I cycle North and the wind is backwards and harsh as ever in November. I left behind high ceilings, familiar tongues, and dirty finger marked wallpaper. All I had wanted was to bathe in the Sherbourne, to feel a closeness to the silt. I remember, red faced and tear stained, that my Grandfather had left Roscommon. I know this story, that he met her on his first day in Halifax and found something in this new home. I don’t understand what I am meant to be seeing but I am curious and my skin is finally cool; the wind can do that.