Since I get my water in Kilshanny I have grown totally lyrical about every gulp that I slurp from my pint glass. Nothing holy well. A galvanised pipe that pitter-patters above a concrete casing. This runs into a second one and I think that's were they used to scoop up the water. That the first one was there to rest the sediment dust. But the second casing is no longer operative. The water runs off right away. And if you look a little longer into the first casing, you see ever more fresh water shrimps, that sometimes helter-skelter, sometimes rhythmically pulsing, sometimes with a smaller shrimp, possibly mating, but maybe cannibalistic, move through the crystal-clear water.
Maybe it's the same species that can be found in the little lakes on Clear Island, in the very southwest of Ireland. There they are uncommonly numerous and if you want to have your feet thoroughly cleaned and can stand it, then you only have to sit down by the waterside and hang your feet in. Within half an hour all the dead skin and superfluous calluses have been devoured. A painless, free maintenance that only tickles now and then.
Another feature of these industrious creatures has been employed since time immemorial by the housewives of Clear Island. They throw their dirty laundry into the pond and the next day take it out spic and span.
Maybe that an unrestrained multiplication of these shrimps in Kilshanny also could lead to a band of chatters who with rolled-up trousers would discuss important matters, like the weather and the forecast thereof. With a kind squeeze it could hold six to eight people. But you can see that the community spirit, always primed by nosophobia, periodically cleans the casing to the bottom, as beside it there's a heap of sediment that has increased through many years, as the residue of this water from Heaven.
On the water always a few leaves float from the chestnut and maple trees that overshadow it. After some time they sink to the bottom and are randomly bitten into by another animal that lives there. It looks like a caterpillar, has a camouflage of black and white spots and is heavy enough to leave a narrow trail in the fine dust. They eat left and right without any plan from the decaying leaves and do not seem to be aware of each other. Between the shrimps and the larva reigns indifference rather than peace.
I have all the time to observe this piece of nature. Sometimes it takes a good five minutes to fill a five litre bottle, but if there have been showers it's almost just like hard labour. Then such a bottle fills up in less than a minute. The water comes silvery sparkling out of the weathered pipe. Oil sheiks may have golden taps, but I'm pretty sure no such wonderful water runs out of it. Without doubt it is the champagne among the well waters and reduces all fashionable bottle water to glorified ditch water.
Yesterday again I filled seven bottles, resting relaxed on the concrete rim with one arm upon the pipe and the other with a bottle at the opening. First the bottle floats, but as more water runs in it settles deeper and adjusts its own angle of loading. Finally it becomes a little heavy when the water rises above the level in the casing. In the end I always like it to bubble over in superfluity, as a sort of gesture of gratitude and symbolic for not taking all. When then I lift the bottle out, the inside level decreases slightly, as the pressure of the surrounding water ceases. Then I put my mouth at the opening and suck up a gulp by way of a candy.
Some people spend every night behind a continuously refilled glass of beer. I am richer than royalty with my water. I love every swig, drink three, four pints an evening and feed me drunk on happiness. This water is no flusher, it has substance and character, it does something elusive with me, makes me live in peace with my alleged lethargic kidneys. Drinking water is swimming inside and in this I am my own dolphin.