Having posted photographs on line for almost 3 years I've learned a thing or two about what people enjoy and at the top of that list would be sunrise and sunset snaps. In our house, and I suspect all over the planet, a golden sunset is still a magical yet unfathomable . . .
The Rosebay Willowherb are at the end of this cycle. At their height they are pinker and deeper than a girly pink. In early autumn they go to seed in a fluffy fashion and by December they are gnarled fists of skeletal remains clinging to their stalks. In . . .
Do you share a memory of lying under trees, watching the light flicker through the leaves? Did you throw yourself onto the grass and stare into the sky? Did you roll in leaves and kick them down the path on the way home from school, or half close your eyes to see faeries . . .
As November takes hold, maybe winter begins? The community on the hill and here on the lane are winding down, burrowing in behind closed doors. Close to the window there are white roses budding and flowering, in their own rhythm. Sure they don't seem to know if it's day or night! And in . . .
She edges across the Irish sky from the south west. Traveling on the wind, changing moment to moment. From first thing in the morning we wonder about what we are in for, what mood will our weather bring today. Forming a boundary in . . .
It's one of those nights, summer turning to autumn, when the sun sends sideways glances at the earth and turns the day's heat into shades of pink and gold. We are walking on the cliffs at Garrarus and at each further climb towards the top field we stop and watch it disappear . . .
The light is different here. In the fields and forests around me in Ireland I am mostly under muted grey skies, downright dark grey skies and bleached out light grey skies. (I won't even start about the rain!) Here in Australia while the sun is clear and strong, it is gone by 5.30, so from . . .
Was it the purple upholstery or the gold painted furniture? Was it the light streaming in from the early morning Sydney streets? Was it the perfectly coiffed French waitress, all the way from Brittany? Whatever it was, the shadowy interior of this cafe transported me to where . . .
At first light, let the sounds and colours of the morning enter you. Rise when the animals take breakfast. Over coffee keep a steady hand on a long lens, chaffinches might be dropping by. Or go out into the frosty dawn, well wrapped up and remember your key this time! At the . . .
There's a bit of a warrior queen in me that wants to protect my creative space. If I could make a moat of distance between me and the world I would do it. Barricading myself into a turret room and staying there for as long as it took or until I was thoroughly weary of it. I also know that no . . .