I would have chosen the winter and the ferry, boarded Roscoff at the end of the day, reached my destination Cork the next afternoon by sea, I would have chosen to work with a smart, uncompromising, follower of good sport. No hurry – as Ireland looks from the sky like a palm with fingers clasped in the Atlantic Ocean, part of the island authorized by the porthole, a framework of fences and stone walls against a chlorophyll green background, to land in Shannon or Dublin, direct shooting, without conversion; But you go there, I would have decided: the first time, yes, the first time I set foot there, I would reach Ireland by sea – or we would understand nothing, I would be told.

Main deck, passenger lounge, few people, big TVs, truck drivers shouting to each other with red eyes glued to the counter as soon as the bar opens. In the cafeteria, a French woman sits down next to me, smiles at me as if she recognizes me, and, with her eyelids lowered over her beer, talks to me about Ireland, the magic of Ireland. She herself happily admits to being a witch. I thought the clichés were harsh: would she list fairies, elves and spirits, and strangely tell me that they were all island redheads, musicians, and that not one of them was taller than 1m70?

I shrug my shoulders and frown: I come to an empirical and rational Ireland, a geography, a climate, a comfort, to touch my body, to hear the weight of a language, to taste the life we ​​lead there. Bitterness of Beer, driving down the broken roads of Dingle, walking in Kerry, atop the Cliffs of Moher, I come there to observe the ancient crosses of Clonmacnoise on the Shannon Loop, to wander around Dublin, to dip in Mayo, to dip my feet in the lakes of Connemara, I come there, and I know very well why. Magic of Ireland, magical Ireland? No, frankly, no need for this ad argument, cheers mate!

The next day, I stand on the bridge to watch the beach rise above the icy sea, Ireland becomes clearer, and I see a few meters from me, wrapped in the woman of the day before, bright-eyed and red-faced. . – Cool, happy; She sees me and screams, pointing her index finger at the island slowly emerging from the thick fog in pure cliché of Celtic legend. “Look at the magic of Ireland!”I shake my head, smile, then focus entirely on my immediate future: a few days in Ireland for the first time. Get into the island soon by hiring a car, following Seamus Heaney's poetic suggestion – I took a collection of his with me (“Poems 1965-1975”) say aloud: “When you have nothing to say, take a day's drive around the peninsula, the sky is as high as a runway, the land without signs so you don't reach.”“

“My sparkling eyes flash with intensity of color”

Head in the direction of the Dingle Peninsula and, cutting inland through Macroom and Maccross, reach the Lakes of Killarney. From the start, the place is eventful. I expect it, but all the same: a coal-sponge sky launched at full speed above the narrow road, a bird's eye view of grassy lakes, giant ferns, blooming plants, rare houses. And finally the super green, Irish green. Being an acid, though not fluorescent, light rises from the earth, covering the entire landscape, as the sun streams over the grasslands. In other words, the world turned upside down.

Green everywhere, therefore, and, following the curves and eddies of relief, multiple, turning Vert, Menthol, Veronese, Jade, Hollywood chewing gum. My bright eyes blink at the intensity of the color, so I search my bag with my free hand for my missing sunglasses – it's still winter, it's Ireland, obviously, and I haven't thought about it – and fall into the ditch to avoid doing so.

Once my gaze is adjusted, I experience the strange sensation of being fully involved in the landscape, integrated into the decor even though I am moving and led into another chromatic range, into another world: otherworldly. The woman in the boat – I could see her fish-bellied silver eyelids again – spoke to me about Sid, the world of spirits. Perhaps it makes me laugh to imagine that I have already reached this direction.

Late in the afternoon, I enter Dingle, the northernmost tip of Ireland's south-west peninsula, the wind blowing, small stone walls replacing a mesh of hedges and shrubs. . I opened my eyes to the maddened labyrinth of plots of irregular sizes and shapes, no house in sight, no one, not a living soul, not a moving machine. I get out of the car and approach the walls: vegetation – dark moss, light ferns – rich in poor minerals, the driest and broken stone. I look for the logical pattern, the organizing principle of the landscape—in this wild west where the winds are too high, the fences never hold, the animals don't have to be fenced in—and I pass by, observing the interlacing of gray areas that flow down. Crossing the hills, I can see the first “clochein” scattered on the slopes, large stone beehives, the first hermits' shelters, then shepherds' dwellings, and mysterious huts of unknown origin. Who raised them there?

“I hear yelling and singing and pushing and screaming”

Standing in the middle of the road, I feel everything raining down on my cheeks: Why does everything have to be like this? Ireland is very much keeping its promises. I button my jacket, my head spins, I return to the car, now driving into the heart of this secret Sid, because hardworking hands have built these walls there according to a titanic plan known only to them and created it wonderfully. landscape I continue along the coast under a heavy downpour, white and fierce sea under the cliffs, a crazy sound takes me to Dingle, where, just before entering the small town, I finally see some other cars, finally I see men on the shoulder.

As the day fades, I head to the first open pub on the harbour. A crazy world inside. I cut through the smoke between wet jackets and cable-knit wool sweaters and move through the standing bodies. I hear shouting and singing and shoving and yelling, the boys are called Brendan, Finbarr, Seamus or Flan, the girls Moira, Nuala, the beer is heavy, brown and nutty, with strong malt accents: they say an order, thrusting their whole jaw forward at once. A lordly service of long arm speckled with spots: slow drawing, tankard filling in two stages, controlled formation of ecru, creamy foam. I am relieved to have left the world of elements and spirits to discover the world of physical bodies and techniques.

Outside, night has fallen, and I now walk down the damp alley that leads to the hotel. The receptionist gives me the key to an attic room. I feel cold and feel like I have a fever. I entered the room and dumped my bag on the bed. Novels – O' Faolin, Hamilton – Newspapers. I capture Nicolas Bouvier's “Journal d'Arran” – the Aran Islands, I can go, I want to go there. He also had fever during his stay there. Before going to bed I re-read the story of the strange woman. “good people”These evil spirits are summoned here to ward off their harmful power. In my bed, my head is on fire, I close the book, the wind whistles around the window, the rain beats against the glass, and there is a knock on the door.

I get up startled, and go to open it: there is the woman from the boat, in front of me, painted with pearls, dripping with ointment, and wearing a pair of red boots, she smiles at me, takes me by the hand, turns her head, wipes the ends of her hair on my face, she Says there's a musical party at O'Flaherty's pub, you don't want to miss it, I'm quick. Feeling full of power, Ireland's green fever is the fever that carries me.