John Hughes, 9 April 1992
Driving through the September rain the taxi driver didn’t say a word until a goat ran across the road.
He came to a sudden stop, banged his fist on the windscreen, and intimated we were close to the spot where, sometime in the 1700s, a Fitzgerald had tied his father to a bear.
Then we watched a forest march from east to west.
We stayed there until it was time for him to talk to me...