I’ve spent a lot of time in Connemara, especially in the last ten years.
It’s the kind of place where fairies do dance by the moon and things can be half seen in a twilight breeze. It’s a mystical place to be sure. It’s also the kind of place, at the end of the world, where it’s just nice to while away timelessness.
The light, when it breaks through the day, can be incredible: soft, harsh, dappled, ever-changing, warm, cold, steely sharp, casting long beams in from the evening.
The sea is everywhere, like fingers interlocking in prayer, inlets and headlands trace fractal patterns that seem to breathe a universal truth about nature on this planet: perfection in imperfection. This ship hulking by a jetty caught my attention for a couple of hours.
I love rusty old machinery in general but it also seemed to quietly testify to the ravages of time and tide: forces that don’t worry fairies I believe.