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So, its a climb, on the west coast of Ireland, but more than that, much more, an epiphany.

Rising sharply out of the waves, a seaboard of of limestone, steady, steep. always kept clean by the Atlantic washing machine.

And there majestic, is the line of siren. Dreamt about by every climber in Ireland since its picture made the cover of some guidebook. It takes no less a place in my imagination.

A year of doubt, that last fall too bad, and do I really still want to climb again? It had been a year since I had nearly cracked my head open, as if it had been opened it was polluted with doubt and fear and then I found myself on siren.

The wall drops away beneath me, no gear for the crux and suspended between heaven and hell, time still the waves calling me and my fingertips keeping me, my weight talking to them through gravity.

I make one move, another, the top. I can climb again.

Siren is fear overcome, is climbing regained, timlessness and redemption and a chunk of limestone on the west coast of some small island.