Today I make a slow start. The deep winter is here. January brings, at last, the space I've been longing for. 2017 stretches out ahead, silently for now. Illness has contributed to lower energy than usual but when I look into the fields I sense some common ground. There is a quiet . . .
The maple tree, a present from my Dad, has always struggled with the prevailing south westerlies. Trees in Ireland are bent over towards the east, from gales blowing up from the Atlantic. This elegant maple has always been out of place in our wild and lazy couple of acres, home . . .
It's late, the sun is filtering through the forest, pouring deep honey gold onto the path ahead. The quality and colour of light transforms everything. In the clearing a group of wise old trees stand in our path, disturbing the earth as their roots burrow to the surface. Camping forces you out . . .
What if you followed every inkling, hunch or hint at a possible good idea? If you stretched your legs out beyond your comfort zone? If you trusted that these inklings would become their own story? On the misty drive through South Kilkenny, nothing to see, hidden landscapes. Favourite fields . . .
Did you ever wrap your arms around a felled giant and get up close and personal with it's roots and heart? The wooden body feels so strong, there are new buds on the tips of it's branches but the torn roots are dry. This Beech tree will never come into leaf again. So many . . .