The Giant's Causeway

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From top to bottom. A blue sky adorned with pearl white clouds. A brown mountain peak blanketed with green moss. Dark-grey rocks
the giant's causeway

As we descended upon the giant’s causeway, the sky broke into its performance; the glorious orange sun conducting the violinist clouds into melodies of white and the oboist seagulls into phrases of song; greeting us from their stage, putting on a show. Enrapturing us with the gentle crescendos and munificent songs. A new movement every minute, mesmerizing our ears, our eyes, our hearts—comparable almost to the likes of Beethoven and Mozart, the nature around us echoing the tunes of mother earth. Unexpected lilacs thrown in the middle of an orange sky, yellows carefully placed among the intervals of blue, the pearl white blanket giving a kind of serenity you could never experience outside Ireland.

The sea below us beautifully contrasting against the booming skies; the soft waves welcoming our feet while the playful sand grains tickled our feet, the water churned into pools of white; tints of red and grey peeping through the clear blue water, maybe they were corals, maybe they were crabs. I picked up a shell and held it to my ear, I could feel the entire universe running through my veins as I traced the ridges of its perfect shape and I thought in wonder of the thought put into the creation of the world, with every contour of every shell so flawlessly designed.

A tranquility swept me over as I trekked along the causeway, the rocks hardened from the age-old battle against the sea; the terrain so perfectly divided by the heavy stomps of the beastly Benandonner, who was weakened by fear. The causeway stretched into the mighty sea, for the boulders thrown by Finn were not weak, and an eerie chill ran down my back while I wondered the validity of the legend. With these feelings of both curiosity and peace, I darted forward, cautiously treading on the broken fragments of what used to be a solid plateau of timid rock.

The once-called Isle of Man now upended along the length of the sea; the stunning architecture of the causeway left me in awe. The basalt foundation giving a magnificent shade of black that stood out in the scene of colours. The columns protruding from under the sea, bravely standing their ground against the vicious wrath of the same waves that were so calm with us; they frothed with fury, and with every collision, we would get sprayed by the ever so light water droplets, almost like dew on a misty morning, accented with the bitter saltiness of the sea.

As we moved forward, we approached the moss-covered mountains, looking almost as if they were hiding, fearful just as Benandonner was. They were beautiful all the same, with the air around them crisp, enchanting us. I breathed in the cold rush of air and instantly felt my shoulders ease up, the cool wind running down my back. I closed my eyes and felt the breeze play with my hair, almost like a lover’s hand. The earthy green of the moss paired with the brown of the mud almost bewitching, luring me in to love this Irish geological wonder even more. The barky, musty petrichor filled my lungs, and I was transported to my homeland, the ever-so-familiar smell of earth after pouring rains. I opened my eyes, and I stared at all the beauty that was before me. The memories, the legends, the history—to think I might be one of the millions that witnessed this breathtaking scene, gave me a sense of pride. To be fortunate enough to experience the culture and passion of the Irish people.

Curtain call, the sun bowed as it took our leave, our eyes fixed on the earth. I stared at the causeway, placed in the middle of two worlds, bonded by friendship and comradery; connecting Ireland to Scotland, connecting the sea to sky, connecting us to them.

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