Mo Dhachaigh Fhìn

Picture it:

It’s a cobbled, stone cottage. Damp moss grows in its outside seams around windows and doorways. It has aquamarine shutters and is absolutely the description of some magical faraway British site.

However, the people consider themselves anything but British. Instead, they speak with an accent that sounds grittier – which would be off-putting, only it somehow seems to encompass their entire historical existence and in that, the accent is endearing.

The cottage sits on the border of the Meadows, a considerable acreage spanning the middle of a medieval city. The expanse is covered in emerald green grass alongside trees that shift between delicate pink blossoms growing lime leaves to wooden courtly sentinels adorned in lush jade finery with the lengthening of the days.

This was my Gethsemane.

This was also my Heaven.