"If you don't love things in particular, you cannot love the world, because the world doesn't exist except in individual things" Thomas Moore The ditches are a jumble of briars, a tangle of weeds, a mess of curling browning leaves. They cascade onto the lane, in the subdued light of early autumn. A heady scent draws you into the . . .
Today it is the stillest, sunniest spring morning. To the east the hill of gorse is in full flower and the exotic aroma of sweet coconut brushes against my jacket. Birdsong fills the fields as nest making and nest guarding goes on. In the distant sky the Coastguard helicopter is rumbling it's way out over the Copper . . .
Can I just go totally over the top here for 5 minutes? Can I share with you the exuberant joy of lying in these woodland anenomes at Zwartbles farm in Kilkenny on a spring afternoon in dappled shade? Can you soak up the colour and the light and the magic of it with me? If contemplative photography is about anything it is . . .
We met on Twitter. Many people find it hard to understand how Twitter even functions, but in our beginning, a short few years ago, a small group of bloggers in Ireland discovered each other there. All with individual interests and reasons for blogging, eventually, here in the South East we . . .
Always in the same spot under this large tree. Who planted them or when? In the morning light, their petals glow, sparkling gems of amethyst and gold. So climb over two strands of barbed wire. Get even closer. Any photographer would yearn for gritty urban street drama? But down in this dewy grass, in the sweet scent of crocuses . . .
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 . . .
Winter reveals what's underneath; a rusty gate usually overwhelmed by briars, the cattle shed at the ruined cottage. Tantalising glimpses into what is out of reach during the leafier seasons. Strangely today it was all in shades of blue, or at least that's how I saw things under the cool January sky..... . . .
The haze was low this morning, wafting across the fields like an amber blanket. The combination of dawn and lingering mist is one to savour for any photographer. So even though it's still a bit foggy, my word for 2015 is "inkling" Inkling - a vague idea or notion, a slight understanding, hint, hunch, . . .
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In winter our planet moves around to the best possible angle for evening sun. Through my kitchen window, night after December night, the gloaming envelops everything with it's vibrance. And as 2014 is coming to an end, it's now time to hibernate, look back and look forward. Every year around this . . .