The hill sloped steeply down from the mountain. Sharp black crags faded to green as the meadow ate its way up the foothills. The story is the same as far as the eye can see – emerald valley marching into the blue-grey haze of atmosphere with its river spine snaking chasing the horizon.

This is Ireland, he says quietly to no one. This was a good idea.

Our hero has spent the last several years wanting. Also getting, but also losing.

By now he’d gotten good at leaving. A seasoned escapist always seeking, but with expectations firmly rooted to the floor. “There is no greener grass on any side of any fence.”

Here the grass was plenty green, though. Maybe…could it? No…not likely.

No supreme answers here. Nothing but a bit of shake-up and some respite.

And that’s just fine.

He held onto one last shred of boyish hope that such a thing could exist, an answer to all things, but he wrapped that shred in a hard armor and tucked it deep down.

“Expect the worst, hope for the best.”

Again, almost. More like:

“Expect the worst. Hope for…not the worst.”

This philosophy hadn’t hurt him yet. The “worst” of it had been a prolonged melancholy, which he mostly enjoyed anyhow. A state of being characterized by deep sighs and a penchant for gorging on cookies and getting snug in a nice soft armchair.

If it rained, that was a bonus.

So, he decided Ireland would be a wonderful spot to either shake awake this lethargy, and at the very least paint the melancholy mood on a worthy backdrop of wet green glory.

Yep, good idea.

He hiked a small stony trail along a ridge, until it began to descend. He stopped when the dwelling came into view. An even stonier cottage sat squatly nestled in a cluster of trees near the riverbank.

That’ll do just fine. Here I will write my book.