Her croft was almost inaccessible.

They’d met at a church fete. The congregation crowded around her innovative confectionery.

He’d hovered over her Dunesslin Pudding.

“Hot.”

“Aye,” he’d acknowledged.

She laughed as rich as she baked. They’d had tea.

Now, he fingered the ring as the quad bounced along the track.

Irish writer Perry McDaid lives in Derry under the brooding brows of Donegal hills which he occasionally hikes in search of druidic inspiration. He even finds it on occasion.