I kept thinking of W B Yeats’s magnificent poem, The wild swans at Cool, as I wandered through the fallen leaves in our local forest with little Zoe, yesterday. The colours were so gob-smackingly wonderful.
The trees are in their autumn beauty,
The woodland paths are dry,
Under the October twilight the water
Mirrors a still sky;
I suddenly had a nightmarish thought: there’s probably a Yeats Theme Park now at Coole Park complete with a Wild Swans rollercoaster!
What a relief! It seems I’m wrong.
Nothing more than a sedate tearoom by the look of things.