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Maybe home is not a rainbow, but a storm. Maybe home is accepting you forgot your rain jacket and letting the cold seep into your skin and awakening something, something, that lives within all of us.

Driving through the winding village roads, past white-washed houses and pubs with gilt-edged windows and the rolling hills covered in a patchwork quilt of rye and barley fields, it feels like an illustration from a child’s story book. There is beauty in Northern Ireland’s apparent simplicity.

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