I wonder at times why we don't get up and out for every dawn. When you are camping or sleeping in a tiny VW van at western the edge of Ireland, every sound tells you, the day is here! Get out of bed now! It starts with crows flying from their roost across the harbour to the Castle. I catch them crossing overhead from my . . .
There was a smudge of navy blue painted onto a peachy sky. Nothing had changed but the eery manifestation of fading light, on a winter's evening. The drama of moments passing. And WE were there. My lens captured the scene. But the sound of the moorhens cooing, and of our footsteps through the darkening meadow . . .
It's been three and a half years now since I finally made the decision to live again the artist's life that I had dreamt of as a teenager. Even though for 20 years I kept the Artist's Way beside the bed, it was only recently that like a bolt of lightening it hit me, it was now or never! The voice in my head that said you are not . . .
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 sight. Because my windows catch the south . . .
Just now the October sky is on fire in the west. . . .
There's grey and then there's grey in it. Thin milky grey that comes down as a low cloud, covering up beauty and bringing the whole country to it's knees for the lack of light. The thundering grey of darkening skies and seas. Soaked up by the eye, bringing softness and balm to the soul. Today I floated in grey as if a slate . . .
I am on the move and missing those walks on the lane. From life on the road, the midlands of Ireland open like a golden tablecloth waiting to be laid for Spring. Crumpled, layered, deep. The dark trees are silhouettes now, solid and strong. They open conversations with the sky and the land. Then they turn to me saying . . .
When the rain rolls in from the western Atlantic we can be enveloped for days. The greyness hangs over the whole island like a wet blanket. We struggle to . . .