I never believed in fairies but long past childhood I clung to this sort of fervent hope that they were real. I wanted to believe.
My shelves were lined with books filled with stories of magical creatures and ancient legends. I never thought I'd find a fairy lurking in my mother's garden, but that didn't stop me from looking for them. I distinctly remember setting traps for leprechauns around the house while thinking "just in case..." It's one of life's fun twists of fate that now so many years later I find myself living in the land where so many of these stories were born. I have a husband who points out fairy trees in neighboring fields that farmers will never trim or uproot out of superstitious fear that such actions bring bad luck. Far from the cute fairies of my childhood these fairies are full of caprice. I sometimes want to break a branch off a fairy tree to see what will happen, but still haven't managed to buck up the courage; what if there is something to the stories? I go on walks in woods carpeted with clovers and bluebells and pass stone circles with origins so ancient it's hard to comprehend their beginnings as anything other than mythical. There is, of course, the modern world here as well--gas stations, cities, graffiti, malls, etc. But whenever I trip through the countryside so many fairy tales seem more real and possible than ever before and so of those childhood hopes start to stir in me again.