Bliain - Part 21
16th October 2021
Part twenty-one of my project to make a photograph every day for a full year, or bliain in Irish. Find Part 20 here.
28th September
These old standing stones are known locally as Geata an Glas Geimhneach – the Gate of the Glas Geimhneach. The Glas Geimhneach is a cow from Irish folklore, known from various parts of Ireland. Around here it is said that the great cow came up out of the sea in Smerwick Harbour, and through these stones to feed in the field here. She tended to show up to those who needed her the most, and people found that she produced a seemingly endless supply of rich milk. No matter what size vessel was put beneath her she would fill it. A local woman came to milk her every day, and every day the cow gave her as much milk as she could want. Word spread. One day a man arrived to make a deal with the woman; he said he had a vessel the cow wouldn’t be able to fill, and if he was proven right he’d take the cow for himself. The woman, confident in the cow’s ability, took the man up on the offer. When he sat down to milk the cow he reached into his bag and produced a sieve. He started milking. The rich milk poured through the sieve and down the hillside. The woman was tricked, but she wouldn’t give in. The man continued milking, and the milk continued to pour away over the ground. The cow became agitated, and she turned to speak to the two stubborn humans. “Spáráil an bainne”, she said – spare the milk. The man and the woman ignored her request. The milk continued to go to waste, and the cow, more upset now, said again, “Spáráil an bainne.” Again the two humans, neither willing to back down, took no notice. The cow repeated her request for a third time, and still the milk flowed away down the hill. Disgusted and enraged at the wasting of the milk she gave so freely, the cow reared up and kicked the man square on the forehead, killing him on the spot. With that, she took off back through the stone pillared gate and down the hill to the beach at Béal Bán, and into the sea. She was never seen again, and many were left wanting in the absence of her milk. Old folk tales can seem irrelevant and obscure in this day and age, but if ever one had significance to the current times it’s this one. It’s not much of a stretch to see the Glas Geimhneach as a metaphor for the natural world, the source of all we need to survive. Through our arrogance and stubbornness we are wasting so much of what’s given freely to us. Rather than being thankful for all we’re gifted, we are greedy, constantly trying to take more than we need. And that greed is rapidly catching up on us. It won’t be too long before the cow abandons us, never to be seen again. Will we choose to change the ending of our own story?
29th September
These strange brown globules are a form of cyanobacteria known as Nostoc. Seen up close like this they look to me like scattered sultanas, though that one in the middle left has something gruesomely heart-like about it, and the bog body texture on the bigger one also adds to the slight sense of disgust this unusual life-form often elicits. In Ireland it can be found on the waterlogged edges of limestone gravel paths, though only after rain. In dry weather the cells shrivel up to nearly nothing, and can lay dormant for perhaps sixty years (in desert climates that is – there’s no hope of such prolonged dry weather in Ireland). The recent rain has brought the usual patch of Nostoc back to life in my driveway. It might be unsightly to some, but this is a very ancient form of life, with origins alongside the first photosynthesisers of over two billion years ago. It’s an impressive lineage, and will no doubt still be here long after we humans have driven ourselves to extinction.
30th September
Today was grey and windy, with occasional rain. Not a very inspiring day to be out with the camera, so I went underground, where the conditions of the outside world are less relevant. The last time I was in this cave was at the tail end of winter, and the walls and ceilings were dripping with seepage after the season’s wet weather. Today, at the tail end of summer, all of the colours in those lichens and algae and mineral deposits looked duller after the summer dried up all the leaks. Nonetheless it was easy to find things to photograph – these subterranean sea caves are like a playground for a photographer, with so many interesting and unusual shapes, textures and colours to work with.
1st October
Early light on the beach at Fionn Trá on a cool but pleasant autumn morning. There was a touch of cold in the air when I got up out of bed to head for the beach, fitting for the first of the month.
2nd October
The weather today was unexpectedly lovely, with far fewer showers than yesterday’s forecast suggested. But as sunset drew closer so too did the high towers of cumulonimbus and their trailing veils of rain. While passing through An Fheothanach this evening I had to stop and pull in to photograph these rapidly moving, light gathering clouds. The village crossroads may not be the most scenic foreground for that big show in the sky, but as time goes on I’m finding myself drawn more and more to these kinds of everyday scenes, at least when the light is interesting. They can feel a bit more real than the typical ‘wild landscape’ kind of image I’ve always chased in the past. That chase is still going to carry on into the future, but I’m also enjoying the novel (for me) idea of finding worthwhile compositions in more ordinary places.
3rd October
The autumnal weather continues, with frequent heavy showers and stray shafts of sunshine falling to the ground throughout the day. In the hour before sunset I noticed this long view into Com a’ Lochaigh across a few miles of stone-walled fields and rural townlands, and scrambled to swap to a longer lens before the light passed.
4th October
After another day of recurrent downpours the sun broke through for its last twenty minutes, and I found myself in quite a scenic spot as it did. Years ago, coming down from the hills on Dingle’s mountainous north coast I was entranced by this backdrop – Ceann Sibéal and The Three Sisters, etched on the skyline as if by human design. I wished to live in a place where the very outline of the land seemed to create a living map of itself, so distinct and ever-present that it couldn’t be mistaken for anywhere else. On evenings such as this one, when I find myself present as those landshapes combine with sublime light, it feels like a brief moment of everything being in its right place.
5th October
Fish scale sky at the end of a pleasant day in West Kerry. The autumn weather has been wonderful so far this year. I hope it stays that way.
6th October
The hope expressed in my previous sentence was dashed today. The morning was wet and windy, with a thick mist muffling the landscape in damp. With the wide open views obscured I turned my gaze (and my camera) to the smaller details. Even on seemingly miserable days there’s something beautiful to be found. It’s just a question of going looking.
7th October
More fairly miserable weather today, though perhaps not for a fungus. The mild, wet conditions of late are ideal for porcelain mushrooms (I think?) such as these. The mushrooms are only the fruiting body of the whole specimen, the rest of the organism existing within the rotting stump, forming a network made up of many interconnected strands that carry nutrients and chemical signals to itself and other fungi and plants. I’ve already mentioned it here but it’s worth mentioning again that Entangled Life is a fascinating read on the strange word of fungi.
8th October
Looking across the mouth of Clew Bay on another day of heavy rain. I’ve come to Mayo to visit a few last remaining islands for an upcoming book with Carsten Krieger. It’s been a long process, much delayed by the pandemic, as well as the fact that photography isn’t my full time job. It’s been about a year since the combination of time off work and no lockdowns has let me travel beyond the county I live in, and despite today’s weather I’m looking forward to the coming few days of island hopping. The islands of Ireland are of great interest to me, and hopefully the coming book will do them some justice.
9th October
Looking west along Clare Island’s huge northern cliffs as the sun goes down. After hours of traipsing around trying to document as much of the island as possible it was good to be presented with an “easy” sunset to wrap up the long day. The cliffs here rise to over 460m in height, descending steeply to the sea from the summit of Knockmore, and staying at dizzying heights for much of the full length of the island’s wild north coast.
10th October
Yesterday’s explorations focused on the east and north of Clare Island so today the focus was on the south and west. The southwestern corner of the island is a landscape photographer’s paradise, with easy access to a richly textured coast that ascends steeply to high hills and is open to the wild Atlantic and the setting sun. It’s one of those places I came away from with a long list of potential other images to come back for. When I returned to my accommodation this evening I went searching through John Feehan’s excellent book on Clare Island to search out some of the old placenames of the areas I’d been to. Most memorable of my findings was the name for that huge pillar of rock, which had immediately caught my climber’s eye; it’s Bod an Mhanaigh. This translates as The Monk’s Penis. I suppose a lifetime of abstinence would do that to any man. Such a merry placename reminds me of two freshwater springs on Inis Mhic Aoibhleáin, one of the Blasket Islands. One is The Virgin’s Well, the other The Prostitute’s Well. No points for guessing which one runs dry and which one stays wet all year round...
11th October
Before the dawn at Portakilly Pier, Clare Island. It’s been interesting talking to the islanders over the last few days, getting their perspective on life in these places that can so easily seem charming and simple from a distance. In truth there is an awful lot of uncertainty with island life. The vast majority of the Irish islands that are still inhabited have dwindling, mostly ageing populations. Part of this is inevitable as younger adults naturally wish to go and see the world, but part of that exodus could be stemmed, or indeed reversed with returning emigrants, if the government made more of an effort to help island communities. At a state level there’s little plan for the likes of developing local industries, maintaining piers or bringing in up-to-date broadband for example. Any of these kinds of services have to be fought for, and for many it’s probably easier to leave than to keep fighting. The economist might argue that life isn’t tenable in such places anymore, that if the islands can’t be net producers in the game of GDP then tough luck. But the world stands to lose an awful amount if the unique human communities in places like these whither away to nothing. There were a few currachs up on stands above this small pier this morning. I can’t imagine any decent size boat working from here, or many people even bothering to work from the small boats anymore. The economies of scale favoured by modern economics have all but wiped out such operations. If the islanders struggle to get funding to maintain the main piers used by the ferry boats then there seems little hope of a place like this lasting very long once the first cracks in the concrete appear. In the grand scheme of things that hardly seems to matter. But when your world is a small island these seemingly little things are proportionately bigger.
Find Part 22 here
28th September
These old standing stones are known locally as Geata an Glas Geimhneach – the Gate of the Glas Geimhneach. The Glas Geimhneach is a cow from Irish folklore, known from various parts of Ireland. Around here it is said that the great cow came up out of the sea in Smerwick Harbour, and through these stones to feed in the field here. She tended to show up to those who needed her the most, and people found that she produced a seemingly endless supply of rich milk. No matter what size vessel was put beneath her she would fill it. A local woman came to milk her every day, and every day the cow gave her as much milk as she could want. Word spread. One day a man arrived to make a deal with the woman; he said he had a vessel the cow wouldn’t be able to fill, and if he was proven right he’d take the cow for himself. The woman, confident in the cow’s ability, took the man up on the offer. When he sat down to milk the cow he reached into his bag and produced a sieve. He started milking. The rich milk poured through the sieve and down the hillside. The woman was tricked, but she wouldn’t give in. The man continued milking, and the milk continued to pour away over the ground. The cow became agitated, and she turned to speak to the two stubborn humans. “Spáráil an bainne”, she said – spare the milk. The man and the woman ignored her request. The milk continued to go to waste, and the cow, more upset now, said again, “Spáráil an bainne.” Again the two humans, neither willing to back down, took no notice. The cow repeated her request for a third time, and still the milk flowed away down the hill. Disgusted and enraged at the wasting of the milk she gave so freely, the cow reared up and kicked the man square on the forehead, killing him on the spot. With that, she took off back through the stone pillared gate and down the hill to the beach at Béal Bán, and into the sea. She was never seen again, and many were left wanting in the absence of her milk. Old folk tales can seem irrelevant and obscure in this day and age, but if ever one had significance to the current times it’s this one. It’s not much of a stretch to see the Glas Geimhneach as a metaphor for the natural world, the source of all we need to survive. Through our arrogance and stubbornness we are wasting so much of what’s given freely to us. Rather than being thankful for all we’re gifted, we are greedy, constantly trying to take more than we need. And that greed is rapidly catching up on us. It won’t be too long before the cow abandons us, never to be seen again. Will we choose to change the ending of our own story?
29th September
These strange brown globules are a form of cyanobacteria known as Nostoc. Seen up close like this they look to me like scattered sultanas, though that one in the middle left has something gruesomely heart-like about it, and the bog body texture on the bigger one also adds to the slight sense of disgust this unusual life-form often elicits. In Ireland it can be found on the waterlogged edges of limestone gravel paths, though only after rain. In dry weather the cells shrivel up to nearly nothing, and can lay dormant for perhaps sixty years (in desert climates that is – there’s no hope of such prolonged dry weather in Ireland). The recent rain has brought the usual patch of Nostoc back to life in my driveway. It might be unsightly to some, but this is a very ancient form of life, with origins alongside the first photosynthesisers of over two billion years ago. It’s an impressive lineage, and will no doubt still be here long after we humans have driven ourselves to extinction.
30th September
Today was grey and windy, with occasional rain. Not a very inspiring day to be out with the camera, so I went underground, where the conditions of the outside world are less relevant. The last time I was in this cave was at the tail end of winter, and the walls and ceilings were dripping with seepage after the season’s wet weather. Today, at the tail end of summer, all of the colours in those lichens and algae and mineral deposits looked duller after the summer dried up all the leaks. Nonetheless it was easy to find things to photograph – these subterranean sea caves are like a playground for a photographer, with so many interesting and unusual shapes, textures and colours to work with.
1st October
Early light on the beach at Fionn Trá on a cool but pleasant autumn morning. There was a touch of cold in the air when I got up out of bed to head for the beach, fitting for the first of the month.
2nd October
The weather today was unexpectedly lovely, with far fewer showers than yesterday’s forecast suggested. But as sunset drew closer so too did the high towers of cumulonimbus and their trailing veils of rain. While passing through An Fheothanach this evening I had to stop and pull in to photograph these rapidly moving, light gathering clouds. The village crossroads may not be the most scenic foreground for that big show in the sky, but as time goes on I’m finding myself drawn more and more to these kinds of everyday scenes, at least when the light is interesting. They can feel a bit more real than the typical ‘wild landscape’ kind of image I’ve always chased in the past. That chase is still going to carry on into the future, but I’m also enjoying the novel (for me) idea of finding worthwhile compositions in more ordinary places.
3rd October
The autumnal weather continues, with frequent heavy showers and stray shafts of sunshine falling to the ground throughout the day. In the hour before sunset I noticed this long view into Com a’ Lochaigh across a few miles of stone-walled fields and rural townlands, and scrambled to swap to a longer lens before the light passed.
4th October
After another day of recurrent downpours the sun broke through for its last twenty minutes, and I found myself in quite a scenic spot as it did. Years ago, coming down from the hills on Dingle’s mountainous north coast I was entranced by this backdrop – Ceann Sibéal and The Three Sisters, etched on the skyline as if by human design. I wished to live in a place where the very outline of the land seemed to create a living map of itself, so distinct and ever-present that it couldn’t be mistaken for anywhere else. On evenings such as this one, when I find myself present as those landshapes combine with sublime light, it feels like a brief moment of everything being in its right place.
5th October
Fish scale sky at the end of a pleasant day in West Kerry. The autumn weather has been wonderful so far this year. I hope it stays that way.
6th October
The hope expressed in my previous sentence was dashed today. The morning was wet and windy, with a thick mist muffling the landscape in damp. With the wide open views obscured I turned my gaze (and my camera) to the smaller details. Even on seemingly miserable days there’s something beautiful to be found. It’s just a question of going looking.
7th October
More fairly miserable weather today, though perhaps not for a fungus. The mild, wet conditions of late are ideal for porcelain mushrooms (I think?) such as these. The mushrooms are only the fruiting body of the whole specimen, the rest of the organism existing within the rotting stump, forming a network made up of many interconnected strands that carry nutrients and chemical signals to itself and other fungi and plants. I’ve already mentioned it here but it’s worth mentioning again that Entangled Life is a fascinating read on the strange word of fungi.
8th October
Looking across the mouth of Clew Bay on another day of heavy rain. I’ve come to Mayo to visit a few last remaining islands for an upcoming book with Carsten Krieger. It’s been a long process, much delayed by the pandemic, as well as the fact that photography isn’t my full time job. It’s been about a year since the combination of time off work and no lockdowns has let me travel beyond the county I live in, and despite today’s weather I’m looking forward to the coming few days of island hopping. The islands of Ireland are of great interest to me, and hopefully the coming book will do them some justice.
9th October
Looking west along Clare Island’s huge northern cliffs as the sun goes down. After hours of traipsing around trying to document as much of the island as possible it was good to be presented with an “easy” sunset to wrap up the long day. The cliffs here rise to over 460m in height, descending steeply to the sea from the summit of Knockmore, and staying at dizzying heights for much of the full length of the island’s wild north coast.
10th October
Yesterday’s explorations focused on the east and north of Clare Island so today the focus was on the south and west. The southwestern corner of the island is a landscape photographer’s paradise, with easy access to a richly textured coast that ascends steeply to high hills and is open to the wild Atlantic and the setting sun. It’s one of those places I came away from with a long list of potential other images to come back for. When I returned to my accommodation this evening I went searching through John Feehan’s excellent book on Clare Island to search out some of the old placenames of the areas I’d been to. Most memorable of my findings was the name for that huge pillar of rock, which had immediately caught my climber’s eye; it’s Bod an Mhanaigh. This translates as The Monk’s Penis. I suppose a lifetime of abstinence would do that to any man. Such a merry placename reminds me of two freshwater springs on Inis Mhic Aoibhleáin, one of the Blasket Islands. One is The Virgin’s Well, the other The Prostitute’s Well. No points for guessing which one runs dry and which one stays wet all year round...
11th October
Before the dawn at Portakilly Pier, Clare Island. It’s been interesting talking to the islanders over the last few days, getting their perspective on life in these places that can so easily seem charming and simple from a distance. In truth there is an awful lot of uncertainty with island life. The vast majority of the Irish islands that are still inhabited have dwindling, mostly ageing populations. Part of this is inevitable as younger adults naturally wish to go and see the world, but part of that exodus could be stemmed, or indeed reversed with returning emigrants, if the government made more of an effort to help island communities. At a state level there’s little plan for the likes of developing local industries, maintaining piers or bringing in up-to-date broadband for example. Any of these kinds of services have to be fought for, and for many it’s probably easier to leave than to keep fighting. The economist might argue that life isn’t tenable in such places anymore, that if the islands can’t be net producers in the game of GDP then tough luck. But the world stands to lose an awful amount if the unique human communities in places like these whither away to nothing. There were a few currachs up on stands above this small pier this morning. I can’t imagine any decent size boat working from here, or many people even bothering to work from the small boats anymore. The economies of scale favoured by modern economics have all but wiped out such operations. If the islanders struggle to get funding to maintain the main piers used by the ferry boats then there seems little hope of a place like this lasting very long once the first cracks in the concrete appear. In the grand scheme of things that hardly seems to matter. But when your world is a small island these seemingly little things are proportionately bigger.
Find Part 22 here