In the cradle of the wild is that which we can never know. We may catch glimpses, in the magical gloaming, or in the first few hours of creeping dawn. There are living creatures we do not see, not because we cannot, but because we are not permitted.
In Iceland, and in the western parts of Ireland, they still know about these places, and they still know about the magic and the inherent holiness hidden there.
Here, in the wild, if you can find any, you might hear their clicking tongues, the sonorous tolling of their chimes. You might still see a glimpse of bark-coloured leg or a tiny hat made from the blooms of the spring crocus. There are those who are willing to deny their existence; and these are the ones from whom they are most hidden.
Because in believing, in knowing, is magic. Dreaming is more important than observing. Because without vision, what good is sight?