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10 Kilnaboy Ireland,May 2006 The students gather in the green church, the old walls covered in moss and briar, the roof a cold blue sky. Gravestones, littered with plastic roses, mostly faded, tumble beyond the empty doorway. Looking back as we leave, we see her above the door— Sheela-na-gig, grey ghost of the transom, witch on the wall—obscene, riveting, her genitals a worn cleft. Not worth the trip, someone mutters, and we amble back to the bus, headed to lunch, to Poulnabrone. At the dolmen tomb, the wind is cold, 11 and we huddle for photos. In the cracks of this limestone moonscape, in the moist grikes all around us, there are ferns, gentians, the lurid purple spikes of early orchids. ...

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