The glass of wine glistens half empty against the dim yellow light of the night lamp. The window is half open and lets in the last of a fresh summer evening in late August. Outside, the days are noticeably shorter as the breeze whistles the tunes of autumnal lullabies across the empty fields of the lower Cooley.

To remember the summer. The first summer of a normality that changed our headlines from a pandemic to a war. Surely, we no longer queue for vaccines, but we queue for diesel. We no longer keep track of our fatalities, but we try to keep track of our daily budgets.

It is at the very beginning of the season that I end a cycle of forced professional hiatuses and join the morning commute on rural roads to Castleblayney and, for ten whole days, lay my hours of work across a small desk in a windowless office. It is two weeks later that my rural life finds a way to transplant me back into the city for daily drives to the edge of Dublin. ‘Look but do not touch’ shouts the capital from its guts at Temple Bar, while from my new desk I look for the blurry horizon beyond the airport final approach.
But the M1 is not as bad as the M50 and I must man up. I take call and interviews in my car and I try to work around my career while I force myself to drive.

Queue madness ensures at Dublin Airport in the early hours of the June Bank Holiday and long walks in the continental heat along ghost towns in Germany become the norm upon arriving at a desolated Hahn Airport.
At the Mosel Valley, I hitchhike from village to village and spend most of my hours with my head stuck in the sweet haze of Riesling.

In Reil, I read books under the shade of a fig tree and watch the barges cruise along the murky waters in still silence. At the hotel, a woman traveling with her son brings my mind home. They both lean against a small table full of Legos and, in their fantasy world, hardships vanish in innocent smiles. In their fantasy world, not only the child is having a burger, but each are having a three-course meal. In their fantasy world, they do not share a single bed, but each have a room in a crimson palace.

Across the border in Luxembourg, the rain sets the mood of a visit to my hundred-second country and, fuzzy headed, I stumble across windy cobblestoned streets that lead up to soberly-designed palatial buildings. I had indeed been warned of a dull place stuck in between Germany and Belgium, and I have now indeed set foot on such life-deprived void of wealth.
Relentlessly, the clouds take no mercy over the Grand Rue and, feet squelching, I look through the restaurant windows and gather anger against the bourgeois millennials mechanically devouring small portions out of oversized dishes. It is in Luxembourg that alone I dine on soggy pizza and sleep, and alone I contract COVID.

Isolation and feelings for transformation, interviews and counter-offers for solstice. The trains come and the trains go. I think of all the sweet welcomes and bitter goodbyes the ceramic bricks at Dundalk Clarke have witnessed for decades and I think of the stifled emotions and nervous laughters myself and fellow travellers have endured. Their uncertain futures and nurtured pasts.

And it is in these last nights of summer that I think of Donegal and the collection of shooting stars cruising along an ethereal navy blue sky like fireflies tucking into the warmth of my sleeping bag. It is with the wine glass now empty that I think of hazy sunrises infused with freshly brewed instant coffee at Kelston.

To remember summer. The first summer of a normality that traded professional challenge for negotiation opportunities. Surely, I no longer queue for flights, but I queue for viewings. I no longer keep track of my emotions, but I try to keep track of my feelings.

Goodbye my summer. You will forever be missed.