Bliain - Part 1
04th January 2021
At the end of March last year, as Ireland went into its first COVID-19 lockdown, the rug was suddenly pulled from under us. Though pandemics are a natural part of the unending balancing of Planet Earth's ecosystems, diseases that are both particularly threatening to humans and have managed to go global have somehow remained suppressed for a reasonably long period of time. A half a blink of an eye in geological time of course, but for us short-lived, short-sighted and short-minded humans this pandemic seems like something from the bleak histories of the Middle Ages or the dystopian fantasies of modern sci-fi. I'm particularly thankful to have studied ecology at this time, because understanding that this is very much a natural process and not some frighteningly inexplicable disaster (or new world order plot to control us!) has made it somewhat easier to take. Not that I'm free from bouts of despair about the whole situation...
We have all had to learn different ways to cope with this sudden new challenge. One of mine was to make a photograph for every day of the first lockdown. It gave some structure and purpose to days when it was hard to know what to do or think, and led me to find some lovely places I never knew about in my locality, as well as a renewed appreciation for how beautiful my immediate surroundings really are (and thus, how lucky I am). As the summer came on and we all thought things were getting back to normal (ha!) I gave up my daily image ritual, but later on in the year I missed it. And so, I've started again. Not necessarily as a response to the pandemic anymore, but because it's just a nice thing to do. I began on what I call the real new year; the day after the winter solstice, when the daylight hours have reached their lowest ebb, and slowly start turning towards the full tide of summer, before receding again to midwinter. The plan is to make it all the way to the next winter solstice. That'd be a year, or bliain in Irish - 365 days, and 365 images posted here. It's a bit ambitious, but I'll surely fail if I start worrying about that distant target. And there's the first lesson learned; take things day by day because there's little benefit in trying to control what's still ungraspabley beyond the horizon.
Below are the first fourteen images, and a few words about them, or what they brought to mind for me. I have it in mind to do this every fortnight, but we'll see how it goes. The only real rule is to try and come away with an image from every day. And if somebody besides me gets some benefit from it, all the better.
22nd December
I’ve come to think of swimming as some kind of ritualistic thing, a way to celebrate or mark certain days or occasions. Celebrate seems like a strange word at first because for most of the year (in Ireland anyway) getting into the sea isn’t very physically pleasant. And yet I always want to do it on certain dates, such as the solstices, the 26th of December, and as a rule at least once every month. Primed by a solstice swim in much more challenging conditions the previous day I decided to mark to start of the real new year (and this photo project) with a dip at the dawning of the day. I couldn’t help a smile as I freewheeled out to the main road and pedaled onwards to the beach, and though the sunrise was lacking in spectacle it felt good to be in the sea all the same. This image isn’t very exciting, but it was an important first step in a daunting idea. I thought if I can get up out of bed in the depths of winter, cycle to the sea and throw myself into it in the hopes of making a photograph then I can surely do it on days when motivation is low but circumstances needn’t be as taxing. And anyway, photo or no photo, it was a great morning enjoying a range of energising physical sensations; from the rush of initially going under, through the stone cold in my feet while getting changed, the tingly fingers gripping handlebars on the warming ride home to the almost orgasmic flow of heat returning to my core as I let a hot shower pour over me.
23rd December
A photogenic day of bright light and dark showers at home, but as I was packing and tying up odds and ends before visiting my parents for Christmas I ignored the camera. Snow had fallen overnight and I hoped to catch some of the wintry scenes on the Reeks while passing Inch, but it was much more overcast by the time I got there. I waited awhile for some nicer light to come through, but had to settle for this thin scrap of sun on Skregbeg.
24th December
Starlings, somewhere near Nohoval. When I was first getting into photography I used to escape Cork’s suburbs to places like Rocky Bay and Nohoval Cove. On this beautiful Christmas Eve I fell back into the same routine, except in 2020 both places were thronged with people. Between the fine weather and the fact that most people were off work I should have expected as much, but it certainly felt strange when these places are so devoid of people in my memories. Not being able to rely on the easy option (I had to turn around at Nohoval for lack of a place to park) forced me to try harder for an image, which is no harm. Again, this picture is very forgettable, but if I’m to maintain enthusiasm for 365 consecutive days of photographs I need to be realistic; the majority aren’t going to be special, and the real reward will be the lessons learned, not the most Instagrammable images.
25th December
A pertinent message on Christmas night in Cork City. Most people in Ireland celebrate Christmas as a Christian festival, at least in theory. The message about Mary and Joseph being turned away at the inn is a fairly prominent part of the story, or at least the version I got as a child. And the birth of Jesus, whose main ideology seemed to be to treat others as you’d like to be treated yourself, is obviously what it’s all supposedly about (I’d love to get into the pagan origins of Christmas but I won’t here). Ireland’s shameful, profit-based system of dealing with asylum seekers is all the more jarring at this time of year, so it was good to see such an eye-catching message near the heart of the city, though ideally such messages needn’t be there at all. If you don’t know about Direct Provision look it up. These short captions aren’t exactly the best place to explain it but basically, people who come to Ireland seeking refuge from international conflict are entered into a system not dissimilar to open prison, with poor living conditions and little chance to integrate into communities. While some improvements have been made in recent years it is still an appalling way to treat people already dealing with displacement and upheaval. And the most cynical thing about it is that it’s a money making scheme. The accommodation and catering services (both of which are often substandard) are provided by private companies who are paid by the government. It offers the bare minimum for people who badly need compassion, while giving property developers and investors a chance to make a profit. The gears are in motion for an overhaul of the system, with the issue having gained more and more attention in recent years. Hopefully positive change will come soon.
26th December
Rory taking the plunge at Myrtleville. For the past five years a few of us have swum here on the day after Christmas, and it’s one of the highlights of the festive season for me. Thankfully the weather was kind this year. It was also busier than any other year I’ve been. As the pandemic has curtailed many of the more common outlets most people take pleasure in the popularity of time spent outdoors has surged. I hope it brings more people an awareness of and wonder for the non-human world around them, and any enjoyment they get from that is repayed in kindness to the ground beneath our feet and the sea that bouys our spirits.
27th December
Early morning light in one of Rocky Bay’s spectacular caves. I had envisioned a very different image, looking out the jagged mouth of the cave as the sun lit the opening, but in the end I much preferred the geometric appeal of this composition. Sunrise is very late at this time of year, which makes it all the easier to be up to see it. It’s also much easier to see the sun in general in this part of Cork compared to West Kerry. Having grown up in the former and spent more than five years now in the latter I’m amazed at how different (i.e. worse) the weather is this far west. And yet I have no great desire to go back...
28th December
As if to prove the point made above my first day back home was one of wild winds and enormous seas. The old watchtower on the cliff gives a bit of scale to this image; I suppose it’s eight or nine feet tall. While wave spray multiple times higher than what’s shown here isn’t terribly uncommon off certain parts of the Dingle Peninsula, the fact that this scene is in a reasonably sheltered harbour that’s used to moor multiple boats in summertime gives a sense of how wild things must have been on the open sea. Little doubt there were lumps of heaving swell off the more exposed headlands earlier this day that would have matched the height of these cliffs.
29th December
Another day of northerly gales, the kind of weather that would skin hands half raw while you’re gathering up rubbish from the beach or fumbling with camera dials on the windswept crest of a dune. I was hoping for a rainbow when I saw this shower approaching but the sun stayed behind cloud while the hail sailed past. Windy weather can be both energising and demoralising. This kind of winter northerly is always good to blow the cobwebs away, but I find too many days in a row of strong south easterlies starts to whet the margins of the mind. A morning of light airs after that cursed wind is very welcome to take the edge off.
30th December
A calm, peaceful morning that ripened to a bright, springlike day. I found myself drawn to the beach again, and very much enjoyed seeking these kinds of top-down seaweed and shadow scenes. An incoming tide and light-quenching cloud put an end to my efforts but this kind of image is something I’ll come back to again. I’m more interested in these kinds of detail images than traditional landscape scenes these days. They feel like gifted wonders in the everyday world; maybe not as obvious or dramatic as landscapes gilded in low light, but they’re more satisfying when you find them, and encourage a more intimate connection with where you are.
31st December
Looking west from the slopes of Mount Brandon on a New Year’s Eve hike with friends. Though showers were passing all afternoon we were lucky to avoid most of them, and when they did fall high on the hill it was all hail and snow, both of which are generally more pleasant to be out in than wetting rain. In the past my mind would have been focused almost solely on the scenery, but nowadays I’m equally if not more interested in catching up with friends during these adventures, as most of them live elsewhere and we don’t see each other very often.
1st January
Cold dusk at Dún Síon after a mostly bright, sunny and sometimes even warm first day of the calendar year. The tower on the distant headland is an old marker for Dingle, from the days preceding satellite navigation. The harbour is well sheltered by tall cliffs on either side and anybody not familiar with the area could have easily sailed past it. Back when ships were powered by the wind it would often have been too late to turn by the time you’d seen the break in the coastline, necessitating a potentially awkward and time-consuming turn around if the breeze wasn’t in your favour. There was another tower on the eastern headland at Binn Bán but its stones have since been recycled into some other use, most likely the walls of the nearby fields.
2nd January
Great tit at the back garden bird table. Taking time to watch the local birds (and rats in my case) at the feeders is a lovely way to spend part of each day, particularly in the dull depths of winter. Learning the habits of each species, and sometimes even individuals, provides a view into the world's other creatures, which gives me more empathy and respect for other living beings in general. As humans we live in a very human-centric world, most of us believing that everything revolves around us, that all our silly games and great achievements are the pinnacle of life on Earth, and that the planet is ours to do with as we wish. The quicker the majority of us can learn how delusional such ideas are the better. We stand to live fuller, more meaningful lives if we can learn to live better with the other beings we share this world with.
3rd January
As I was stood in the garden photographing the moon through bare branches and the early light on distant hills I heard a robin singing close by. I took the camera down from my face and there it was, framed by the branches a few metres away, and it felt like he was singing specifically to me. Which is of course ludicrous, but was a nice reminder that while you can go out with a plan in your head of what you might photograph, more often than not something else will present itself to you, if you have your eyes (and ears) open to the world around you.
4th January
Frost is rare enough where I live so it’s always a bit of a novelty to wake up to see the ground iced white, even if it's only a very light dusting in more sheltered corners of the garden. The weather recently has been brilliant for this time of year; cold in a cutting north east wind, but warm if you can find a sheltered spot to soak up the low winter sun. And the forecast is for more of the same, which is welcome news in any winter, but especially so during these unusual times.
Find Part 2 here
We have all had to learn different ways to cope with this sudden new challenge. One of mine was to make a photograph for every day of the first lockdown. It gave some structure and purpose to days when it was hard to know what to do or think, and led me to find some lovely places I never knew about in my locality, as well as a renewed appreciation for how beautiful my immediate surroundings really are (and thus, how lucky I am). As the summer came on and we all thought things were getting back to normal (ha!) I gave up my daily image ritual, but later on in the year I missed it. And so, I've started again. Not necessarily as a response to the pandemic anymore, but because it's just a nice thing to do. I began on what I call the real new year; the day after the winter solstice, when the daylight hours have reached their lowest ebb, and slowly start turning towards the full tide of summer, before receding again to midwinter. The plan is to make it all the way to the next winter solstice. That'd be a year, or bliain in Irish - 365 days, and 365 images posted here. It's a bit ambitious, but I'll surely fail if I start worrying about that distant target. And there's the first lesson learned; take things day by day because there's little benefit in trying to control what's still ungraspabley beyond the horizon.
Below are the first fourteen images, and a few words about them, or what they brought to mind for me. I have it in mind to do this every fortnight, but we'll see how it goes. The only real rule is to try and come away with an image from every day. And if somebody besides me gets some benefit from it, all the better.
22nd December
I’ve come to think of swimming as some kind of ritualistic thing, a way to celebrate or mark certain days or occasions. Celebrate seems like a strange word at first because for most of the year (in Ireland anyway) getting into the sea isn’t very physically pleasant. And yet I always want to do it on certain dates, such as the solstices, the 26th of December, and as a rule at least once every month. Primed by a solstice swim in much more challenging conditions the previous day I decided to mark to start of the real new year (and this photo project) with a dip at the dawning of the day. I couldn’t help a smile as I freewheeled out to the main road and pedaled onwards to the beach, and though the sunrise was lacking in spectacle it felt good to be in the sea all the same. This image isn’t very exciting, but it was an important first step in a daunting idea. I thought if I can get up out of bed in the depths of winter, cycle to the sea and throw myself into it in the hopes of making a photograph then I can surely do it on days when motivation is low but circumstances needn’t be as taxing. And anyway, photo or no photo, it was a great morning enjoying a range of energising physical sensations; from the rush of initially going under, through the stone cold in my feet while getting changed, the tingly fingers gripping handlebars on the warming ride home to the almost orgasmic flow of heat returning to my core as I let a hot shower pour over me.
23rd December
A photogenic day of bright light and dark showers at home, but as I was packing and tying up odds and ends before visiting my parents for Christmas I ignored the camera. Snow had fallen overnight and I hoped to catch some of the wintry scenes on the Reeks while passing Inch, but it was much more overcast by the time I got there. I waited awhile for some nicer light to come through, but had to settle for this thin scrap of sun on Skregbeg.
24th December
Starlings, somewhere near Nohoval. When I was first getting into photography I used to escape Cork’s suburbs to places like Rocky Bay and Nohoval Cove. On this beautiful Christmas Eve I fell back into the same routine, except in 2020 both places were thronged with people. Between the fine weather and the fact that most people were off work I should have expected as much, but it certainly felt strange when these places are so devoid of people in my memories. Not being able to rely on the easy option (I had to turn around at Nohoval for lack of a place to park) forced me to try harder for an image, which is no harm. Again, this picture is very forgettable, but if I’m to maintain enthusiasm for 365 consecutive days of photographs I need to be realistic; the majority aren’t going to be special, and the real reward will be the lessons learned, not the most Instagrammable images.
25th December
A pertinent message on Christmas night in Cork City. Most people in Ireland celebrate Christmas as a Christian festival, at least in theory. The message about Mary and Joseph being turned away at the inn is a fairly prominent part of the story, or at least the version I got as a child. And the birth of Jesus, whose main ideology seemed to be to treat others as you’d like to be treated yourself, is obviously what it’s all supposedly about (I’d love to get into the pagan origins of Christmas but I won’t here). Ireland’s shameful, profit-based system of dealing with asylum seekers is all the more jarring at this time of year, so it was good to see such an eye-catching message near the heart of the city, though ideally such messages needn’t be there at all. If you don’t know about Direct Provision look it up. These short captions aren’t exactly the best place to explain it but basically, people who come to Ireland seeking refuge from international conflict are entered into a system not dissimilar to open prison, with poor living conditions and little chance to integrate into communities. While some improvements have been made in recent years it is still an appalling way to treat people already dealing with displacement and upheaval. And the most cynical thing about it is that it’s a money making scheme. The accommodation and catering services (both of which are often substandard) are provided by private companies who are paid by the government. It offers the bare minimum for people who badly need compassion, while giving property developers and investors a chance to make a profit. The gears are in motion for an overhaul of the system, with the issue having gained more and more attention in recent years. Hopefully positive change will come soon.
26th December
Rory taking the plunge at Myrtleville. For the past five years a few of us have swum here on the day after Christmas, and it’s one of the highlights of the festive season for me. Thankfully the weather was kind this year. It was also busier than any other year I’ve been. As the pandemic has curtailed many of the more common outlets most people take pleasure in the popularity of time spent outdoors has surged. I hope it brings more people an awareness of and wonder for the non-human world around them, and any enjoyment they get from that is repayed in kindness to the ground beneath our feet and the sea that bouys our spirits.
27th December
Early morning light in one of Rocky Bay’s spectacular caves. I had envisioned a very different image, looking out the jagged mouth of the cave as the sun lit the opening, but in the end I much preferred the geometric appeal of this composition. Sunrise is very late at this time of year, which makes it all the easier to be up to see it. It’s also much easier to see the sun in general in this part of Cork compared to West Kerry. Having grown up in the former and spent more than five years now in the latter I’m amazed at how different (i.e. worse) the weather is this far west. And yet I have no great desire to go back...
28th December
As if to prove the point made above my first day back home was one of wild winds and enormous seas. The old watchtower on the cliff gives a bit of scale to this image; I suppose it’s eight or nine feet tall. While wave spray multiple times higher than what’s shown here isn’t terribly uncommon off certain parts of the Dingle Peninsula, the fact that this scene is in a reasonably sheltered harbour that’s used to moor multiple boats in summertime gives a sense of how wild things must have been on the open sea. Little doubt there were lumps of heaving swell off the more exposed headlands earlier this day that would have matched the height of these cliffs.
29th December
Another day of northerly gales, the kind of weather that would skin hands half raw while you’re gathering up rubbish from the beach or fumbling with camera dials on the windswept crest of a dune. I was hoping for a rainbow when I saw this shower approaching but the sun stayed behind cloud while the hail sailed past. Windy weather can be both energising and demoralising. This kind of winter northerly is always good to blow the cobwebs away, but I find too many days in a row of strong south easterlies starts to whet the margins of the mind. A morning of light airs after that cursed wind is very welcome to take the edge off.
30th December
A calm, peaceful morning that ripened to a bright, springlike day. I found myself drawn to the beach again, and very much enjoyed seeking these kinds of top-down seaweed and shadow scenes. An incoming tide and light-quenching cloud put an end to my efforts but this kind of image is something I’ll come back to again. I’m more interested in these kinds of detail images than traditional landscape scenes these days. They feel like gifted wonders in the everyday world; maybe not as obvious or dramatic as landscapes gilded in low light, but they’re more satisfying when you find them, and encourage a more intimate connection with where you are.
31st December
Looking west from the slopes of Mount Brandon on a New Year’s Eve hike with friends. Though showers were passing all afternoon we were lucky to avoid most of them, and when they did fall high on the hill it was all hail and snow, both of which are generally more pleasant to be out in than wetting rain. In the past my mind would have been focused almost solely on the scenery, but nowadays I’m equally if not more interested in catching up with friends during these adventures, as most of them live elsewhere and we don’t see each other very often.
1st January
Cold dusk at Dún Síon after a mostly bright, sunny and sometimes even warm first day of the calendar year. The tower on the distant headland is an old marker for Dingle, from the days preceding satellite navigation. The harbour is well sheltered by tall cliffs on either side and anybody not familiar with the area could have easily sailed past it. Back when ships were powered by the wind it would often have been too late to turn by the time you’d seen the break in the coastline, necessitating a potentially awkward and time-consuming turn around if the breeze wasn’t in your favour. There was another tower on the eastern headland at Binn Bán but its stones have since been recycled into some other use, most likely the walls of the nearby fields.
2nd January
Great tit at the back garden bird table. Taking time to watch the local birds (and rats in my case) at the feeders is a lovely way to spend part of each day, particularly in the dull depths of winter. Learning the habits of each species, and sometimes even individuals, provides a view into the world's other creatures, which gives me more empathy and respect for other living beings in general. As humans we live in a very human-centric world, most of us believing that everything revolves around us, that all our silly games and great achievements are the pinnacle of life on Earth, and that the planet is ours to do with as we wish. The quicker the majority of us can learn how delusional such ideas are the better. We stand to live fuller, more meaningful lives if we can learn to live better with the other beings we share this world with.
3rd January
As I was stood in the garden photographing the moon through bare branches and the early light on distant hills I heard a robin singing close by. I took the camera down from my face and there it was, framed by the branches a few metres away, and it felt like he was singing specifically to me. Which is of course ludicrous, but was a nice reminder that while you can go out with a plan in your head of what you might photograph, more often than not something else will present itself to you, if you have your eyes (and ears) open to the world around you.
4th January
Frost is rare enough where I live so it’s always a bit of a novelty to wake up to see the ground iced white, even if it's only a very light dusting in more sheltered corners of the garden. The weather recently has been brilliant for this time of year; cold in a cutting north east wind, but warm if you can find a sheltered spot to soak up the low winter sun. And the forecast is for more of the same, which is welcome news in any winter, but especially so during these unusual times.
Find Part 2 here
Comments
By Betty Rogers: Thank you. Looking forward!