We climbed the hills o'er...

Those long summer days, when we climbed the hills o'er
To spend hours in the fields, over Aran's wild shore
The soft summer twighlight bids shadows to flee
On the road to Drumleman, that winds to the sea.

That's my favorite verse of my favorite song. Every time I hear that verse, I think of these hills, and two people on them. One is sitting down on the grass and pointing at something. Her wispy hair is blowing in the breeze. The other woman's hair is more neat and she is standing. They are always pointing out over a field somewhere in Washington State--maybe Jefferson Park's hill by the resovoir minus city street and playground...

I do wonder where the real Drumleman is, and whether it exists or not. Lately, my mum has gotten really interested in Glastonbury, England, but I'd rather find Drumleman--both my own personal one, and the real one.

Maybe someday I'll write a story about a girl named Gael or Saro. Just an ordinary girl who lives in a country called...Erin, I guess. And she lives in a village, the Lagan, and her father, a trader, takes the family every spring to a costal village, Drumleman. It's somewhat of a strange idea, I'll grant you, but...it really interests me.
Saro