Thoughts on Ophelia

When down her weedy trophies and herself
Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide;
And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up:
Which time she chanted snatches of old tunes;
As one incapable of her own distress,
Or like a creature native and indued
Unto that element: but long it could not be
Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,
Pull’d the poor wretch from her melodious lay
To muddy death.

Well it did remind me of poor Ophelia -  a few interesting facts in this link too.
What a very pleasant day. The cold and grey lifted to give way to a sparkling warmth by midday. I accompanied Himself into Bantry for I had jobs to do. It was Fair Day and the mood was relaxed and genial. I bought a book on holy wells and had a long chat with the store owner, unexpectedly a holy well fan too. I bought a Victorian tile from a friend who was selling the contents of his attic. I bought a small exquisitely embroidered purse from the sister of an Israeli friend, made by her Palestinian friend. I admired some cards of archaelogical sites by someone who's lecture I had attended on bullaun stones, and I got all the fun shopping to do - the cheeses and the olives, much tasting beforehand.  I met up with Himself for a goats' cheese and spinach galette by the anchor in the Square. And a huge strawberry ice cream. It's not dull is it.

Back home I headed straight off to the sea and plunged in. Seriously cold  but exhilarating. Oddly no-one else was swimming.