She wore a tie-dyed t-shirt that revealed what it was supposed to hide and Doc Martens wide enough to walk on water. She was nineteen years of age and I, one year older and not any wiser, grabbed for around her waist and spun her into my arms. The Rolling Stones were in town and those of us who had not emigrated to shape the great Irish diaspora gathered in Slane to hear them play. In that grassy amphitheatre we danced to the beat of “Brown Sugar”, high on freedom and the amplification shuddering through our bodies, carelessly swaying towards a future where we would love and maim each other with equal fervour. In my sagging two-man tent, we dined on pineapple chunks and cold beans. The closeness of our surroundings, the thin, flapping canvas straining against the guy-rope, the sense of people moving around us yet being separated from them within this flimsy space, added to the intensity of our time together. We drank cans of tepid beer, exchanged life stories, revealed secrets, admitted insecurities.
