The Irish Countryside: A Rainy Night For Sleep

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Now get cozy and relax,

As this bedtime tale takes you on an enchanting journey.

In tonight's sleep story,

You are invited to a cozy thatched cottage nestled along the shores of a quiet loch,

Where time slows and the land hums with ancient stories.

You are listening to The Irish Countryside,

A journey to rolling green hills and spring wildflowers,

Where ivy-clad ruins create a fairytale setting.

As soft mist drifts over the landscape,

You arrive at a charming whitewashed cottage just before a gentle rain begins to fall.

Inside,

The glow of the wood stove flickers across stone walls,

And you settle by the fire with a classic Irish tale.

The rhythmic patter of rain against the thatched roof and the soothing crackle of the fire guide you into a restful sleep.

It's time to dream away.

Welcome to Michelle's Sanctuary,

Where you can unwind and journey to a place of comfort and good dreams.

I'm Michelle,

Here to guide you like an old friend,

Who knows just how to help you settle in.

Tonight,

You are invited to escape to the Emerald Isle,

As it offers a gentle retreat from the demands of the day.

This is your time to rest,

To dream,

And to find solace in your imagination.

Let go at your own pace,

Knowing that sleep will find you whenever you're ready,

And change any detail you like as you celebrate making it through another day.

Now shift your attention to your breath,

As we take a moment for a relaxation exercise,

Preparing your mind to fully immerse yourself in the story.

Open your mouth and sigh,

Releasing any pockets within you that are holding tension or ideas that do not serve your quest for serenity.

Inhale through your nose,

Drawing in the fresh,

Fragrant air of the Irish countryside,

Where rain-kissed meadows bloom with wildflowers and rainbows.

Yawn,

Then sigh audibly as you exhale,

Imagining any stress dissolving like mist rising from rolling green meadows at dusk.

Spring is a season of hope,

A time when the world awakens and the land of Emerald Isle inspires renewal.

No matter what the day has held,

You have the right to pause and to rest.

So with each breath continuing in this pattern,

Allow yourself to settle deeper into your sanctuary for peace.

And as you continue to inhale,

Perhaps yawn and sigh at your own pace.

Find the cadence that works for you as I count you down.

Know that each breath draws you closer to deep rest.

5.

Attune yourself to the embrace of soft,

Rolling fields,

Endless and lush.

4.

Your next inhalation is met with a calming essence of a hearth as waves of undulating warmth travel from the crown of your head to the soles of your feet.

3.

Get cozier as you imagine settling in a centuries-old cottage,

Enjoying the fire as the heat keeps away the dampness of night.

2.

Your muscles relax,

Melting as your bones sink deeper into the softness of this moment and the support of your bed.

1.

Feeling safe and sound,

One last yawn leads to a sigh that prepares you to explore the magic of Ireland.

And in a state of ease,

It's time for the story to begin.

1.

Spring awakens the emerald isle in a riot of color and life.

The rolling hills,

Lush with new growth,

Shimmer in a thousand shades of green,

While wild primroses and violets peek from the hedgerows.

2.

The floral scents of spring mingle with a crisp,

Salty breeze drifting inland from the Atlantic.

3.

You revel in a long walk through nature as the late afternoon sun casts long golden rays over the countryside,

Illuminating winding stone walls and quiet lanes lined with nodding daffodils.

4.

This is Ireland in its most tender and hopeful season,

A time for regrowth,

Of soft rains and vibrant blossoms,

Of stories told on long walks along lapping streams.

5.

Yet there is still a looming sharpness in the air,

A slight little nip to let you know that spring can be fickle and the weather may change on a dime.

6.

As you explore,

You unbutton your deep green peacoat and let the lush sunlight pour over your heart,

Making you toasty in the most pleasant way.

7.

Wandering through this enchanting land,

You explore an area steeped in folklore where whispers of old tales lurk in the shadows and reflections.

8.

You ascend the fabled stairway to heaven,

Following the winding path of Quilka Mountain,

Where breathtaking vistas of shimmering locks and patchwork fields unfold below.

Your breath catches from the beauty and the exertion of effort that sometimes is forgotten during long periods of staying in and hibernating.

9.

The fresh scent of damp earth and wild heather fills the air,

A contrasting tonic of sweet decaying matter and clean floral notes.

10.

Your muscles burn ever so slightly from the constant changes in elevation Your heart pounds within your chest,

Filling you with a deep appreciation for this beautiful moment that makes you feel strong and fully alive.

What a gift it is to be outdoors,

Immersed in this tranquil region where whispers of mischievous fairies mingle with the babbling brooks overflowing to their highest banks.

As you descend many kilometers into your journey,

The landscape softens into rolling pastures dotted with sheep,

Jagged stone walls weaving through the hills like silver ribbons.

You follow a quiet lane lined with wildflowers,

Like vibrant butter-yellow gorse that leaves a hint of coconut in the fresh air.

Bell-shaped foxgloves flutter,

Their magenta petals vivid against the shades of green beyond.

These fairy thimbles will soon nourish the bees that return as the journey toward warmer weather unfolds.

A quaint thatched cottage comes into view,

Heather Glen Cottage.

The whitewashed dwelling pops against the greens and colorful palette of spring.

Beyond the quaint home,

A lock mirrors the sky as gray clouds slither in and the sun lowers.

The front door and shutters are painted a shiny candy apple red,

And window boxes overflow with crimson begonias.

Their petals trembling in the air as if anticipating the encroaching storm.

You close your eyes and inhale deeply,

Taking in this moment.

The rustling grass and the distant bleeding of sheep are joined by the trill of a blackbird settling in before rain falls upon its wings.

The warm afternoon begins to shift as a hush falls over the hills.

A soft mist rolls in,

Swirling like a wisp of a dream.

The once bright sky dims to a muted pearly gray,

The wind carrying the scent of rain and damp grass.

The air grows cooler and you enter the cottage before the first raindrops softly patter against the thatched roof.

Inside smells so good,

Some aromas familiar while others new.

A blend of stone and old books,

Freshly baked bread,

And burning wood.

The ambience exudes timeless warmth with vases of dried heather scattered atop laced doilies on hand-carved shelves and side tables.

Crocheted ivory throw blankets drape over inviting plush armchairs and a deep emerald sofa.

Wood crackles and pops as it burns in the cast iron wood stove,

Recently tended to by an old man who has been caretaker for this cottage for decades.

Just before the wood stove sits a rustic wooden coffee table where you discover a handwritten letter.

Beside it,

A loaf of fresh soda bread rests on a wooden board,

A knife nearby for slicing.

The dark crust still warm and a small plate of rich yellow Irish butter steam curls from a waiting teapot.

The aroma of strong Irish breakfast tea curling into the air.

You make your way to the washroom where you splash your face with crisp cool water and wash off with an intriguing green bar of handmade soap.

It smells of heather and moss and lingers even as you dry off with a plush white hand towel.

Feeling renewed,

You enter one of the two bedrooms,

The largest of the two,

Where your luggage is properly stowed and you change into your most comfortable loungewear as the rain wraps on the mullioned windows overlooking the fields and a sliver of the lock.

Dressed for the night with no intentions of going out,

You feel the transition from traveler to guest,

The cottage becoming your home for the night.

Now comfy and clean,

You return to the sofa,

Settling before the fire and drape the crocheted blanket around your shoulders.

You imagine the love and care that went into each loop of the soft yarn that now embraces you.

You prepare the tea to your liking,

Taking your time,

And watching the elegant stream of dark caramel brown liquid cascade into the delicate antiques.

The butter melts with ease on the warm soda bread and as you take a bite into the dense bread,

Followed by a sip of tea,

You tune into the rain's steady rhythm and sigh.

Feeling satiated and warm from the inside out,

Your attention turns to a weathered and time-worn copy of Ireland historic and picturesque.

This travel log by Charles Johnston was first published in 1902.

Your fingers trace the time-worn cover as you open it,

Smelling the sweet old paper as you begin to read.

The words,

Though written long ago,

Feel as vivid and true as if penned today,

As though the spirit of Ireland speaks through its pages.

You sink deeper into the sofa,

Preparing yourself to be swept away by the timeless portrayal as you read his work,

Which unfolds like a guided meditation as he once wrote.

Visible and invisible,

Here is an image by which you may call up and remember the natural form and appearance of Ireland.

Think of the sea gradually rising around her coasts until the waters,

Deep and everywhere by a hundred fathoms,

Close in upon the land.

Of all Ireland,

There will now remain visible above the waves only two great armies of islands,

Facing each other obliquely across a channel of open sea.

These two armies of islands will lie in ordered ranks,

Their lines stretching from northeast to southwest.

They will be equal in size,

Each 200 miles along the front and 70 miles from front to rear and the open sea between,

Which divides two armies will measure 70 miles across.

Not an island of these two armies,

As they lie thus obliquely facing each other,

Will rise as high as 3,

000 feet.

Only the captains among them will exceed a thousand,

Nor will there be great variety in their forms.

All the islands,

Whether north or south,

Will have gently rounded backs,

Clothed in pastures nearly to the crest,

With garments of purple heather lying under the sky upon their ridges.

Yet for all this roundness of outline,

There will be,

Towards the Atlantic end of either army,

A growing sternness of aspect,

The more somber ruggedness in the outline of the hills,

With cliffs and steep ravines setting their brows,

Frowning against the deep.

Hold in mind the image of these two obliquely ranged archipelagos,

Their length thrice their breadth,

Seeming the blue of the sea,

And garmented in dark green and purple under the sunshine.

And thinking of them thus,

Picture to yourself a new rising of the land,

A new withdrawal of the waters.

The waves falling and ever falling till all the hills come forth again,

And the salt tides roll and ripple away from the valleys,

Leaving their faces for the winds to dry.

Let this go on till the land once more takes its familiar form,

And you will easily call up the visible image of the whole.

As you stand in the midst of the land,

Where first lay the channel of open sea,

You will have on your northern horizon the beginning of a world of purple outline hills,

Outliers of the northern mountain region,

Which covers the upper third of the island.

On all sides about you,

From the eastern sea to the western ocean,

You will have the great central plain,

Dappled with lakes and ribbed with silver rivers,

Another third of the island.

Then once more to the south,

You will have a region of hills,

The last third of Ireland,

In size just as equal to the northern mountains or the central plain.

The lines of the northern hills begin with the basalt buttresses of Antrim and the granite ribs of Down,

And pass through northern Ulster and Connacht to the headlands of Mayo and Galway.

Their rear is held by the Donegal Ranges,

Keeping guard against the blackness of the northern seas.

The plain opens from the verge of these hills.

The waters that gather on its pleasant pastures and fat fields are among the green moss tracks of its lowlands,

Flow eastward by the Boyne,

Or southwestward by the Shannon to the sea.

Then,

With the granite mountains of Dublin and Wicklow,

Begin the southern hills,

Stretching through south Leinster and Munster,

To the red sandstone ridges of Cork and Kerry,

Our last vantage ground against the Atlantic.

Finally,

Encircling all is the perpetual presence of the sea,

With its foaming,

Thunderous life,

Or its days of dreamy peace,

Around the silver sands or furrowed cliffs that gird the island,

Our white waves rush forever,

Murmuring the music of eternity.

Such is the land of Eyre,

Very old,

Yet full of perpetual youth,

A thousand dimes darkened by sorrow,

Yet with a heart of living gladness,

Too often visited by evil and pale death,

Yet dwelling ever up in unconquerable life,

The youth and life and gladness that thrill through earth and air and sky,

When the whole world grows beautiful in the front of spring.

For with us,

Spring is like the making of a new world in the dawn of time.

Under the warm wind's caressing breath,

The grass comes forth upon the meadows and the hills,

Chasing winter away.

Every field is newly vestured in young corn or the olive greenness of wheat.

The smell of the earth is full of sweetness.

White daisies and yellow dandelions star all our pastures,

And on the green ruggedness of every hillside or along the shadowed banks of every river and every silver stream,

Amid velvet mosses and fringes of newborn ferns,

In a million nooks and crannies,

Throughout all the land are strone dark violets and wreaths of yellow primroses with crimped green leaves pour forth a remote and divine fragrance.

Above them,

The larches are dainty with new greenery and rosy tassels,

And the young leaves of beech and oak quiver with fresh life.

Still,

The benignness of spring pours down upon us from the sky till the darkening fields are hemmed in between barriers of white hawthorn,

Heavy with nectar and twined with creamy honeysuckle.

The fingertips of every blossom,

Coral red.

The living blue above throbs with the tremulous song of innumerable larches.

The measured chant of cuckoos awakens the woods,

And through the thickets,

A whole world's gladness sings itself forth from the throat of thrush and blackbird.

Through the whole land,

Between the four seas,

Benediction is everywhere.

Bluebells and the rosy fingers of heath deck the mountaintops,

Where the grouse are crooning to each other among the winds.

Down the hillsides and to every valley pour gladness and greenness and song.

There are flowers everywhere,

Even to the very verge of the whispering sea.

There among the gray-bent spikes and brackens on the sandhills,

Primroses weave their yellow wreaths and little pansies,

Golden and blue and purple,

Marshal their weird eyes against the spears of dark blue hyacinths,

Till the rich tribute of wild time makes peace between them.

The blue sky overhead,

With its flocks of sunlit clouds,

Softly bends over the gentle bosom of the earth.

A living spirit throbs everywhere,

Palpable,

Audible,

Full of sweetness and sadness immeasurable,

Sadness that is only a more secret joy.

Then the day grows weary,

Making way for the magic of evening and the oncoming dark with its mystery.

The tree stems redden with a sunset.

There is a chill sigh in the wind,

The leaves turn before it,

Burnished against the purple sky.

As the gloom rises up out of the earth,

The bands of dark red gather on the horizon,

Seeming the clear bronze of the sky that passes upward into olive color,

Merging in dark blue overhead.

The sun swings down behind the hills,

And purple darkness comes down out of the sky.

The red fades from the tree stems,

The cloud colors die away.

The whole world glimmers with a fading whiteness of twilight.

Silence gathers itself together out of the dark,

Deepened,

Not broken,

By the hushing of the wind among the beech leaves or the startled cluck of a blackbird or a wood pigeon's soft murmur as it dreams in the silver fur.

Under the brown wings of the dark,

The night throbs with mystic presences.

The hills glimmer with an inward life,

Whispering voices hurry through the air.

Another and magical land awakes in the dark,

Full of a living restlessness,

Sleepless as the ever-moving sea.

Everywhere through the night-shrouded woods,

The shadowy trees seem to interrupt their secret whispers.

There is no sense of loneliness anywhere,

But rather a host of teeming lives on every hand,

Palpable though hidden,

Remote from us though touching our lives.

Calling to us through the gloom with worldless voices,

Inviting us to enter and share with them the mystical life of this miraculous earth.

Great mother of us all,

Dark is full of watching eyes.

Summer with us is but a brighter spring,

As our winter only prolongs the sadness of autumn.

So our year has but two moods,

A gay one and a sad one.

Yet each tinges the other.

The mists of autumn veiling the gleam of spring,

Spring smiling through the grief of autumn.

When the sad mood comes,

Stripping the trees of their leaves and the fields of their greenness.

White mists veil the hills and brood among the fading valleys.

A shiver runs through the air,

And the cold branches are starred with tears.

A poignant grief is over the land,

An almost desolation,

Unspoken sorrow.

Tongue tied with unuttered complaint.

All the world is lost and forlorn,

Without hope or respite.

Everything is given up to the dirges of the moaning seas,

The white shrouds of weeping mist.

Wander forth upon the uplands and among the lonely hills and rock-seamed sides of the mountains,

And you will find the same sadness everywhere.

A grieving world under a grieving sky.

Quiet desolation hides among the hills.

Tears tremble and every brown glass blade.

White mists of melancholy shut out the lower world.

Whoever has not felt the poignant sadness of the leafless days,

Has never known the real Ireland.

The sadness that is present,

Though veiled in the green bravery of spring and under the songs of summer.

Nor have they ever known the real Ireland,

Who have not divined beneath that poignant sadness,

A heart of joy,

Deep and perpetual,

Made only keener by that sad outward show.

Here,

In our visible life,

Is a whisper and hint of our life invisible.

Of the secret that runs through and interprets so much of our history.

For very much of our nation's life has been like the sadness of those autumn days.

A tale of torn leaves,

Of broken branches,

Of tears everywhere.

Tragedy upon tragedy has filled our land with woe and sorrow.

And as humans count success,

We have failed of it and received only misery and deprivation.

One has never known the true Ireland who does not feel that woe.

Yet more,

One knows not the real Ireland who cannot feel within that woe,

The heart of power and joy.

A strong life,

Outlasting darkest night.

The soul that throbs incessantly under all the calamities of the visible world.

Throughout the long tragedy of our history,

This is our secret.

The life that is in sorrow,

As in joy.

The power that is not more in success than in failure.

The one soul whose moods these are,

Who uses equally life and death.

You close the book and think for a moment about this passage,

About how the greatest beauty and deepest feelings are born out of contrasts.

A longing grows for spring days like this,

When the world is so chaotic and seemingly cold.

You consider this some more,

So grateful for your awareness of all the pleasantries that you only appreciate more,

As your eyes grow so heavy and tired.

Soon the fight to keep them open becomes impossible,

The pull of sleep inevitable.

The crackling of the embers in the wood stove blends with a constant rhythm of rain against the thatched roof.

Your soft,

Soothing lullaby for tonight.

You rise,

And the old floorboards creak under your footsteps.

The groans of an old house adding to the quiet,

Cozy atmosphere.

You return to your bedroom,

Where the air is filled with the scent of wildflowers resting on a bed stand,

And the smell of fresh rain.

You walk over to the bed,

The patchwork quilt feels cool and soft under your fingertips,

As you lift it,

Along with the crisp percale sheets,

And climb atop the bed.

Settling into the supportive mattress,

You hear the gentle squeak of the bed frame,

As it adjusts to your weight,

The quietest of sounds.

As you nestle in,

The quilt is heavy over you,

Protective and warm.

Exhaustion pulls you deeper,

And you give in to these tides,

As persistent as the tides of the sea lapping against the coast of the Emerald Isle.

You surrender to its persistent arrival,

And give in to slumber,

Finding serenity,

Finding comfort,

Finding peace,

Finding sleep.