Sunday, 28 February 2016
Sometimes you discover a lovely new place and wonder how it can have been there for all those years without you knowing.
This room, full of centuries-old books, has existed since 1771, and you can still feel the ghosts of the generations of scholars who frequented it and the generations of bookbinders who made it so beautiful.
I spent a long time just admiring the shelves and the spines.
Looking inside a book is a ceremony conducted with the help of a librarian. White gloves protect the delicate pages from the taint of your hands. Works printed in 1480 are for your eyes and your soul only.
Visit if you can. It's Armagh Public Library - both a working reference library and a museum.
Calm, beautiful, venerable and restorative. As is carved above its doorway, a healing place of the soul.
Sunday, 21 February 2016
On Thursday I set out to Ardglass with big plans to photograph some lovely details from the hustle and tangle of all the fishing boats in the harbour. I've done this a couple of times before and it's been very rewarding making something almost poetic from what could be regarded as a mundane commercial activity. It was a lovely, bright, cold day - ideal, I thought, for my purposes.
It turned out it was also ideal for going fishing. There were only two ships in the harbour.
So I went on further down the coast, first to the village of Killough. This is one of the prettiest places in the area, with a lovely sycamore-lined main street. It's easy to imagine what it would have been like in its busy nineteenth century days as a port for grain export.
Feeling a little as if I was in the Van Morrison song "Coney Island" (although if you check the lyrics carefully, his route seems somewhat odd...) I continued round the coast. And the beach at Minerstown provided me with enough lovely shots to compensate for the fishing boat disappointment. It was so cold that my frozen fingers had a lot of trouble changing lenses at one point, and the one that's my pride and joy came close to falling onto the rocks. But every time I was about to leave, shivering and whimpering, the sun would emerge at a new angle and present me with a different kind of beautiful.
On the way home I executed a dangerously sudden stop at Seaforde, with the notion of photographing the picturesque church. The sky was darkening by now, but I tried a few angles and was pleased enough to plan a return in kinder light.
Saturday, 13 February 2016
One of my favourite Belfast places is Botanic Gardens. It's where I go when I want to smell hyacinths/look for squirrels/sit on a bench with a hot chocolate/admire some curvy Victorian ironwork/feel a bit steamy. And obviously I want to do one or other of those things on a fairly regular basis.
This week I did them all and went away happy. You can't fail to see something beautiful or mysterious here. Go and have a look.
Saturday, 6 February 2016
Belfast City Cemetery's ivy-draped Victorian paths are watched over by a detachment of stone angels. These creatures, more beautiful now with their missing arms and noses than they must have been when they were first carved, decorate dozens of graves.
Many of them were set in place at a woman's tomb - they seem to reflect an idealistic attitude to middle-class or wealthy women that might have been prevalent in the late nineteenth century in a city like Belfast. They must have been expensive to commission. They're all different, and some of the carving is really fabulous.
Perhaps these angels provided a focus for the grief of a bereaved family. Perhaps they were intended too to show others how much the departed loved one was valued and missed.
Some of my ancestors are buried in Belfast City Cemetery. Catherine and Alexander Bryans, my great-great-grandparents, and their daughter Isabella, my great-great-aunt, lie in plot N307.
The Bryans family had moved to Belfast for work from Clones, having lost three of their six children there already. (You can read about their life in Clones here.) I always think that Isabella might have worked in a mill, judging from the addresses round the Crumlin Road at which they lived. Both remaining sons trained as painters with their father but went on to become Methodist ministers (and you can read about that here).
Alexander, a painter and decorater, died in 1896, at the age of 55, of lead poisoning. Isabella died four years later, aged 32. Her burial certificate states the cause of death as "debility". Catherine succumbed to cancer in 1905, aged 62.
Also buried in N307 is William Alexander Hewitt, aged three months. He was the child of Isaac and Anna Hewitt, with whom Catherine lodged in her widowhood. Isaac was a friend of William, my great-grandfather, and his younger brother Alex, after whom the child was named. Little William died in 1899, and I imagine that Catherine, as the proprietor of a recently established grave plot, offered it as a resting place for her friends' baby.
There is no angel at N307. There isn't even a gravestone or an iron marker. It would have been too expensive.
Today it's just a patch of grass between the stone grave-beds of two richer families.
I visited it this afternoon. I walked towards it through an avenue of big headstones, with my hood up, sheltering from the cold Belfast rain. I felt both sad and proud to stand by our unmarked green patch. This was a brave, devout, fractured, transplanted family. Each of them in turn was sorely missed and mourned. But they have no angel.
There I was, standing crying on my great-great-granny's bones, and a thought came to me: We are their angels. Nobody carved stones for them, but they have a heritage of flesh and love, creativity, intellect, faith and integrity. We are their angels.
I tied a black cotton ribbon round the bunch of flowers I'd brought, set it gently on the grave, and walked back down the Falls Road in the rain.