Very little has been written here about the scenery we’ve been seeing. Part of the reason is because words could hardly do it justice. Sure, many have tried with varying degrees of success. But the truth is that no matter how gifted a wordsmith someone might be, the images he or she might paint would be impoverished facsimiles.
Monday began with angry rain beating down against our skylights and the cobblestone sidewalks below. Nora, however, promised that by afternoon, the sky would clear. John set out on foot to shoot some sights around Rosscarbery. St. Fatchna’s smiled for his lens. Later, as the sun tumbled down toward the Atlantic, we drove out south of Rosscarbery. We stormed a castle or two, photographically speaking, of course. Then, we plunged our car toward the sea. We ended up on a ramshackle road, and when we dared not drive the car any farther, John hoofed it down toward the sound of the waves. He returned with the rewards for his toil and trouble swallowed up in the belly of his camera.