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Updated: May 12, 2025
She felt herself reasoning quite collectedly on this subject, until the roar of beasts turned into the roar of the mighty Atlantic, breaking against the cliffs below Castle Gaverick.... She saw the green waves real as the heaving backs of the cattle alive, leaping.... And she herself seemed tossed on their crest... she saw and felt the cool embrace of the wave-fairies she had once tried to paint for Joan Gildea's book.... Oh! she had never fully appreciated the strength of that now inappeasable longing for the Celtic home, the Celtic traditions which had been born in her.
Imagine the agony of that! Life goes on here, all dribble, waste and fret I cannot concentrate, I cannot paint the Wave-fairies won't play Your Bush gobies appeal more to my present humour. I feel a sort of nostalgia for the wild though my nostalgia is mental, and not from any former association. Do not be surprised if some day you get a telegram saying that I am coming. Another sheet.
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