Time’s coming. I can feel it. Time to go again to Connemara to spend a few hours walking the grounds, following the guide through the house, left exactly as it was when the family left in 1967 (after he died, but not long after) and never returned. A quiet place where I can soak up the stories the wallpaper still has to tell, about how to dirty some paper. Up in the cluttered room on the third floor, to try to figure out how it’s done. And yes, to be honest, to indulge in a little hero-worship.