I still remember the effortless sensation I felt when I was running at speed. My legs seemed to bounce off the tarmac and propel me forward towards the finish line...
Photography is a powerful tool. One image can stand in isolation…
“It matters not how straight the gate, how charged with punishments the scroll; I am the master of my faith; I am the captain of my soul”. William Ernest Henley
My guide and I pitched our tents high above the village of Hwe Lon as darkness fell. The light from camp fires identified the location of the numerous small farm holdings nestled in the valley below. Peace and tranquility descended on the mountain community as it drifted into sleep.
The cold drizzle fell incessantly and the cars whisked by at speed. Joe Doran and his wife Mary, a quiet and gentle couple, were huddled by a campfire. Their home, a small canvas-covered wagon, was parked by the busy roadside on the outskirts of the city. Their donkey grazed in a nearby field and a cat purred on Joe’s lap as he spoke softly about his life.
This sequence of images was captured at Mount Melleray Abbey, County Waterford.
Along the Shannon runs a path paved with my life’s memories.
This sequence of images was captured in Seville, Spain.
He squatted on the cold ground that freezing winters day. He was indifferent to the weather and oblivious to the traffic that passed close by. He was lost in his music, and captivated by the rhythm and melody of the tunes that were his living and his life.
The rain dripped from the brim of his well-worn hat. The pockets of his long tattered coat bulged with his rations for that day. He shuffled from foot to foot in a futile effort to keep the cold at bay. His grubby fingers crushed a Woodbine cigarette as they moved effortlessly over the notes of his battered tin whistle.
The temperatures were sub zero on Buchaille Etive Mor, in the valley of Glenco. The wind chill penetrated my layers of clothing and my fingers froze on the cold chrome of my camera. I had seen this majestic stag on various occasions over a number of days and for me he encapsulated the beauty and the harshness of this rugged landscape.
The ringing of the Church Bells broke the silence of the night as I listened to the soft pitter-patter of rain against the window. The whistling of the wind and the rustling from the trees were pre dawn indicators of the inclement weather outside my sanctuary. I looked at my watch – my blurry eyes registered the time at 4 am.
The young Traveller stood at the corner, legs crossed, trying to look nonchalant. He had sleek black hair, wore pin-stripped trousers and had an open neck shirt under a mock leather jacket. His collar was turned up, Elvis style; very much the lad about town.
The boy sat nestled in a doorway with his animals around him. His broken boots indicated that money was scarce. The tears flowed freely down the young lad’s face, his sobs were deep, and he was inconsolable as he stared into space. Much to his horror and to his father’s delight, the two turkeys that sat beside him had just been sold.
Time stood still for Mary White. A dark lonely boreen led to the Spartan farmhouse that was her home for close on one hundred years. Her unmarried brother had died some time previously and she lived alone. A paraffin lamp lit the darkness and the open fire was constantly ablaze.