“The land of fairy, where nobody gets old and godly and grave, where nobody gets old and crafty and wise, where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue…”Maybe W.B. Yeats was writing about this magical fairy glen, hidden from sight under majestic Knocknarea mountain, where raindrops gather on early holly and the beardy spagnum moss clings to ancient crumbing wall and weeps eternal tears. The gate is broken so hold your breath and sneak in around the knobbled old tree, ducking and diving through the overgrowth overhead along the pocked and mucky path less followed. The dense green thicket disguises any noise from the road down here and the recent rain runs in rushing rivlets past your feet, wear good boots, you’ll be very glad you did. We, very stupidly, had little choice that day.....