The sky changes by the minute. As I am writing this, the calm ice covered landscape I was loving this morning is being battered by a westerly gale and driving heavy rain. Unsettling and mind numbingly grey to boot. I could complain, moan, slump. Every part of me wants to go horizontal, hide under the warm duvet, dream about . . .
November morning in Ireland
It's early and deadly still. The best part of the day. I can see my neighbour on the hill checking her sheep. It's the same lane, the same field but in the morning frost, this dawn creates another world. Later, the wind will whip up a little and the sun will fill up these shadows with light. For now the long dark tree . . .
The photography book GIVE AWAY results
Before the sun sets I am going to pull a name from the bag and announce the winner of a signed copy of the book. It's another first for me, a first ever Give Away. I have finally put my toe into the book selling world and I can honestly say that shop keeping is a humbling experience. Some people are very good at it and I take . . .
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 . . .
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 . . .
