One cold night
2003-09-30 || 6:14 p.m.

Once on a cold, dark night some four hundred years ago, Maura Rua rode her horse out into the black of an Irish winter evening. Her red hair streamed behind her in the wind. Her husband followed her. He was enchanted by her beauty, lured by her mysterious pagan Irishness. He married her even though his job was to take the land from the Irish people. Many an English man had been beaten and left tied to a tree in a barren, unfriendly land. But he loved Maura and he would follow her anywhere.

As the horses rode on and a few weak stars broke through the inky blackness, a mist descended. Maura rode on. Her husband still followed. Rain began to fall, the wind to blow, it was a night of the bleakest kind, it could have been that they were riding to hell. Indeed one of them was.

Maura knew the land. Loved the land. It was hers, not his. As she neared the edge of the cliffs of Moher, she knew the exact spot to turn to ensure her safety. Her husband never saw her turn. He was dashed on to the rocks below and pulled out to sea by cold, unfeeling waving hands.

Her revenge was exact.

This is a true story.