The people of my ancestors left the farm wornout under the cloud of
subtle centurian oppression and poverty, partnered with the difficult elements
and wild countryside. When they got to Australia they found they were dropped back
into it, left to open a hostile country whose inhabitants, native and migrated, were about to
endure the same oppression of capitalism and greed of far away Europe, a country not designed
for northern (Western) cultures and way of life. Here they could finally just die without
the necessary historical pronouncements of European civilization.
Being in Ireland
Ireland, land of music and dreamers and sheep, long uninhibited roads and lanes against tired mountains and ancient boned bogs.
Ruins of war
Horizons are dotted with old ruins of war, grandeur, and ancient rites.
Tombs and churches
Names and records of the old people most likely kept by the churches that now mark a long proud history. Here it is it possible for descendants like me to trace back a lost heritage.
Ole buskers rock on
Ireland of music and sound inherited and learned, colour and vibrance in the streets of Dublin. I wonder where these people spend their days away from this cacophany of life.
Looking out to the Ring of Kerry
Green and cool, a countryside built for gazing and dreaming