Recently I've watched a very nice and cozy film about Ireland and it made me enamoured with that country, its silent green sceneries, void of crowds of tourists. I was also encharmed by Irish people, who seemed passionate like their cute ginger curly hair but at the same time calm and aloof sometimes. Although the action takes place in the remote 1950s in the small town, I wondered whether the Ireland has conserved those features of undisturbed nature and fanciful mind of its inhabitants?)

A jazzy autumn road led us to a circassian mountain village. 'Would you like to have breakfast with us?', asked the boho style young man with braided hair, who gave us the keys from our lodging. So we followed him, me and my friend, across the forest, passing by the pond and ended up on a threshold of a tiny wooden house of most weirdly and wizardly looks. 'Come in and make yourself at home', we heard the voice of the boho man's wife behind the carpet, which was hanging instead of the front door. We passed through that veil and found ourselves in a dreamlike scenario. Gentle classical music was flowing from somewhere on the ceiling. Myriads of mystical hand-made dolls and ancient philosophy books were gazing at us from the shelves. Three black cats and one ginger kitten were wandering around the room lazily and gracefully, as if they were following the musical rhythms. Horses were peeking in the floor-to-ceiling window. A stove was cracking and sending out heat. The fatigue of the road was thrown off. We sat down at the table and the hostess served us pancakes with carrot and coffee. Three black cats settled on a bench opposite us. It seemed that they were about to turn into elders and start telling all sort of tales. All that fancies, seasoned with the enigmatic taciturnity of our hosts made me think that it was the most extraordinary breakfast in my life...

si on e attiré par l'idée de faire un long voyage avec cette personne peu importe où...

Cosa significa l'ultima riga di questa poesia di Lucia Lanza? Niente granita - come senza granita? cielo compresso nascosto da isole stanca la luna impoverische il mare ch’era ricco polvere e sale ricordo vago del mare il sapore rimane vivo inverno caldo lo sconcerto dei grilli dov'è la neve fredda estate con la felpa in spiagga niente granita