It's quiet here and in spite of the proximity to the road, it remains wild. Darker than usual, fresh leaves block the sky. At dusk the light fliters through at a rakish angle making long shadows and spotlighting the little blue flowers I have come to see.To get to the woods I have to hop a few walls and climb down . . .
~ Purple ~
~ Passionate today about intoxicating PURPLE that's all~ . . .
~Just a moment on the road to the mountain~
I wandered off the route and instead drove towards the Comeraghs. Now I was going to be late. But at least I was living dangerously! On the boreen I caught a glimpse of the mountain through a gate. The bright morning drew me up through the rise of the land and the cloud skimming the ridge. The occasional . . .
~ And suddenly all bets are off~
At first it's tentative. One foot in, one foot out. The icy winds don't help. The community has retreated. Keeping their heads down. Winter is steadfast in it's stagnation. Then suddenly all bets are off. We start to re-emerge, stand on corners and chat, bend down and pull a few weeds from the path, smell the primroses. Spring has arrived . . .
Looking into each others eyes
My children once explained to me that although animals share our world, we treat them as inferior instead of as different. O yes they argued humans think we are vastly superior, so clever, so advanced. But we are wrong they said, all the beings on the planet are just different versions of life, intelligence, adaptation. Each have . . .
Frosty morning on the lane
There's a tranquility over the land when the morning is icy. You can hear it before you even leave the hammock. Everything is slower to stir. Except me for once, as these are the days I love! The little lake is like a cauldron of steaming broth at the centre of the valley. The swans seek out the . . .
Reflections up on the roof
It's the witching hour, the gloaming. Patterns and shadows play across an amber horizon and as usual I am drawn towards the sky. Paddy who likes to predict tomorrows weather, is . . .
Guzzling Bees and Woundwort flowers
So the rain continued to bucket down all through July and alongside the accompanying sea mist, a kind of fog settled on my brain. The days melt into one and soon . . .
Out of an Irish mist
The mist has been down for a few days now. It pours in from the sea when summer conditions dis-improve. It gets into your brain, slows down your thinking and creates a cotton wool world . . .
Foxglove time!
Ireland's most spectacular wild flower is blooming prolifically on the lane today. The Foxglove, Digitalis purpurea, An Lus Mór, reaching up to 150 cm high and hosting up to 75 individual flowers on each stem is everywhere. I remember so well as a child putting the little flowers on each finger as faery hats or . . .
