'Is there anybody there?' said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
Of the forest's ferny floor:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveller's head
And he smote upon the door again a second time;
'Is there anybody there?' he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
Where he stood perplexed and still.
But only a host of phantom listeners
That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
To that voice from the world of men:
The Listeners ~Walter De La Mare
I remember once when I was traveling in Europe I went to stay with friends in a little Irish village called Ballyhalbert, remote doesn't begin to express the desolation of that place, but the villagers themselves were some of the warmest friendliest people I have ever met in Europe. They got a kick out of my not understanding their thick Irish accents, they were always saying "Doon't ya spake Ainglish thar missy?" then cackling with delight when my face would blush bright red.
The cemetary in the fall was a wonder to behold, the giant headstones and celtic crosses were made by hand so lovingly that each was a work of art in itself. Still, it was a rather melancholy place. After visiting other towns it seemed so out of time and place to the rest of the world. A place where no one is unfamiliar and the roads will tear the hell out a car's suspension in a heartbeat.
The sea there almost kissed the village on a calm day, but when storms would rise the sea would become so angry I'm surprised it didn't wash the tiny town away. Need I say once more how much the sea reminds me of my own restless spirit?