Ireland

“This unlikely spot has, by some quirk of socio-historical chemistry, given birth to an undue proportion of the world’s greatest writers,” states the Dublin Writers Museum. And what an understatement this is, given a country of ship builders and farmers that could have been more illiterate than not has fostered our most magnificent literary heritage.

Nothing is far from the subject of religion here, and nothing strays far from politics, particularly regarding self-determination (or the odd insistence by some to give it up). The owners of Brexit and the culprits of the potato famine have once again wreaked their havoc, with no one really knowing how the border will play out. During my stay, Theresa May broke down in tears in her infamous speech about having served her country. How much more it would have mattered had she cried about Ireland instead.

A flare-up recently happened in Derry (or Londonderry, depending on your allegiance) where the new IRA torched a church, and not too long ago a journalist was killed. Old habits die hard, as evidenced by The Firestarters of Jan Carson, an author at this year’s International Literature Festival, who joined a panel to discuss the “rapturous transparency of words.”

This land is truly worth fighting for, and at the far-flung edge of Donegal, nothing succumbs except to nature’s iron fist. The Breac House offers a refined and unrivaled haven of hospitality amid the untethered landscape. Search for bits of string tied on fairy thorns to encounter the “fallen angels who were not good enough to be saved, nor bad enough to be lost. They’re called by other names, such as wee-folk, elves, or sidhe (the people of the mounds).”

A day lost in the Ards Forest with its imperceptible veil of mist will leave you and your camera speechless, as you turn the simplest of thistle plants into a shattered canvas of liquid diamonds.

Here’s my photo essay on Ireland.