said our brief goodbyes, and I sat on the uplifted root with cold trembling fingers trying to write something, anything. But the fairy magic was gone. There was only wind and Irish cold. So I backed up my unwritten notebook and strode down the mountain. Defeated. I supposed all artists go through their blue period… Perhaps this was mine. Time for my artistic torture.
I understood as I walked to the train station along the sea, that I was not meant to write on Brayhead… that the mountain was not going to fill my melodramatic head with magic to glide through my eager pen and onto an empty dance floor of white paper. My eyes locked onto the grey waves crashing on the rocky shore. I noticed how each wave impatiently overlapped the first one… layers and layers of waves… I scoffed at myself. Another distraction! Here I was trying to be a dark and brooding artist lamenting the loss of passion and I keep thinking about the sea!
Attempt Number Three:
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