He keeps himself to himself

On this grey winter's day, for these ten minutes, in the old farm-yard; I sense his imprint.

I see how he solves problems, how he sets up his work, his personal history. How each tool is a prop in the daily routines that unfold here. I admire his handiwork, his craft. 

And you won't have to teach him how to recycle or why. Every single rusty nail has a purpose. Every piece of rope and twine is waiting to be tied into position.

And all is in order, to hand, filed to perfection. A rook is feeding on the compost and the cattle are housed away in their steamy cafeteria. 

It is as if small and hidden parts of his life are on open display to all who pass, and yet he keeps himself to himself, remaining elusive. 






Also browse a very different 10 minutes spent in Bruxelles Nord

Better than the real thing

My dear old Dad loved Christmas and did his very best to provide a magical morning of surprises under the tree. During the years when he was left alone with four girls under the age of 9,  his inner child often went shopping for the kind of presents that any small boy would adore. 

We girls got cowboy suits, holsters and dart guns. (This once led to me hitting my younger sister between the eyes with a dart and there ended the gunslinging.) There was always lego, which in those days was for making white buildings with little red doors and once there was a corduroy bean bag, very cool for an aspiring teenager's bedroom. 

When I turned about 12 he decided he was now in jewellery territory. I was never a jewellery kind of gal but I did love that Roman coin charm bracelet. It made me feel grown up and is probably the reason I still love a good bracelet.

At some point in later years he surrendered to the feminine mystique and was able to show great love and affection for each of us. Like a lot of Dads he continued to get it wrong on a regular basis, but as time went on we became softer and very forgiving!! 

It was always the fantasies of Christmas we enjoyed more than the real thing. Stories of Santa coming down our chimney; of North Pole elves making toys and snowy sleighs delivering them; of reindeer eating carrots on our roof in the middle of the night. We conjured the whole show. Made our own magic. Created a snowy wintery scene in our imagination. 

So happy conjuring my dear, dear friends. I hope you have a wonderful hibernation, celebration or whatever it is makes magic in your life at this time of year.




And there are a few more previous Christmasy posts here

A bleak mid-winter post

A frosty Christmas morning post

A Comeragh Mountain Christmas view

A mile from home

Nature is not a place to visit. It is home.

 Gary Snyder


There comes a point in every journey when you turn for home. For me it's the last twisty turn of a boreen, onto our meandering lane. This first bend of the lane is also the top of a hill and just before I set off on the last mile, I can take in the sweep of the lake, the valley and the Comeragh Mountains. 

The view from here depends a lot on weather, light and time of day. It changes by the hour. Sometimes I snap this scene through the windscreen, breathe in that short mile towards home, relax a little.

And this is the spot, where my heart always lifts in spite of everything.... 

A note on gift giving 

 My little book "Seek light, embrace shade, live colour" is still for sale in the Blurb Bookshop.

If you would like to give a Foxglove Lane Gift Token I would be very happy to sort you out and fill the orders in 2016......just send me a mail through the contact page. 

Need more help? Visit the how to buy page 

Underneath the surface

Some towns were barely touched by the "boomiest" boom Ireland never had. Today a small dog, waiting for his master to return from the match, is alone amongst empty shops, messy paint jobs and abandoned petrol pumps. 

Some buildings change hands every few months; go from being a sweet shop to being a cafe, and back again. But other shop windows remain empty, like vacant faces where there should be a smile.

The lens is loving the wabi-sabi of it, the cracks in the doorways, the nostalgia of childhood memories. But there is quiet desperation here too, and for many people a calm exterior belies furious fast paddling below the surface.




Also check out the latest gallery of black and white nature photography

Blogging and the things that make us more alive

No artist is pleased… There is only a queer divine dissatisfaction, a blessed unrest that keeps us marching and makes us more alive.......

Martha Graham

Photoblogging has brought me deep into the world of light and mystery, ordinary everyday beauty, friendship across the world and back on a path to writing. It's been every week now for almost 5 years.    

This year was my fourth to be in the final of the annual Irish Blog Awards. Each time it has sent me on a bit of a wobble, something that I don't enjoy. Don't get me wrong, I love sharing what I create with you. But judging and competing? It reminds me too much of waiting outside the door of the Oral Irish Exam in the Leaving Cert; sets my poor nerves on edge!

Building a space to be creative is why I blog. I get to own and nurture my own artistic apprenticeship. I can share with you out of love and vocation, and still be the one who benefits most of all from the whole process. I gain the satisfaction, connection, learning, progression and pleasure from the work I do. I can barely even call what I do here work, it's actually a lot more like play.....

So I did in fact win the Silver Award for photography in the Blog Awards. Thank you to all of you who supported and voted for me through the early stages and those who judged and organised the event. 

And a special shout out to all the finalists, nominees, and bloggers everywhere who are part of this creative Irish Blogging Community doing what "keeps us marching and makes us more alive".

If you love the veils of early morning fog visit the Mist Gallery 

Out of the shadows

We feel most alive in the presence of the Beautiful for it meets the needs of our soul.

John O Donohue

It wasn't a great summer; grey skies, too much rain, cold seas. But for a couple of days the golden sun lit up our lives and we all came out of the shadows.

Photographers call it the "golden hour".  It's that time of the day, early or late, when light slides in at an angle casting lanky silhouettes and tinting the world with warmth. When you study light and peer endlessly through a lens, you are drawn to this like a moth to a flame.

But the best part? In the gloaming, back doors, front doors, windows and hearts are opened to the light. Glasses of wine and cups of coffee are brought down to the shore. Youngsters are chatting, perched on the low walls, barbecues are set and smoking. Our small community is united by staring into the light show of an evening sky.

This golden life force, our sun, makes us smile, feeds our souls and entices us out of the shadows. And this is even more true for photographers!

Those dark elements : 4. 9. 2015

You are on your knees in a lavender patch, following the music of bees. In the distance a harvester is droning, and the evening sun highlights wings and petals.

You are obsessing about the need for a soft bed and a warm hearth as the autumn sets in; for a safe place to pause, for a warm welcome. And you can't imagine leaving all this, leaving your own home and setting out on foot, to walk for miles to who knows where?

And you can barely grasp how thousands of them are walking through fields full of lavender and don't have even a moment to watch every last flicker of this season's sunsets, or to photograph bees in the evening light.

And you find that "$50 will provide high thermal fleece blankets to help protect a family from the elements." And you can't help imagining those dark elements as the chill of a September breeze, rustles through the leaves.

Please donate to the urgent appeal for humanitarian relief in Syria here at the UN Refugee Agency  

In other news.....Foxglove Lane has been shortlisted for the Blog Awards 2015. Would love it if you could vote here It only takes a minute. Thank you!!

Up all night at the Martello Tower : 20.8.15

“The sea, the snotgreen sea, the scrotumtightening sea.”
― James Joyce, Ulysses

We spent one night only, camping near the Martello Tower in Sandycove, Dublin. It features in the opening chapter of James Joyce's Ulysses, so they say.

 
All night long they came and went, up and down the walkway from Sandycove to the 40 Foot (famous Dublin swimming spot) and back. Swimmers, revellers, beer drinking young ones. As the sun sank behind Dun Laoghaire Town Hall it was all go and there wasn't too much sleep to be had.

At 11.30 PM a woman walking her dog, sat on a nearby wall and sang all of The Parting Glass and the Auld Triangle into the night air. We sat and listened in awe. A wise cracking Dub shouted across to her that she had a fine voice and would she sing some more. Why don't you sing yourself, says the Siren and exits stage left.  

"Trilling, trilling: I dolores.Peep! Who's in the... peepofgold?Tink cried to bronze in pity.And a call, pure, long and throbbing. Longindying call.Decoy. Soft word. But look! The bright stars fade. O rose! Notes chirruping answer. Castille. The morn is breaking.Jingle jingle jaunted jingling."

Episode 11 of Ulysses : Sirens 

Bleary eyed by 5.30 AM, then the early daily swimmers began to arrive. A short dip in the "scrotumtightening sea" lots of chat, the Irish Times under one arm and and a carton a milk under the other. 

It was here 50 years ago that the pink sparkly ball was swept out to sea and rescued by a heroic local. Here, where we learned to swim and perfected the art of putting warm clothes onto damp limbs while gyrating under a towel. "Hmmph that fella!!" was all that was ever said about James Joyce. 

"...she saunters away, plump as a pampered pouter pigeon, humming the duet from Don Giovanni... 

Episode 15 of Ulysses : Circe


More from that jaunted jingling evening in the Night falls in Sandycove Gallery here 

Open heart, cold sea : 15.8.15

I checked the sea temperature today. Not much more than 13/14 degrees centigrade anywhere in Ireland. This year the cold sea water was harder to bear. 

By the time we arrive in Kerry our friends are already a couple of weeks into the rhythm of twice daily swims. They glow from endorphins, icy water and warm wine. Dingle is their annual pilgrimage, and a sanctuary away from everything. 

As a brief respite from the awful summer, the sun appears. It calms the icy water and the waves in Coumenoule are a bit less terrifying. I tingle all over from a fair few dunkings and summer holiday happiness. 

On the way back I listen to John O'Donohue talking to Krista Tippett in a re-released interview from 2007. While I always found John hard to read, his lilting voice confirms so much tonight......

"Well, I think it makes a huge difference when you wake in the morning and come out of your house. Whether you believe you are walking into dead geographical location, which is used to get to a destination, or whether you are emerging out into a landscape that is just as much, if not more, alive as you but in a totally different form. And if you go towards it with an open heart and a real watchful reverence, that you will be absolutely amazed at what it will reveal to you. And I think that that was one of the recognitions of the Celtic imagination: that landscape wasn't just matter, but that it was actually alive. What amazes me about landscape, landscape recalls you into a mindful mode of stillness, solitude, and silence where you can truly receive time."