As a writer – and blogger – I am always searching for new topics. What do I write about? Why do I write, anyway?

For the next few weeks – and however long it may take me to get through the photographs – I’m writing about my recent trip to Ireland. After a week attending a writers workshop in Dublin, my husband and I jumped onto a bus for a six-day tour of southern/western Ireland.

Episode One

Our group was small – only six of us – led by our driver, Joe. This native Irishman told us Irish history as we drove. So many stops, and so many pictures, and yet when it was over we were tired but still exhilarated. What a beautiful place!

Today’s picture was taken at the Rock of Dunamase near Portlaoise, Ireland. Here’s my diary entry, “This castle was once a village. No restoration has been done, so it remains a ruin. We spent about thirty minutes of site, walking the gravel paths in a light rain, the still world shrouded in a light mist. Cold, but bearable. Thick, thick walls throughout, narrow passages leading up to the sky, short doorways and narrow, narrow wall openings built for archers. Intriguing and mystical on this typical Irish day.” (read on) 

So, as a writer, how can I put into words my feelings about this place? I am immediately at home in Ireland, engulfed by the familiar – yet unknown – faces of its residents, the children of my ancestors. The weather, although cool and damp, is not uncomfortable – but by the end of our 18 days there I have to admit I long for the sun.

Here are images I saw: The brilliant greens of the grass, the blue of the sky (when it appeared between gray clouds), the birds, the rocks, the sheep, the horses, the white cottages, the pastel storefronts, the brambly golden Gorse bushes, the chimney pots, the hillsides, the sea, the tower ruins, the narrow roads, the black and white cattle, the church spires, the gray roofs, the rock walls, the wooden fences, the yellow stucco, the flowers.

Aah.

(to be continued)