No matter how fine and warm and sunny the day is, no matter the bursting through from the soil of beautiful spring flowers like the bluebell and the lemony polyanthus, no matter how sweet and fresh the air is, and how freshly green the new spring buds appear on the boughs you actually don't have to remind yourself how STARK the sight is you are seeing .77 GRAVES in LETTERFRACK.
ALL YOUNG BOYS.
ALL DEAD.
ALL PLACED IN A BOG.
And as we were taking down the details of these BOYS a fly would hover near us and at times land on the notepad. Was the spirit of one of the BOYS craving the warmth of our bodies? The brambles clung to us as if these POOR BOYS were reaching out to us and unwilling to let us go.
And as we worked on this task, in another country a FORMER "RESIDENT" of LETTERFRACK who worked in this GRAVEYARD as a CHILD PRISONER OF THE BLACK-GARBS became violently ill and spewed his guts up for a number of minutes to his family's astonishment.
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