We are in Ireland, in the sixth century. A monk tells another monk about his voyage in a stone trough, as in the legends of the Breton saints. He evokes a remote, isolated and magical island. All shrouded in fog, it is hidden from inquisitive eyes and unvisited by storms. On this land, nothing happens as elsewhere: nature is luxuriant, time slows down, no one feels any material need. (…) One day, a crystal pillar appears. It seems very close, yet it takes them three days to reach it. When looks up, he cannot see the top of the transparent pillar, which is lost in the sky. (…) He notices a gap where their boat could slip through and gently row into the crevice and find themselves inside a huge reticular mass. Corridors stretch out endlessly. The colours in the walls are shimmering, changing from green to blue. Shades of silver sparkle. Their fingertips graze a material that feels like marble.

(Thinking Like an Ice berg, pp. 14-15)