Sheep, everywhere sheep-Will

I know that it’s our last day in Ireland, and it would make sense to write something concerning my feelings towards leaving. However, I’ve been pushing our inevitable departure in the morning as far from my mind as possible, and so far have been doing a pretty good job of it, so maybe I’ll just talk about the sheep. Ireland has mad sheep. There are sheep in the low bogs, sheep on the highest mountain tops, sheep standing on the edge of bluffs hundreds of feet tall over the raging Atlantic coastline, sheep within centuries old stone walls used for enclosing sheep for generations and generations, sheep replacing monks at ancient monastic sites, sheep’s wool in every article of clothing, and - I have to say it - sheep served in stews and tradition Irish dishes. Even in areas without a current grazing herd, there is evidence of their recent presence. The grass is trimmed and the brush is controlled by their massive diets. Their, well, poop is still scattered everywhere. Occasionally you will find a bone, a horn, and even once an intact skull in the grass. I myself have collected gorgeous hollow horn and a vertebrae in my pack. Despite our best efforts, the sheep want absolutely nothing to do with us, and refuse to let us anywhere near to interact with them. Perhaps it is because of our attempts to make contact that they frighten every time. A loud group of American teenagers with outstretched hands is hardly inviting in the eyes of a sheep minding his or her own business. As we landed on our flight into Shannon I told myself that I had to  my Irish stereotypes before we touched down. Upon looking out my window as we passed over dozens of sheep farms adjacent to the runway, I discovered that at least those stereotypes are true - they really are everywhere.