So the story goes

When I was young boy I spent time in my Grandparents house in a tiny village in County Galway on the west coast of Ireland. I would stay in the guest’s room upstairs, sharing a bed with my older brother. At night there would be no noise at all, save the rain that would gently patter on the skylight, or the odd car making its way to some remote, far flung home. By day there would be little going on. There were fields filled with corpulent cows, sleepy sheep and dirty dogs. There were little lane ways filled with massive tractor tire markings. There were tree’s that belonged to the witches

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