After docking in Cork harbour, he headed north across the mountains and moors, without taking his eyes off the Atlantic Ocean. His only companion, the weeping winds from the open sea, was the coastline and the sandy shores. He went over ditches and fences to find grace in the posture of the Irish horse. His hands were seized by the sea spray, the mists fell quickly, we will hear no more the horn under the barking of the Border Collie. To the songs of the minstrels, he roamed the peninsulas of Dingle, Ivreagh, Beara, Sheep's Head and Mizen, adventure echoing. Ireland has sung its rite, its Celtic heart beating, carrying its voice over the mountains, to pierce us forever.