It's been three and a half years now since I finally made the decision to live again the artist's life that I had dreamt of as a teenager. Even though for 20 years I kept the Artist's Way beside the bed, it was only recently that like a bolt of lightening it hit me, it was now or never! The voice in my head that said you are not . . .
To whom are we beautiful?
In the beginning there is a thick mist. Somewhere the dawn is breaking but on the lane this morning it happens slowly. A tractor engine is idling. He's warming the engine while he empties the dregs of a pot of tea down on top of two slices of brown bread and marmalade. The warm September light filters through, dappled . . .
Early morning web magic
Very early in the morning, before the sun casts it's spell, there are spidery webs everywhere. Have you ever seen the heavy curtains of sparkly fabric draped between the branches, leaves and blossoms? The first time I saw this phenomenon I was shocked by how much of the land is covered in the creative productions of . . .
In their stillness
Every year I choose a word to guide me on my way. Last January I chose Pilgrimage and set out to undertake "a long journey especially one undertaken as a quest, or for a votive purpose, to pay homage." As an agnostic, sitting on the fence as to what it's all about, I am still drawn to the idea . . .
Always the people’s favourite
The sky is impossible to ignore. Here in rural Ireland we are mesmerised by it. Approaching weather systems come up from the Atlantic south west and we peer into the distance for information, comfort and possible impending doom. When I began to share my photography on line through the blog and on social media, it . . .
To hell or to Connacht ~ Pilgrimage
With the phrase "to hell or to Connacht" attributed to Cromwell ringing in their ears, the native Irish were banished to the west. Their handprints are on every stone, making tiny fields of rock and sand dividing the land between the hungry multitudes. The walls of Connemara still rise up over the highest hills . . .
To the waters and the wild
Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild. With a faery, hand in hand. For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand. "The Stolen Child" is a poem by William Butler Yeats, published in 1889 Listen to the poem set to music by the Waterboys here See more wild places in the gallery . . .
It’s called friendship
Out west the beauty of the landscape would make you weep, but it's the people and the chat that would warm your heart. It's summer in Kerry and there is no shortage of talk. From morning until night we are discussing the situation in Gaza, the decline of the Labour party and the travails of Johnser. Somewhere in Dingle, girls . . .
When hope is scarce
We come from a harsh history ourselves; 800 years of occupation, a terrible famine which halved the population and the ongoing loss of emigration which goes on to this day. We didn't forget any of it. That kind of pervasive pain is passed down. Sometimes it's their absence that brings home the memories. What they left behind, the empty . . .
The butterflies make a come back
Thank you all for the supportive comments and thoughts you shared on the decline of butterflies and insects here. Out of the blue they are making a bit of a come back! The butterfly bush is in the latter part of it's flowering season yet this is the first dancing butterflies show of the summer. I mentioned our "loose garden" . . .
