Crisp, my aged companion, made mention that today was the 29th day of our holiday.
With the appropriate brochure in hand, she decided we needed to see the medieval church of Saint Beryl, patron of all things cloven-footed.
Crisp had an affiliation for things cloven-footed, and so we set off on the bus from the Post Office.
The church was tucked into a small hill surrounded by gravestones of long deceased parishioners. Inside the sun shone through a window below which burnt candles.
Crisp asked me for a few Euros to buy a candle and then needed a leg up to place it on the sill below the window.
She stood with head bowed before saying we should go out and explore the graves.
“I said one for you too,” she said, with me wondering how I came to mind when she thought of cloven-footed things.