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 . . .
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 . . .
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 . . .
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 . . .
Set free in a loose garden
We inhaled the scent of herbs on the soft balmy air. Occasional yelps of joy bounced across the lake as youngsters leapt into the water from the dodgy bough that leans out over the deeper water. The Irish feel such deep relaxation in our bodies when the temperatures soar. So we are elated by this evening, warm enough to sit . . .
Warblers, Andy Warhol and the beautiful art of land
Small flocks of warblers have invaded the herb garden and I've taken a big shine to them. I think this one is a Chiff-chaff but as ever I am open to correction by my twitcher friends. This summer there are fewer butterflies and insects but a lot more warblers. My sister was visiting from Sweden and we both remarked on the eery silence and lack . . .
Wild foxgloves on the lane
Wild Foxgloves appear in a new place each year, especially some old patch that has been recently cleared. A corner of rocky earth suddenly gives birth to an abundance of the most exotic of our wildflowers. They nestle under trees and festoon the hedgerows. They peep over the tallest grasses and parade their purply pink . . .
Contemplation
A quiet moment of contemplation from one of my friends. When life is a bit hectic, remember to stop and smell the mint....says she.......More contemplative rabbits here . . .
April hedgerows
Bumble bee Gorse Violet Blackthorn blossom Ladybird Herb Robert Primrose It's three years now since I started this blog. One of my earliest posts was a photograph of creamy Blackthorn blossoms on the ditch. Today just a short walk up the lane reveals again the quiet . . .
