My thoughts on a page.

Here you go, another of my articles from the Irish Examiner’s Feelgood. Yer man and myself finally get a night away…

Last weekend yer man and myself took a night off parenting and headed to West Cork. As we raced out the drive, the sun shone and unbelievably continued to do so for the two days.

We were staying in a friend’s apartment, almost on the beach. It’s been recently done up and has all I want in my house. I showed it off to yer man wowing at everything, from the fancy kettle and matching toaster, to the giant flat screen TV. My wowing became a high-pitched shriek as we moved to the bathrooms.

Yer man is with me long enough to know my wowing and shrieking were in fact groaning and wailing at our own lack of plush surroundings at home. As he settled to relax on the new couches with matching cushions, I reached for the wine. Thankfully, all thoughts of home soon disappeared.

“Do you know I’ve been coming here years with the girls and have never seen the sun rise?” I said, “I think I’ll get up in the morning to watch it.”

I googled “sunrise, West Cork.”

“It’s at 6.24 a.m.”

“Ah you’re not serious?” said yer man.

“I’m deadly serious.”

A while later, following a delicious meal I made another revelation.

“Do you know what else I’ve never done? Walk this beach at night. Will we go now?”

As the two of us headed off, I began to realise that there is a type of magic in alcohol which it’s safe to say, yer man, a non-drinker, was not experiencing.

The further we wandered from the hotel, the darker the night became. Sensing yer man’s desire to abandon the whole idea I pulled him on, pretending I’d excellent night vision.

Finally, we stumbled upon the steps to the beach and began, with great care, to descend into the darkness, the sea sounding a little too close for comfort.

“I think we’ll give this a skip,” said yer man, reversing as the splash of a wave wet our feet.

“Yes, I can see the tide’s in,” I lied, staring into the night. “At least it’ll be bright at sunrise,” I said, as we made our way back to the bar.

I awoke at 6.15 a.m., the following morning to the alarm. I’d set it a bit early in case google had got it wrong. Yer man and I stood, sleep drenched, looking out onto the beach.

There wasn’t a sniff of a rising sun!

“Where is it?” he said, squinting at the horizon.

“It’s not for another five minutes,” I said.

As we stood waiting we both had the same thought.

“What if it’s rising behind us?” yer man said, as I hurriedly downloaded a compass app onto my phone.

“There, it’ll rise over there,” I said pointing at the hills to our left.

“So not on the horizon?”

“No.”

Totally unimpressed yer man headed back to bed. Not willing to give up I made my way to the beach for a better view. At 7.05 a.m. the sun finally peeped over the hills. Alone, with the waves breaking beside me I stood in awe watching a new day dawn. I pulled out my phone and took a million photos, marveling at the changing views and disappointed yer man was missing it.

An hour later I returned to the apartment eager to share the beautiful morning he’d missed.

Unfortunately, my dark, almost black photos, bore no resemblance to the beautiful morning I’d witnessed. It would appear the camera didn’t see what I did.

Later, as we made our way home, I reflected on our night away.

“It was perfect,” I said, “I finally got to see the sun rise.”

“Yep, it was,” said yer man, “I’d a great rest.”

I smiled. Sometimes we see the same things differently, a little like my camera.