Flying to the Land of the Fey

I left at six o'clock in the morning, far far too early for my own comfort. Grabbing last minute items to be packed as I hurried out the door, shuffling cars around and arranging lifts before leaving for the airport. My usual paranoia kicked in and I began to panic about being late. I hate being late for flights. Fortunately, while it was cut close to the measure of thirty seconds, I was not actually late enough to miss my coach, or the subsequent flight.

Ireland has always been considered a slightly unreal, spiritual place, and its inhabitants similarly befuzzled by reality. I always find myself experiencing a similar feeling when I fly, or travel, a long distance. Admittedly Ireland is not a long distance, but due to the combination of car, coach and plane I used to find myself here, it was a long trip and I left the plane in a slight fuzz of unreality and confusion.

Unfortunately this did not last long, as it was quickly dismissed by the fact that the city of Belfast looked like an average area of London, and a Costa Coffee shop occupied pride of place in the middle of the airport. Dissappointed, I moved outside for a cigarette, hoping to catch a leprechaun or one of the sidhe sneaking a smoke of their own, but none were there. Instead Slave met me with a hug and a submissive bow of her head. For my own part, I was too tired from the journey to do much more than lie on a sofa, so the first night was taken up with watching of various films while she obediently massaged my back, followed by sleep.