Embracing shade

During the summer of 1975 when I was on the road with an architect, a singer, an uileann piper and a gypsy guitarist, we diverted from lucrative street performing in Germany to visit Scandinavia. We travelled in a green VW van which had been gifted to us one night during a dinner party in the home of an academic from Alabama. (I promise I will tell more about this part of the story at a later stage!)

Anyway, when we reached Stockholm, there was a debacle with the police who were not too keen on our celtic art and the old Irish come-all-ye's.  A young woman came forward to assist and she ended up inviting us to stay in her small flat. She confided in us that her partner had just passed away and she was going through the whole funeral and burial process during those few weeks.

I am remembering her because of a recent visit to a World Heritage Site Skogskyrkogarden in Stockholm which is actually a grave-yard unlike any I have ever seen. Tiny tomb stones set in 102 acres of mature forest, light filtering through the pines, paths directing you towards the key devotion points. A place of peace for the dead and the living.

Reflecting Swedish sensibilities about equality, there are rules to be abided by; green burials, flowers only in certain places, open plan spacious communities of graves, secular spaces for rituals. The overall effect is of quiet order and beauty, a place of sanctuary and respect.

And yet when I think back to that young woman in her lonely grief I remember how confused we were by the lack of a wake, the absence of ham sandwiches and beer, of callers, neighbours, family. The chaotic week long family occasion that is the typical Irish funeral. She seemed to be isolated except for ourselves.

As I get older and explore more the rituals and shrines we create, I have come to understand the importance of choice in death and dying. Where and how we are buried is part of that. I know I won't belong in a conventional graveyard myself....if it even matters at that stage! So bury me in a bio-degradable mushroom suit, or send me off in a blaze of flames and scatter my ashes where they will add some nourishment to the earth. 



See also an earlier post on the mushroom burial suit here




Thank you dear friends for your kind wishes! Yes, I won the Best Photography Blog for the second year in a row. After the initial delight all I could say to himself was....how am I going to keep this up? A touch of performance anxiety maybe which like all my other short comings I will choose to ignore!! 

Next week the little book will be on sale, so watch this space.

She is honey coloured like Swedish architecture

My sister is honey coloured so she tones in beautifully with traditional Swedish architecture. From the old town of Gamla Stan to the hilly cobbled streets of Sodermalm, the Swedes seem to favour warm Italian tones. That's the first surprise I wanted to share with you. Maybe this is why Stockholm is called the Venice of the North? 

It's also because Stockholm is built on a series of islands, thousands of them spread out between the city and the Baltic Sea. There is a distinct culture, a wonderful language, some western influence, but the northern ambiance is much more prominent.

Did you know for example that Swedes never ever wear their shoes inside their homes? That they eat dozens of variations on salted herring? That they swim in the pristine waters in the middle of their cities, so clean and pollution free are their harbours? 

Swedes don't use curtains on their windows at night. As one said to me, once you've seen everything your naked old man neighbour has to show you get over it! They are practical, humane and clever. They have to be to deal with severe dark winters and still find joy in skiing and hunting in the snow.

There is everything to admire here from their design sensibilities to their white blonde heads. It looks like they share more than a love of raw fish with the Japanese; minimalism, love of rural life, art and interior simplicity. Their social systems, now under threat from right wing tendencies, are the envy of the world. 

Is there a down side? As most Irish people would have it they could do with having a bit more craic, but we say that about everyone.....

The sister has lived and worked here for many years and even forgets English vocabulary now and then. She will soon be a Swedish Farmor (Grandma!) so I suppose after 30 years it's safe to say she has settled here. 

Himself and myself came here first though; way back in 1975. We were enchanted by it and vowed to come back. Little did we know we would be returning so often or that we would have extended family living here. 

Why did we come here in the first place? Why didn't we stay after all? We were busking and making art on the streets of Stockholm. We were hanging out in cool communes during that sunny summer, but of course when it started to get cold we vamoosed. 

Next time I will share photos of a precious Swedish World Heritage Site designed for the living as well as the dead.......one of my sister's favourite places in Stockholm.

The Italian paintbox

When I was in Rome earlier this year as part of this Pilgrimage year,  I remembered those tiny paint boxes that we used to get for Christmas when I was a kid. Each little square or tube of colour had an unfathomable name; Yellow Ochre, Warm Sienna, Burnt Umber, Terracotta, Vermillion. I had no idea what they were or how they should be used. Not for the green fields and purple hills of Ireland anyway....

Later when I studied art in college I began quite literally to get the picture. These were the paint colours of the Italian Masters because they were the authentic colours of their daily lives!

In Italy everything depends on this golden palette of colours. The washy watery tints that cover the buildings, the interiors, even the food seems to based on that little paintbox of warm hues. From the courgette flowers in the market to the majestic painted domes of the churches, colours are warm and deep.

As the Ireland begins to turn to away from the sun, I am travelling again to another majestic city, Stockholm in Sweden. I've enjoyed feeling at home in some beautiful places and if you are wondering what the colour palette in Stockholm might be, next week all will be revealed. Expect to be surprised!


For more of the Rome photos checkout the Gallery here

In their stillness

Every year I choose a word to guide me on my way. Last January I chose Pilgrimage and set out to undertake "a long journey especially one undertaken as a quest, or for a votive purpose, to pay homage."

As an agnostic, sitting on the fence as to what it's all about, I am still drawn to the idea of devotion. To what? I'm not sure I can describe it in words.....a grounding and reverence for nature, for people, for beauty? If I would pay homage to anything at all then that's what it might be....

In July I was 60 and it felt like a turning point. If I live until I am 90 then this is the beginning of the third age, the last part of my life. I am the older generation in my family, both parents are gone now. My Mother died at only 33, so I am probably also paying homage to the opportunity to simply be alive at all! The Pilgrimage was a way to celebrate the freedom of still being here on this planet and in one piece....

These wanderings have taken me to Italy, Greece, Austria, the Wild Atlantic Way, with next stop Sweden. In between I have been sitting very still and absorbing it all. A bit cut off socially, working hard in my day job and also developing new projects as part of my photography passion, I have spent a lot of time in the company of birds.

Birds tend to flit and twitch nervously but sometimes they seem to just meditate. I imagine them sitting for portraits, "Just turn your head a little to the left......" I say, and they sometimes listen in a moment of pause...

Since moving my workspace even closer to them, I know their characters, their songs, and these moments of stillness we share in the closing months of this Pilgrimage route.

And then as is their nature, they simply take flight....




See more birds here in the Gallery

I loved this further reading too on How to be alone from Brain Pickings

To hell or to Connacht ~ Pilgrimage

With the phrase "to hell or to Connacht" attributed to Cromwell ringing in their ears, the native Irish were banished to the west. Their handprints are on every stone, making tiny fields of rock and sand dividing the land between the hungry multitudes. The walls of Connemara still rise up over the highest hills and down into the graveyards all along the shorelines. They must have thought more than once that hell would have been a handier alternative.

Out here today on an archipelago of islands and inlets, their stone piers are perfect diving places with sandy bays providing sheltered sunbathing for cattle and wilderness seekers. There's no need to get fancy with the camera because most of the time just being here would take the eye out of your head.

In January I set out on this Pilgrimage to pace my way into a 60th birthday following some new and some old familiar paths. By the time the big birthday came in July I was a bit weary from travelling and more than a bit underwhelmed by the prospect of my next decade. On the following day I was already getting over myself (!!) and planning the next trip, taking in some of the Wild Atlantic Way. Kerry would celebrate friendship while Connemara was about reconnecting with family.

Everywhere I've been, I have fallen in love; the turquoise coves and mountain meadows of the Peleponese; the ancient ruins and cobbled streets of Italy and Greece; the ruined cottages and farm sheds of Ireland. The way we live, what we eat, the beauty of our animals and birds.

The Pilgrimage year has been an eye opener for myself and himself too. After almost 40 years together, it seems that once you point us in the same direction with a promise of a meander, we wander around like two happy kids at a fun fair. 

In Connemara after celebrating an elder family member's 93rd birthday, I wondered what will I be doing when I turn 93? What will you be doing? 

More Pilgrimage images from 2014 here

It's called friendship #Pilgrimage August

Out west the beauty of the landscape would make you weep, but it's the people and the chat that would warm your heart. It's summer in Kerry and there is no shortage of talk. From morning until night we are discussing the situation in Gaza, the decline of the Labour party and the travails of Johnser. 

Somewhere in Dingle, girls are eating three flavours of ice cream and coffee is being brewed "at exactly the correct temperature". A farmer fixes his gutters and three men are standing at the edge of the turquoise Atlantic wondering about the state of the world. Maybe Putin will blockade the Kerrygold butter next? They won't touch the baby formula though, one re-assures the other. On a tartan rug they rail against the travesty that is Garth Brooks and whether or not the GAA has lost the run of itself entirely.

The hot tea served from a flask on these beaches is of a very high quality, we Irish like our tea bursting with flavour. Later when we gobble our Kerry lamb or monkfish on a risotto of roasted tomatoes, we will still be sharing stories about family, the economy, or how we love those Scandanavian dramas on Netflix.

Along the coast, christened recently the Wild Atlantic Way, the sun is setting and the swimming rituals continue. There is a buzz of conversation from assorted picnics and shadowy squeals of joy coming from the shoreline. The elders have comfortable chairs. The younger generations wear wet-suits so they can stay immersed in the waves for longer. 

It's getting late and still we are talking away for Ireland. It's what we do around a fire on a winter's evening but tonight we are under the stars, barely believing the "real summer" that we are having this year, honing a true art form; it's called friendship. 



Browse more photos from my home in Ireland here

A man who knows his flowers~ Pilgrimage

When the streets of Vienna are getting too hot to bear, I duck into a side street flower shop.  It's the bunches of "weeds" in the window that first catch my eye; familiar wildflowers as carrot and catmint, laurel leaves and common grasses, in bouquets and tall vases.

As I stick my head in the door I ask "do you mind if I take some photos?" Fine, is all he says.

I snap away. There are huge cat portraits and the rows of jars are filled with soft colour combinations, in the background endless telephone conversations in animated German. And I am in awe, here is a man who knows his flowers......

After a while I say, "I'm not sure I know much about the flower business but you seem to be an artist of the genre."

"Ah! D'you think so."

He continues to twirl ribbons around a wreath of roses, lost in the zone; the touch, the scents, the colour. For some time we work side by side. Deliveries come and go. Orders are taken, glass jars are shifted up and down the rows.

Vienna is old world and on a grand scale, but transported into the intimacy of his workshop, I feel more inspired than by almost anything else in this city of ghostly memories.



See more Vienna photos here in the Street Gallery