It's been a busy time. The sun came out and that drew blossoms, bees and foxgloves into it's light. Then, against all the odds, it came out the next day too, and the day after that. And the sun is still shining as I write this. It is unusually fabulous weather in Ireland. Himself and myself keep ooohing and . . .
Everything is lush; the lane is coming into the best part of the year. I am besotted with green, tiny buds coming into flower, light as it illuminates petals and unfurling leaves. I wonder sometimes how nature can survive our bleak winters and the onslaught of chemicals and factory farming? Today I realised that I needn't worry too much. . . .
He is not a popular visitor for most soft fruit growers. As always the debt of gratitude I owe to my only photographic models outweighs the loss of any blackcurrants or strawberries that may have taken place during this shoot. I adore working with him, and surely he knows it. Sometimes he just lands on this rock to show . . .
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 . . .
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 . . .
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 . . .
Every year there is one sure thing, we will make a journey out to the west of Ireland where the Atlantic crashes against the shoreline of Europe, last stop before New York. There will be clouds, there will be mist and there will be a sense of leaping off the edge of the world and into the benign abyss. Out past the road from Dungarvan to Youghal . . .
"You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves" from the Wild Geese by Mary Oliver With thanks to Grace . . .
As a fully paid up and proud member of the working class, I get to enjoy a certain number of leave days every year. This week I have had 5 of them. Next week I will have 5 more...... At this early stage I'm not sure who I will be or what I will do when it's over......but there's nothing surer than I will return with a head full of . . .
The morning begins with 6 ducks swimming right to left in the lake at the end of the field. Then shortly afterwards 8 ducks swim back in the other direction. I am on pause. At 5 in the morning, after weeks of travelling and seeking I am slumped in a chair in front of the familiar . . .