Growing up, I passed them regularly on my way home. In receipt of religious instruction, I travelled down them.
I cannot dance, or maybe don’t dance, but I clearly remember that there was a sense of rhythm in the moving down those steps – a sense of rhythm that was brought to mind when I walked past earlier this week, for the first time in a few years. It did allow a moment to look back.
This morning I spotted a tweet about First Confession, the event and the story.
There were too many dots of information lining up not to go for my own mental ramble back in time in the form of this blog post.
‘I remember thinking bitterly that she didn't know the half of what I had to tell-if I told it. I knew I couldn't tell it, and understood perfectly why the fellow in Mrs. Ryan's story made a bad confession; it seemed to me a great shame that people wouldn't stop criticising him. I remember that steep hill down to the church, and the sunlit hillsides beyond the valley of the river, which I saw in the gaps between the houses like Adam's last glimpse of Paradise.