Connemara sheep have black faces and legs, and matted white dreads partly sprayed blue, pink, or red. They look at you from between their horns with more interest than fear, and they will jump a stream, legs splayed, with a nimbleness that their round bodies shouldn’t have. I love them, these ovine can-can dancers.

A New York friend of mine was transferred to Clonakilty, Co. Cork a few years back. He took another American co-worker for a bike ride out the country one Sunday, a serious young woman who found it hard to adjust to the laid-back Irish. They passed several flocks of sheep, gaudily spray-painted.
    “Sheep gangs,” he observed, “They’re pretty tough around these parts, the sheep.”
Several miles down the road, she corrected him gently. “No,” she said, “I think the farmers do that so they can tell who owns what sheep.”

2 thoughts on “”

  1. Hi, Dervala! This comment actually relates to your earlier post about coming back to our shores.
    I thought I’d drop it in here instead. Once again, I’ve been away from the blogosphere and am just now finding out about your upcoming move–which is good news since it’s what you’ve wanted, and since this country is lucky to get you back–not to mention your future employer. The downside is that your dispatches from Mother Ireland will be sorely missed.

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