Decades passed into centuries, names changed and Ireland transformed. But those trees stood.
Category: Nature
Anois teacht an earraigh…
And winter forgotten, all over again.
Frosty night, Inis Meáin.
No movement on the island this night. Absolute stillness. Contagious calmness
Home, part 1.
This place has moulded me in many ways…
The west village.
It’s to where doubters came and said, ‘I get it now, I get why you’re here.’
The sea, and me.
The spectrum of opinion on the sea runs from romance to respect
Brigid brings the spring
Brigid’s Day reflected our own lives; rushes were easy come by in west Roscommon, Brigid was headstrong rather than immaculate, she was protector of animals and we were the children or grandchildren of farmers.
To every thing, there is a season…
Summer was marvellous and though it’d be better if it was always summer here, winter will bring certain benefits
The kind of life I want to have.
What happens on Inis Meáin isn’t just seen but smelt and felt and heard.
The time I went to Tory
To every island there is a wildness, but to Tory there is a rareness.
Storm Barra
On Met Éireann’s maps, the offshore islands looked defenceless and wide open. Like ducks before an armada.
One morning’s walk.
I went for a walk this morning. Without my headphones.
Bliain ag fás; a year on Inis Meáin.
I’ve felt spring, smelled silence and sat faoi dhraíocht ag ceol na farraige
The best thing about Inis Meáin? That there’s nothing to do on Inis Meáin.
The island’s gift to the visitor is time and space to dream, think, notice and observe, to see the world a little differently.
Inisturk, and realities of island living
There was never a shortage of fine words and lip service but piers, ferries, electricity and bridges were far less forthcoming
With an ear to the ground and an eye on the sea…
I swear I felt spring, felt it somewhere in my soul. Felt it as one can only where life is lived at nature’s behest, with an ear to the ground and an eye to the sea.
The drochaimsir and my muse, the west Clare coast.
I was missing my muse, my inspiration. Yeats had Maude Gonne, it appears I have the west Clare coast.
And in the dark of night…
The city dweller might think this absoluteness of silence and darkness intimidating or boring, but I am transfixed.
In praise of swimming in the sea
I think the sea swimming is an act of gratitude – gratitude perhaps for being alive, healthy and happy, and for being all those things here.
The bog’s special place in the Irish imagination.
The bog has a special position in the Irish imagination; an otherworldly place that we avoid like the plague as children but Instagram the living daylights out of in adulthood.
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