Imagine walking in the sublime hills of Achill Island on the West Coast of Ireland, the old stone paths, the rough grass, the heather, peat falling from the edge of the bog the only irritating thing is the odd horse fly that springs out of nowhere and flits around like an imaginary UFO sticking you with its hungry barb. Then you see something in the distance away from the road a long way back, large concrete slabs? never. Yes, upright and erect sunk into the ground and standing 10 feet above the turf in a circle and with more concrete slabs around the tops of the upright stones mimicking Stonehenge.

This is a fine tribute to the Celtic tiger and it’s painful death; gross, bizarre, amazing, wasteful, hideous, weird and very engaging. Engaging because when walk into it you enter a world of voodoo dolls on sticks, strange graffiti, a very palpable energy and an echo that is crazy you can actually feel your words as well as hear them come back to you. It was built by a guy who lost the plot after losing everything and decided that it was better to do this than walk away from a pile of rubble, a kind of one man builder rebellion, unfortunately he should have filled in a massive and dangerous hole he has left on the Island’s main town, Keel.

The view from my house on Achill