Yesterday I brought my nephew to Glendalough. As we walked inside the grounds, I heard the sound of a tin whistle blowing some enchanting, ephemeral tune. My heart quickened. It called to my DNA, to something ancient and Celtic in me that I have long forgotten to think about. I was not alone in hearing it.
Chunky tourists slung their fancy cameras round their shoulders and hobbled all pied pipered like towards the noise. Others shuffled under the shadows of the round tower, incapable of moving as they took selfie after selfie on their shiny phones. The wind blew the clouds above at a frantic pace. The sun glared. The tall trees groaned.
