The pastoral landscape intrigued me as a city of cobblestone never could. The grass seemed greener here. Perhaps it was the dew freshly drying in the cool morning breeze. The sheep seemed more pronounced here, dotting the landscape like seashells along a sandy beach. I could hear their soft bleating, carried along by the rolling hills. There was nothing outwardly unique about this horizon. It resembled many of the green fields I had seen along the Irish coast. But there was something about this particular view. Perhaps it was the massive stone castle that towered just behind me, the Rock of Cashel. Perhaps it was the six-foot tall wall that divided the graveyard in which I stood from the outlying farms. With my eyes, I followed a dirt path leading down a steep hill. I stood on tiptoes to see over, using a rain-washed gravestone carved in the shape of a Celtic cross as my balance. The names of the long deceased were no longer legible. They were faded lines of a forgotten human life and were now my stepping stool.
