I'm wondering about the - in case of doubt - mindless arrangement of tombstones as I stroll along the well-trodden paths in Glendalough. It's May, the sun is shining and beautiful white clouds are covering the sky waiting for photos to be taken of them.
Behind me the circular and prominent skew tower raises while I'm gazing towards the other end of the eponymic valley. Glendalough is Irish for "Glen of two lakes" but I barely saw one of them. But on the left side of the complex a small stony bridge leads over a small stream so that one can assume that the other one still exists. This is also the place where I will later find my dad listening to the boasting stories of a traveling bagpiper.
The gravel crunches underneath her feet as Sonja steps around the corner and starts gazing over my shoulder critically as I shoot this picture. The cameras shutter clicks for about 15 times until the panorama is done. We continue our stroll to the right, over to the exit, looking for our fellow passenger.
