Cause you can’t have too many shots of this majestic place. Actually there was a similar view which I can’t find at the moment (slide film and all), taken closer to the edge and showing a young (maybe 10 year old) kid on a small outcropping about 30 feet down from the foreground you see here. He had climbed over the edge with no safety gear whatsoever (well not counting perhaps the most valuable of all – his proprioceptive system – but still), and seemed totally comfortable there, as apparently did mom – standing near the edge with an eye on him and the other on the view.
Always loved this shot of summer and the shore, and childhood; there’s added resonance because one of our young nephews was known as “inch boy” around our house when he was real little. Who knew there was a town called Inch in the world, to say nothing of his Irish twin ?
Taken 20 years ago while rambling around southwest Ireland. Traditional music was just about everywhere, including on many street corners. One particularly fond memory was at a small bar where the (seated) musicians would play a song or two, then have a smoke (rolling their own) and some good conversation and a few laughs before launching into another song 5-10 minutes later. This went on pretty much for a full two hours. I loved it ! Taken on 35 mm slide film.
One of my favorite wildflowers ever, and one of the beautiful gifts of midsummer. Info on legend and lore can be found here and here.
Lighthearted, joyous, and usually found growing every which way in small patches, what’s not to love about ferns? They certainly have a special place in my heart. I remember once – a brilliant midsummer day on a small island off the coast of Maine – standing in the midst of a huge field of them, all rugged and leathery from the wind and salt air, but a beautiful hue of green nonetheless. Somewhere in my slide collection, there’s a 360 panorama of that scene waiting to be released into the world.
I had a girlfriend once who went on to a lifetime with flowers and plants, and seems to have developed a keen awareness of their secret lives along the way. She and I never had a conversation about ferns, or even flowers; we were young and barely formed, and a romance that bloomed so sweetly in the dead of winter, was gone by the time the fiddleheads appeared in the spring. And so it goes; decades later, I wonder what she knows about ferns.