Like a dithering serpent winding far above the sea and far below the sky, the Lonely Road wound through the rocks and rills and improbable greens of Kerry. Kerry, lost to the Atlantic more surely than any other county, was a place of magic, a land that time had forgotten, a place where the forgetting came easier, as if the gentility of the land itself absorbed the sting of memory. It was for this last reason that Casey brought Pamela to a tiny cottage that stood so precariously upon a cliff that it seemed half inclined to tip into the sea. The cottage, hidden from the road by a steep hill that cut sharply away from the narrow road, was submerged in ivy. Its small front windows looked seaward, its back sheltered by a half-crescent of salt-blasted pine. It had belonged to Casey’s grandfather Brendan once upon a time and now was in the possession of the local priest. “I’ve my Daddy’s key,” Casey explained, “Father Terry has never used the cottage anyhow; he only keeps it out of some sort of respect for my family.
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