Bliain - Part 12
09th June 2021
Part twelve of my project to make a photograph every day for a full year, or bliain in Irish. Find Part 11 here.
25th May
This sodden great tit sums up the morning’s weather pretty well. The rain eased a bit in the afternoon, at least enough to let the garden birds dry out. This looks like a dangerous level of wetting for a wild bird, all of who depend on their feathers for warmth. Hard not to feel for the small birds in conditions like this, but almost all of them are tougher than any of us mollycoddled humans in the wealthier parts of the world.
26th May
Inis na Bró and An Tiaracht, dark under a sky pregnant with potential for a spectacular sunset. I was kindly lent a boat for the evening, so myself and a friend headed for a spin around the islands. At this stage of the trip we’d been out almost three hours and said friend was feeling pretty ill. Considering it was a ninety minute journey just to get home and sunset was still more than an hour away we left before the best of the light. Seasickness is a miserable affliction and I didn’t want to put Jaro through any more than was necessary. More importantly I was conscious that sea conditions were worse than forecasted and night was coming on. Given the seas we met on the way home it was just as well we left when we did. If I’d been on my own I would have stayed on longer, and making that journey alone in a small open boat in semi-darkness would have been on the wrong side of exciting. As it was it was brilliant, cruising along with swells overtaking us from behind and navigating lumpy stretches of whitecaps kicked up by a strong tide. Part of that elemental energy seemed to pass through the boat and into me, and I couldn’t help smiling and laughing for much of the trip home, basking in low light under an overcast sky. We may have missed the best of the photo opportunities, but who cares when the real life experience was so fulfilling. When I lay down in bed later it felt like the shifting surface of the sea was still beneath me, and it rocked me to sleep.
27th May
After yesterday’s lull in the weather it was back to rain for most of the daylight hours today. This summer season seems very reluctant to get settled in. At least it was calm this evening, allowing easy conditions to photograph this beautiful foxglove, its colours all the more vibrant in the wet. Is there any more striking wildflower in Ireland? Folklore says the fairies gave these flowers to the fox for its feet, to soften its steps while hunting. Surely then they’d be foxsocks? Or does a fox consider its front limbs as arms and not legs? The fairies themselves wear them too, and the current English name may originate from “folk’s glove” i.e. the fairy folk, and not that of the fox. Apparently it’s alright to grow them in the garden but it’s bad luck to bring them into the house. It’s hard to believe I already photographed the early leaves of a foxglove this year, way back in February. That feels impossibly long ago now, though I often can’t believe how it’s nearly June already either. I can’t remember if time felt this strange before the pandemic started, or maybe it’s just me?
28th May
Today kept with the week’s trend of alternating days of rain and sunshine. It was the turn of the sun to come out again, and not only was it bright but it was warm too. I headed to the Iveragh Peninsula for the evening, to meet friends who are doing up a 19th century cottage at the foot of the highest hills in Ireland. They have a great deal of work done, but a long way to go yet. Such is the way when trying to do as much as possible independently and on a small budget, but it’s an admirable project and one that I’m very inspired by for my own dreams of a home. The setting is fairly idyllic, with a perfect blend of tree-given shelter and open views, and plenty of peace and quiet. We had a BBQ and hours of chat and laughter, while the cuckoo called in the woods nearby and the daylight gradually faded to the half-dark of summer night. In the midst of all that I snuck out to the road for this quick and simple photo. What a beautiful place to be building a home.
29th May
After a short few hours sleep last night the early light woke me in my van, like a natural alarm clock ringing in a mesmerizing sunset of neon reds and blazing oranges. As the colours gradually faded in the east I rolled over in my sleeping bag to look out the rear windows of the camper and saw the sun had snuck out from behind the cloud and was lighting the tops of the hills. I jumped out of bed and hurried to the end of the garden to watch the warm glow flow slowly down the mountainsides, a rosy tide coming in over the greening landscape of early summer. It was a pleasure to drive the empty roads home for work. It’s not easy being up for sunrise at this time of the year, but on mornings like this those few hours of early daylight are like a brief visit to some kind of enchanted otherworld.
30th May
The fine weather continues, and being keen to make the most of it I spent the night in the van on the western edges of Smerwick Harbour. A skylark woke me this morning before 5am, perhaps the same one that was singing til ten the previous evening. They are industrious little birds, and such a pleasure to listen to. The eastern sky was totally clear as I made the short walk to the sea, bleary-eyed and tired but glad to be awake at this magic time of day. Within minutes this cloud came in and darkened the scene while the sun rose behind the hills, unseen but its position betrayed by the blush of red in the northeast.
31st May
Three summer sunrises in a row now – this one overlooking Ventry Harbour. I had an earlier start than usual at work today, and with the weather remaining fine I stayed another night in the van to save the short commute in the morning (and mostly just because I love staying in my van.) I woke shortly after 4am to pee and the sky was already red in the northeast. Sure I couldn’t go back to sleep then, it being clear that the dawn would bring a sensational lightshow. For an hour and a half the heavens were aflame, first in soft red embers smouldering just above the hills, and gradually warming to vibrant brushstrokes of burning colour that extended to the upper reaches of the sky overhead. What a treat to have been awake to see the world these past few mornings.
1st June
I felt like spending some time in the company of trees today so I took the van east to Glanageenty, a steep and secluded forested valley in the Stack’s Mountains. West Kerry is very beautiful but there’s a rawness to the landscape here that often has me wishing to be somewhere gentler. Gentler to me generally means a place with trees and a more forgiving climate. This scene is from a stand of beeches near the end of what was a dark and damp day in Kerry. The barcode pattern of the slim trunks clearly signals this as a planted woodland rather than a naturally occurring forest, but it’s nonetheless a pleasant place to wander. Not as inspiring as a messy, multi-layered and species-rich native wood, but certainly a hell of a lot better than the grim blocks of conifer plantations that make up much of Ireland’s tree cover.
2nd June
Back in the woods again today, and not a bad place to be during another mild and muggy day of grey rain. The blanket of cloud cover and persistent wetting combined to create an even green glow under the thick canopy, and the air was heavy with that damp, earthy smell of mould and growth found in temperate forests. Despite the seemingly miserable weather I really enjoyed the long loop walk here today. It has a lovely mix of woodland, with occasional sections along rough little fields bordered with blossoming, scented hawthorns, groves of hazel dotted with pignut and bluebells, open moorland from which you can see across the flatlands of East Kerry to much of the rest of the county, and marshy stretches beside small streams where the trees are mossy and messy and tangled and unruly, so pleasing to see in a landscape dominated by the rigidity of human neatness. The area has much historic interest too, having been used as a hideout by Irish freedom fighters when Ireland was still under British colonial rule. Plenty of this information can be read on signposts along the way and it really adds to a walk here. The trails themselves are well maintained and unobtrusive to the landscape. I particularly like how tree limbs have been left to reach across the paths – I’d much rather stoop under an old, arching willow bough than have it cut just so I can stay walking upright. All of this trail work and right to access is thanks to unpaid volunteers and spearheaded by a local hill-running legend who owns much of the land. It’d be remiss of me to sing the praises of the place without mentioning the graft behind it all. It’s a labour of love born of community spirit, to provide an area for the rest of us to enjoy.
3rd June
An orchid of some description, on the side of the road in Dún Chaoin. I want to say it’s a pyramidal orchid but I’m open to correction on that. The poor weather continued today, with the wind making it difficult to get any wildflower images. The summer so far has been a particularly miserable one, in West Kerry at least.
4th June
Yet another day of dismal weather. Misty rain and overcast conditions were the order of the day, again. I spent some time this afternoon photographing the soggy birds in the garden, including this drenched goldfinch. It looks like the poor thing has a tick or some other kind of parasite under his eye. In the last hour of the day a gap appeared on the horizon and the pure light of the setting sun cast a brief but beautiful glow on the landscape. I had chosen one of those images initially for this project, but I feel this one does a far better job of representing the kind of day (and week) it was.
5th June
An Tiaracht at sunset. This isolated island marks the furthest west that any grass grows in Irish territory. There are some rocks in the sea beyond it, but aside from those stubborn stumps of stone An Tiaracht can lay claim to being the westernmost part of Ireland. Today was a much nicer weather day, calm and dry, if a little overcast. As with yesterday, a gap appeared on the horizon before sunset and I made the last minute decision to borrow a friend’s boat and zip out around the islands. It was a pleasure to be at sea for such a fine evening. I particularly enjoyed the journey home as darkness descended and huge flocks of shearwaters sat waiting on the water for night to come so they could safely return to their burrows on the Blaskets.
6th June
After yesterday’s words it seems fitting today to have an image of a Manx shearwater on show. Check out the reflections on the underside of its wings, of the morning sun reflecting off a glassy sea. Each summer ten of thousands of these ocean wanderers come to Ireland’s offshore islands to breed. They nest underground in burrows, and so are dependent on islands free from land predators such as rats, cats and stoats. They are very awkward on land, only being able to shuffle along on their bellies because their feet are set very far back along their bodies. These feet have evolved for swimming down after fish, like two little outboard motors at the back of their body, but it means they can’t stand upright and walk. Gulls and other large predatory birds will attack and eat them if given the chance, so shearwaters only come and go from their nesting sites in the dark of night, arriving after sunset and leaving before sunrise. Hence the flocks of many hundreds I saw sitting on the sea while steaming home past the islands at dusk last night. After raising a single chick the parents will leave for the South Atlantic in September, and spend the winter on the water, clocking up thousands of miles around the full extent of that enormous ocean before returning to the same breeding site the following spring. This year’s chicks will likely not touch solid ground again for a few years – shearwaters don’t breed until they’re four or five years of age, and have no reason to come ashore until they reach sexual maturity. At that stage they will probably start to join breeding adults on the islands, but usually just to observe and take mental notes for the first season or two, before eventually finding a mate and trying out parenthood for themselves for the first time.
7th June
The delicate little flower of a forget-me-not. Like the orchid of a few days ago I’m not entirely sure what species this is, though if I had to guess I’d say it’s the field variety. I have a basic grasp of most common Irish wildflowers but when it gets down to deciding between similar looking species of the same family I tend to get confused. At least it means I always have some new things to learn about while out for a walk.
Find Part 13 here
25th May
This sodden great tit sums up the morning’s weather pretty well. The rain eased a bit in the afternoon, at least enough to let the garden birds dry out. This looks like a dangerous level of wetting for a wild bird, all of who depend on their feathers for warmth. Hard not to feel for the small birds in conditions like this, but almost all of them are tougher than any of us mollycoddled humans in the wealthier parts of the world.
26th May
Inis na Bró and An Tiaracht, dark under a sky pregnant with potential for a spectacular sunset. I was kindly lent a boat for the evening, so myself and a friend headed for a spin around the islands. At this stage of the trip we’d been out almost three hours and said friend was feeling pretty ill. Considering it was a ninety minute journey just to get home and sunset was still more than an hour away we left before the best of the light. Seasickness is a miserable affliction and I didn’t want to put Jaro through any more than was necessary. More importantly I was conscious that sea conditions were worse than forecasted and night was coming on. Given the seas we met on the way home it was just as well we left when we did. If I’d been on my own I would have stayed on longer, and making that journey alone in a small open boat in semi-darkness would have been on the wrong side of exciting. As it was it was brilliant, cruising along with swells overtaking us from behind and navigating lumpy stretches of whitecaps kicked up by a strong tide. Part of that elemental energy seemed to pass through the boat and into me, and I couldn’t help smiling and laughing for much of the trip home, basking in low light under an overcast sky. We may have missed the best of the photo opportunities, but who cares when the real life experience was so fulfilling. When I lay down in bed later it felt like the shifting surface of the sea was still beneath me, and it rocked me to sleep.
27th May
After yesterday’s lull in the weather it was back to rain for most of the daylight hours today. This summer season seems very reluctant to get settled in. At least it was calm this evening, allowing easy conditions to photograph this beautiful foxglove, its colours all the more vibrant in the wet. Is there any more striking wildflower in Ireland? Folklore says the fairies gave these flowers to the fox for its feet, to soften its steps while hunting. Surely then they’d be foxsocks? Or does a fox consider its front limbs as arms and not legs? The fairies themselves wear them too, and the current English name may originate from “folk’s glove” i.e. the fairy folk, and not that of the fox. Apparently it’s alright to grow them in the garden but it’s bad luck to bring them into the house. It’s hard to believe I already photographed the early leaves of a foxglove this year, way back in February. That feels impossibly long ago now, though I often can’t believe how it’s nearly June already either. I can’t remember if time felt this strange before the pandemic started, or maybe it’s just me?
28th May
Today kept with the week’s trend of alternating days of rain and sunshine. It was the turn of the sun to come out again, and not only was it bright but it was warm too. I headed to the Iveragh Peninsula for the evening, to meet friends who are doing up a 19th century cottage at the foot of the highest hills in Ireland. They have a great deal of work done, but a long way to go yet. Such is the way when trying to do as much as possible independently and on a small budget, but it’s an admirable project and one that I’m very inspired by for my own dreams of a home. The setting is fairly idyllic, with a perfect blend of tree-given shelter and open views, and plenty of peace and quiet. We had a BBQ and hours of chat and laughter, while the cuckoo called in the woods nearby and the daylight gradually faded to the half-dark of summer night. In the midst of all that I snuck out to the road for this quick and simple photo. What a beautiful place to be building a home.
29th May
After a short few hours sleep last night the early light woke me in my van, like a natural alarm clock ringing in a mesmerizing sunset of neon reds and blazing oranges. As the colours gradually faded in the east I rolled over in my sleeping bag to look out the rear windows of the camper and saw the sun had snuck out from behind the cloud and was lighting the tops of the hills. I jumped out of bed and hurried to the end of the garden to watch the warm glow flow slowly down the mountainsides, a rosy tide coming in over the greening landscape of early summer. It was a pleasure to drive the empty roads home for work. It’s not easy being up for sunrise at this time of the year, but on mornings like this those few hours of early daylight are like a brief visit to some kind of enchanted otherworld.
30th May
The fine weather continues, and being keen to make the most of it I spent the night in the van on the western edges of Smerwick Harbour. A skylark woke me this morning before 5am, perhaps the same one that was singing til ten the previous evening. They are industrious little birds, and such a pleasure to listen to. The eastern sky was totally clear as I made the short walk to the sea, bleary-eyed and tired but glad to be awake at this magic time of day. Within minutes this cloud came in and darkened the scene while the sun rose behind the hills, unseen but its position betrayed by the blush of red in the northeast.
31st May
Three summer sunrises in a row now – this one overlooking Ventry Harbour. I had an earlier start than usual at work today, and with the weather remaining fine I stayed another night in the van to save the short commute in the morning (and mostly just because I love staying in my van.) I woke shortly after 4am to pee and the sky was already red in the northeast. Sure I couldn’t go back to sleep then, it being clear that the dawn would bring a sensational lightshow. For an hour and a half the heavens were aflame, first in soft red embers smouldering just above the hills, and gradually warming to vibrant brushstrokes of burning colour that extended to the upper reaches of the sky overhead. What a treat to have been awake to see the world these past few mornings.
1st June
I felt like spending some time in the company of trees today so I took the van east to Glanageenty, a steep and secluded forested valley in the Stack’s Mountains. West Kerry is very beautiful but there’s a rawness to the landscape here that often has me wishing to be somewhere gentler. Gentler to me generally means a place with trees and a more forgiving climate. This scene is from a stand of beeches near the end of what was a dark and damp day in Kerry. The barcode pattern of the slim trunks clearly signals this as a planted woodland rather than a naturally occurring forest, but it’s nonetheless a pleasant place to wander. Not as inspiring as a messy, multi-layered and species-rich native wood, but certainly a hell of a lot better than the grim blocks of conifer plantations that make up much of Ireland’s tree cover.
2nd June
Back in the woods again today, and not a bad place to be during another mild and muggy day of grey rain. The blanket of cloud cover and persistent wetting combined to create an even green glow under the thick canopy, and the air was heavy with that damp, earthy smell of mould and growth found in temperate forests. Despite the seemingly miserable weather I really enjoyed the long loop walk here today. It has a lovely mix of woodland, with occasional sections along rough little fields bordered with blossoming, scented hawthorns, groves of hazel dotted with pignut and bluebells, open moorland from which you can see across the flatlands of East Kerry to much of the rest of the county, and marshy stretches beside small streams where the trees are mossy and messy and tangled and unruly, so pleasing to see in a landscape dominated by the rigidity of human neatness. The area has much historic interest too, having been used as a hideout by Irish freedom fighters when Ireland was still under British colonial rule. Plenty of this information can be read on signposts along the way and it really adds to a walk here. The trails themselves are well maintained and unobtrusive to the landscape. I particularly like how tree limbs have been left to reach across the paths – I’d much rather stoop under an old, arching willow bough than have it cut just so I can stay walking upright. All of this trail work and right to access is thanks to unpaid volunteers and spearheaded by a local hill-running legend who owns much of the land. It’d be remiss of me to sing the praises of the place without mentioning the graft behind it all. It’s a labour of love born of community spirit, to provide an area for the rest of us to enjoy.
3rd June
An orchid of some description, on the side of the road in Dún Chaoin. I want to say it’s a pyramidal orchid but I’m open to correction on that. The poor weather continued today, with the wind making it difficult to get any wildflower images. The summer so far has been a particularly miserable one, in West Kerry at least.
4th June
Yet another day of dismal weather. Misty rain and overcast conditions were the order of the day, again. I spent some time this afternoon photographing the soggy birds in the garden, including this drenched goldfinch. It looks like the poor thing has a tick or some other kind of parasite under his eye. In the last hour of the day a gap appeared on the horizon and the pure light of the setting sun cast a brief but beautiful glow on the landscape. I had chosen one of those images initially for this project, but I feel this one does a far better job of representing the kind of day (and week) it was.
5th June
An Tiaracht at sunset. This isolated island marks the furthest west that any grass grows in Irish territory. There are some rocks in the sea beyond it, but aside from those stubborn stumps of stone An Tiaracht can lay claim to being the westernmost part of Ireland. Today was a much nicer weather day, calm and dry, if a little overcast. As with yesterday, a gap appeared on the horizon before sunset and I made the last minute decision to borrow a friend’s boat and zip out around the islands. It was a pleasure to be at sea for such a fine evening. I particularly enjoyed the journey home as darkness descended and huge flocks of shearwaters sat waiting on the water for night to come so they could safely return to their burrows on the Blaskets.
6th June
After yesterday’s words it seems fitting today to have an image of a Manx shearwater on show. Check out the reflections on the underside of its wings, of the morning sun reflecting off a glassy sea. Each summer ten of thousands of these ocean wanderers come to Ireland’s offshore islands to breed. They nest underground in burrows, and so are dependent on islands free from land predators such as rats, cats and stoats. They are very awkward on land, only being able to shuffle along on their bellies because their feet are set very far back along their bodies. These feet have evolved for swimming down after fish, like two little outboard motors at the back of their body, but it means they can’t stand upright and walk. Gulls and other large predatory birds will attack and eat them if given the chance, so shearwaters only come and go from their nesting sites in the dark of night, arriving after sunset and leaving before sunrise. Hence the flocks of many hundreds I saw sitting on the sea while steaming home past the islands at dusk last night. After raising a single chick the parents will leave for the South Atlantic in September, and spend the winter on the water, clocking up thousands of miles around the full extent of that enormous ocean before returning to the same breeding site the following spring. This year’s chicks will likely not touch solid ground again for a few years – shearwaters don’t breed until they’re four or five years of age, and have no reason to come ashore until they reach sexual maturity. At that stage they will probably start to join breeding adults on the islands, but usually just to observe and take mental notes for the first season or two, before eventually finding a mate and trying out parenthood for themselves for the first time.
7th June
The delicate little flower of a forget-me-not. Like the orchid of a few days ago I’m not entirely sure what species this is, though if I had to guess I’d say it’s the field variety. I have a basic grasp of most common Irish wildflowers but when it gets down to deciding between similar looking species of the same family I tend to get confused. At least it means I always have some new things to learn about while out for a walk.
Find Part 13 here