The boreen borders a small field before turning sharply uphill. It becomes woodland here: hawthorn, blackthorn and hazel that have outgrown scrub to become beautiful, mature trees. The remains of stone walls are softened with moss, but I build them into dwellings and imagine the lives of the people who lived here. Above this cluster of cottages, the boreen passes a hawthorn standing out on its own, a bright, thorny beacon in the woodland. There is a touch of the ancient in the spread of its branches, clotted with berries and wrapped in oakmoss. Last week, I crawled into the leaf mould and closed my eyes. That is when I heard it.