The border passes through a small lake. Dusk, I make camp by the shore and walk into the nearest village. Tonight Kiltyclogher’s three streets are deserted and dark. No cars pass. The village is hushed. There is a summer heaviness in the air, perhaps all the pollen from the fields all around. I sense domestic comfort behind closed doors, yellow light spills from windows, the flicker from a television. Suddenly lonesome, I peer in the window of a pub. I see a constellation of stars, gleams from bottles, glasses and mirrors. It’s got that warm pub look about it, all browns and golds, lengths of polished brass. But it is Monday, the wrong end of the week. A solitary man is sitting at the bar and looking into his whiskey. There is no one else to be seen, not even staff. I return to my campsite, take my boots off and dip my feet in the lake.
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