"Leave only footprints" was written at the Arklow herb garden, which a woman proudly drew our attention to. Otherwise? Arklow is neither fish nor flesh. Up-and-coming, because the commuters who cannot afford Dublin prices settle here; the residential area at the marina looks like a bedroom community. The city also fell into disrepair after the ammunition factory closed here, employing 3,000 people. The port looks a bit old. The ravages of time are gnawing at the large industrial halls and one or the other fishing boat is definitely no longer seaworthy. I have never been warned by a harbor master that I should wash my hands after pulling the lines through the water. And then the shops close at 6 p.m., after which the streets seem sleepy. For us, Arklow is a transit station. The black dots on the profile map show where we should go, as long as the wind and tide are in our favor. After all, that's also a project: a tour of every port. A footprint is a footprint, and if the legs have to be stretched, they'll be stretched. I move too little anyway. That it only went to the pub once again is an open question. I was thinking about an album by Poems for Laila today in Arklow, La Fillette Triste, at first I thought it was called Tristesse, but then: the sad girl, and yes, that fits quite well.
Translated by Google •
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