We would go up late into the mountains and set the nets to catch the birds for ringing. We are not ready for the sea.

Whose memory is this? Whose memory am I? There are some parts of this island — swathes of it, vast tracts even — that are utterly daft. Things have become untethered from space and time and have taken to floating around together as if all present in the now. It’s all quite loud, really. Rattled, shook, discombobulated, these mindless artefacts have no time, they are all the time. Someone, or some thing, needs to put them in order.

Developed in association with Raidio Teilifis Éireann