‘My father told me that cameras let you save eight milliseconds for eternity.
He grew up within sight of The Muglins. I grew up knowing to respect its purpose.’
[Read more…] about Muglins Photozine‘My father told me that cameras let you save eight milliseconds for eternity.
He grew up within sight of The Muglins. I grew up knowing to respect its purpose.’
[Read more…] about Muglins Photozine‘Write and tell us when we are going wrong’ said Aung Sang Suu Kyi at the end of her interview with Fergal Keane in 1995.
I wouldn’t know this but for walking along Offa’s Dyke for a few days in 2019. My walking buddy and I found ourselves in a bookshop in Hay-on-the-Wye where I picked up a used copy of Fergal Keane’s Letter to Daniel, published in 1996 for his new-born son. While I’ve enjoyed dipping into these stories over the last fifteen months, I realise that Daniel must be around 24 now and I wonder what he thinks of his Dad’s letters. And I wonder if Keane ever wrote to tell Daw Suu how they were going wrong.
I’ve selected twenty five images from among the many that I took this year. And I’ve chosen one as my favourite. I told its story here on Christmas Day and the picture makes me smile every time I see it. And it’s not even a proper photo, four months after the initial idea, it’s a cropped snap from an iPhone. That’s surely reason enough to make it my favourite from the 305 days of this journal.
I’m not sure why a trawler and a lighthouse on the horizon made me think of an allotment. But my mind drifted to sustainable food production while we were enjoying a sunrise walk along Dun Laoghaire pier this morning. The allotment in question was somewhere in Kent. I only remember it because of the conversation about North of England trophy fishing I had with a man who was planting potatoes in his well tended section. We talked about other things too. Unusual things like farming and wineries near Otago. And The Knowledge, the legendary taxi driver test in London.
A book hit the mat this morning, dropping from the letter box. The Dublin Review announced itself with a satisfying thump. The 80th edition has an essay by Lia Mills which I read again. I write ‘again’ because Last Word originates from this household and as biased as I might be, I still think it’s a great read this second time, my first reading having been just before it was submitted.
I boarded the plane in Charles DeGaulle Airport, destined to stop over in Abidjan, the capital of the Ivory Coast, en route to Niger. Happily, Lia had come to Paris with me for a few days while I collected a work visa from the Niger Embassy.