A span of 10,000 years spreads between now and the first possibility of settlement on the island of Eire, then swept clean to bare rock by the weight of ice. Current scholarship of the Dún Aonghasa ruins, Inishmore, County Galway, the Irish Republic place a settlement within the inner of the four dry stone rings after 6,500 years (1,500 BC or 3,500 years ago). By way of scale, the first settlement took about 30 times the duration of the U.S. Constitution ratification through 2025: the last state, Rhode Island, ratified the Constitution 1789.
By 700 BC, 2,700 years ago, a series of upright, closely placed stones, were erected between the second and third rings called a cheval de fries field (“Frisian horses” in English) today, this defensive structure evokes the enormous scale of the struggles around this place of defense.
This is a portion of that field, I believe, taken as Pam and I approach the inner ring entrance, walking a wide path cleared of barriers. Click the photograph for a larger image with caption.
On certain evenings we gather on our Cocoa Beach, Florida east-facing beach-side balcony simply to watch the day undo itself—sunset staining the western sky while, behind us, something quieter begins. On Sunday, January 20, 2019, the quiet had a name: a total lunar eclipse. I’d checked the online charts earlier—moonrise time, azimuth, the patient geometry of the heavens laid out in numbers—and set our chairs faced the anticipated spectacle.
The light went a little pewter, as it does when the sun slides offstage and the world inhales. Out on the water a cruise ship shouldered south, a floating city of windows that, under ordinary sunsets, catch fire pane by pane. I looked up too late for the blaze and felt that small pang one gets for the thing almost seen. Still, the ship kept gliding, a bright punctuation mark traveling our skyline.
Then the moon appeared—first as a bruise-colored coin pressed against a bank of cloud, then as itself, pale and whole, rising as if pulled on a cord. Photographs can play a trick here: place a ship under a full moon and, with the right lens, the vessel swells to improbable grandeur while the moon looks like a modest ornament. Our eyes know better. The ship is huge but near; the moon is unimaginably larger, only far. Distance humbles everything.
It’s a fine parlor truth that every lunar eclipse requires a full moon. There’s a steadiness in that—that the earth, playing the rare importance of middle child, can only cast its shadow when the moon has come fully into its own. The reverse, of course, is not guaranteed. Most full moons rise and go about their business, silvering roofs and quieting dogs, without ever tasting the earth’s shadow. Tonight would be different.
The Riddle of Size
Before the darkness advanced, the old riddle of size made its entrance. Low on the horizon, the moon seemed suddenly intimate, big enough to pocket the ship and still have room for the lighthouse. We call it an illusion, but the word hardly captures the tenderness of it: how the mind, seeing that round face near our familiar trees and eaves, feels the moon to be part of our belongings. Angular diameter stays stubbornly constant; affection does not. The experiment is easy enough—choose a pebble that covers the low moon at arm’s length, then try again when the moon is high. The same pebble hides it perfectly. What changes is not the moon, but the story our senses tell.
Clouds raveled and the disk lifted, gathering brightness. As the earth’s umbra slid across that worn, luminous stone, the color shifted from pearl to rust, then to the old red of clay amphorae. People love the names—Super, Wolf, Blood—as if the moon had stepped onto a carnival midway. I prefer the quieter facts: sun, earth, moon aligned; light refracted through air; the planet itself briefly confessed in velvet shadow. It felt less like spectacle than like a family resemblance revealed by candlelight.
Eclipse
Much later, around us, the little neighborhood chorus noticed. A conversation stalled mid-sentence; the unspooled hush you hear at a concert just before the bow draws its first note came and settled on the patio. Even the ocean seemed to restrain itself, waves taking smaller breaths. The cruise ship had long since slid behind the curvature of our seeing.
We kept watching. A lunar eclipse is an exercise in patience: everything happens slowly enough to be felt, quickly enough to refuse boredom. Shadows are honest about their edges. When the moon wore its deepest copper, I thought of ancient nights and imaginations unlit by anything but fire, how dependable cycles must have seemed like messages and how—standing there, spine pricked by a familiar old awe—I could not entirely disagree. It was not fear, but kinship: the sense that we are included in the machinery, not merely spectators.
When the light returned, it did so from one margin, like dawn rehearsed on a smaller stage. The coin brightened by degrees, and the old face we know reappeared—craters and mares soft as thumbprints. The illusion of size faded as the moon climbed, and the experiment with the pebble proved itself yet again. Even so, I felt the tug of that earlier enchantment, the way a child misses a dream just after waking. The mind keeps two ledgers: one for what is measured, one for what is felt. Tonight both were full.
Eventually we retired. Chairs nested. Doors clicked. In the kitchen, glasses chimed in the sink. But the moon kept on, white and durable, its borrowed light restored. Somewhere out there the ship’s passengers drifted to their cabins, stories in their pockets about the night the world itself cast a shadow, and how the ocean looked briefly like copper under a patient star.
Later, when I wrote down the times and the few facts I could trust to memory, I realized the real record was not the measurements but the company: our leaning back, the shared breath, the soft astonishment that comes when something vast moves at a human pace. The eclipse ended; the evening did not. That, too, felt like a kind of alignment—ours with one another, our small chairs with a very large sky.
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Copyright 2025 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
From the commanding location of Dún Aonghasa, looking northeast across Inishmore, the logic of the ancients becomes clear. No better vantage could be found—land unfurling like a hand toward Galway Bay, cottages nestled in green folds, clouds billowing above like sails caught mid-journey. A place of presence. A place of permanence.
Perched high on the cliff’s edge, the fort behind, the Atlantic at the back, the wind carried stories—unwritten, unspoken, but felt in the bones. Below, stone walls divided the island into patterns of memory. Fields outlined in rock, laid long ago by hands familiar with hardship and patience. The sea’s pulse echoed faintly in the distance, as steady and unfathomable as time itself.
No words were needed in that moment. Just the hush of sky and stone. Cottages, bleached bright by limewash—kalsomine, the old name still whispered by some—stood resilient against the elements, each one a witness to generations. Each one seemed to carry a personal reverence, a tenderness carved into the landscape.
Paths led gently inland, where wind slowed and voices from distant homes rose faintly through the open air. Along those paths, the rhythm of island life could be read in hoof prints, scattered wool, and the sharp, clean edges of hand-cut stone. There, among the hedges of limestone and wild grass, the living and the lost felt close.
The cloud cover shifted constantly. Shadows passed like thoughts across the land. Toward the shore, the sky opened wide. A silence filled the lungs, as bracing and deep as the Atlantic itself. Time seemed to slow, the mind slipping into the rhythm of the land.
Limestone pavement, rough beneath the boots, told its own tale of erosion and survival. That the earth here could sustain even the most modest farming seemed improbable. Yet here it was: a testament to stubborn hope and quiet ingenuity. In that quiet, ancient energy rose—something older than the fort, older than language. A pulse shared with the rock and wind.
The fort eventually came back into view—perched as if grown from the cliff itself, curved walls enclosing nothing but air and sky. I perceived no defensive bluster, only presence. And what a view it commanded. On days like this, the clouds formed towering cathedrals overhead, white and gold in the sun. Below, the cottages and fields seemed miniature, perfect, enduring.
The wind played echoes of prayer, lullaby, and laughter mingled with the call of seabirds. The thought came that nothing here was ever truly lost—only layered. Generation upon generation, each leaving some trace: a stone placed just so, a wall mended one final time, a cottage roof patched for another winter.
Here, even the air speaks. It moves gently but insistently, brushing the cheeks and stirring something ancient within the chest. Beneath it, the island breathes: not loudly, not urgently, but with the slow, deep rhythm of the tides.
As the sun dipped slightly westward, light changed across the fields, cottages glowing warm against darkening green. The wind softened. The clouds drifted, still massive but no longer looming. Time to return. A glance back offered one last communion with sky, stone, and silence.
Inishmore, on that day had been absorbed. Understood not with the mind, but with something quieter. Something that listens without need for words.
It was the kind of overcast morning that seems to cradle the island in a blanket of mist, a gentle hush falling over the land as though even the Atlantic held its breath. Pam and I had arrived by ferry at Kilronan, the main settlement on Inishmore (Inis Mór), the largest of the Aran Islands nestled in Galway Bay. There, amid the bustle of arrivals and greetings, we found our driver—a wiry, weather-worn man with a soft brogue and kind eyes—and his horse trap, a simple two-wheeled carriage with room enough for three and the sounds of hooves to accompany our journey.
We set out up Cottage Road, the stone-paved track winding westward from the harbor. The sea fell away behind us as we climbed, a gray shimmer stretching to the hazy outline of Connemara’s mountains on the far side of the bay. Our destination was the dramatic cliffside ringfort of Dún Aonghasa, a place older than memory. But it was the unexpected moments in between—the ones not printed in guidebooks—that linger longest in the mind.
As we rounded a bend flanked by low stone walls, wildflowers blooming defiantly in the cracks, our driver pulled the reins gently and pointed with his crop.
“There,” he said, nodding ahead, “is a fine example of a traditional Aran cottage.”
And there it was—a vision from another time. The thatched roof curved softly like a that blanket itself, straw golden against the brooding sky. The walls were whitewashed to a perfect matte sheen, gleaming in spite of the cloud cover. A crimson door and two window frames punctuated the front façade like punctuation in a poem. Just to its right, set further back on the hill, stood a tiny replica of the same cottage, identical in every feature. I blinked, half believing it was an illusion.
This thatched cottage with matching child’s playhouse is on Cottage Road out of Kilronan Village on the Aran island, Inishmore, County Galway, Ireland.
We only stopped briefly—it was a private residence—but the sight of it left a kind of imprint. I turned in the trap seat to keep it in view as long as I could. The cottage was perfectly placed, facing Galway Bay with a commanding view. I imagined the light pouring across the line of mountains, catching the glint of sea and sky.
“There’s a name for that finish,” I said, recalling something I’d read, “whitewash, or lime paint.”
Our driver nodded. “That’s the old way. Made from slaked lime. We’d call it ‘whitening’ when I was a lad.”
Whitewash differs from paint in the most elemental of ways. It becomes part of the stone, absorbed into the very surface. Like a memory of bone. And yet, it requires care. Apply it to a wall not properly cleaned or moistened, and it flakes, pulls away like a broken promise. But done right, it lasts, breathes with the building.
Upon our return, researching “whitewash,” if found this photograph from the Yarloop railway workshops Yarloop, Western Australia. There, on a shelf, where three old boxes sat like relics: DURABLO, WESCO, and CALCIMO. All contained kalsomine—the powdered form of lime paint. CALCIMO promised to “beautify walls and ceilings” and was proudly marked “LIME PROOF.” There was something quietly heroic in that. Lime-proof, as though against time itself.
Looking at the box of Calcimo, a product of the Murabo Company of Australia, I was struck by how far the tradition had traveled. From island cottages in the Atlantic to distant corners of the Southern Hemisphere, the language of whitewash—of simplicity and purity—had touched the world.
We returned by the same road, past that same cottage, the small one still keeping watch beside it like a child beside a parent. And I knew then that the islands hadn’t just given me sights—they had offered stories, silent ones written in thatch and stone, in lime and wind.
Sources for this post: search wikipedia for “White Wash”. White wash photo author: Wikipedia commons user Gnangarra
Experience the breathtaking sunrise at Cocoa Beach, where the sky and sea blend in a symphony of colors. Discover the tranquility and beauty that awaits as the day dawns on Florida’s stunning Space Coast.
Cocoa Beach, nestled in Brevard County, Florida, is renowned for its pristine sandy shores and the rhythmic lullaby of the Atlantic Ocean. It’s a place where the day often begins with an awe-inspiring sunrise. On the Space Coast, the first light of day is a daily masterpiece, a silent symphony of colors that paints the sky and reflects off the water.
As dawn approaches, the eastern horizon begins to glow with a soft, pre-dawn light. This quiet time, when the world is still asleep, offers a unique tranquility. The beach, usually bustling with surfers, sunbathers, and families, is calm and serene. The sand, cool underfoot, stretches out like a vast canvas, waiting for the sun to begin its artwork.
The first hues of sunrise start as a gentle blush, a hint of pink that softly caresses the sky. As the moments pass, this blush deepens into shades of orange and red, reminiscent of a painter’s palette. The ocean mirrors these colors, creating a breathtaking scene where sky and sea blend into one continuous expanse. It’s a moment that feels almost sacred, as if nature itself is preparing for a grand reveal.
The sun finally peeks above the horizon, a fiery orb that illuminates the world in golden light. This is the crescendo of the sunrise, a moment that seems to hold the breath of the world. The rays of light stretch out across the water, casting a shimmering path that invites the eyes to follow. It’s a path that feels both real and ethereal, leading not just across the sea, but into a day full of possibilities.
As the sun rises higher, the colors in the sky shift and change. The deep reds and oranges give way to softer yellows and then to the clear, bright light of morning. The ocean, too, transforms, taking on a deeper blue as the sunlight penetrates its depths. The waves, which had been gentle ripples in the pre-dawn light, now dance and sparkle, as if celebrating the arrival of the new day.
For those fortunate enough to witness it, a sunrise at Cocoa Beach engages all the senses. The cool breeze carries the fresh scent of saltwater, a reminder of the ocean’s vastness and power. The sound of the waves, steady and rhythmic, provides a soothing background score, while the occasional cry of a seabird adds a touch of the wild to the scene.
Click on a photo for a closer look.
There is a sense of community among the early risers who gather to watch the sunrise. Strangers often share nods and smiles, united by the shared experience of witnessing something so beautiful and ephemeral. It’s a reminder that, no matter our differences, moments of natural beauty can bring people together, fostering a sense of connection and shared humanity.
Cocoa Beach, known for its proximity to the Kennedy Space Center and its surf culture, offers much more than meets the eye. The sunrise is a daily reminder of the simple yet profound beauty of nature, a beauty that exists beyond the man-made attractions and the hustle and bustle of everyday life. It’s a call to pause, reflect, and appreciate the world around us.
In a place where rockets soar into the sky, touching the very edge of space, the sunrise at Cocoa Beach brings us back to Earth, grounding us in the timeless rhythm of the natural world. It’s a moment of peace and renewal, a gift from the universe to start the day with a heart full of wonder and gratitude.
So, whether you’re a local or a visitor, taking the time to watch the sunrise at Cocoa Beach is an experience not to be missed. It’s a chance to witness the world waking up, to feel a part of something larger than oneself, and to start the day with a renewed sense of awe and possibility.
Copyright 2024 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved
Awake to the radiant grace of dawn, where golden light adorns the sky and the ocean reflects its splendor. Witness the serene dance of nature in a peaceful, inspiring January sunrise at Cocoa Beach.
Awake, my soul, to morning’s radiant grace, as dawn’s first light adorns the sky’s embrace. Behold the scene where heaven meets the sea, a tapestry of hues, divinely free.
The eastern sky ignites with golden fire, each ray a herald of the sun’s desire. In softest pinks and boldest crimsons cast, the night retreats, and day arrives at last.
The ocean, kissed by dawn’s ethereal light, reflects the splendor of the coming sight. Waves gently lap upon the sandy shore; their whispered secrets speak of days of yore.
The palm trees sway in rhythmic, gentle dance, their silhouettes in morning’s light enhance. A peaceful stillness wraps the world in awe, as nature’s beauty strikes the heart with awe.
The scattered clouds, with edges tinged in gold, Frame the horizon as the day unfolds. They drift like dreams upon the waking breeze, in harmony with rustling leaves of trees.
And as the sun ascends its royal throne, Its warmth and light through every vein is known. A new day born, with promise in its wake, invites the heart to rise and dreams to take.
Imagine, seagulls soar on wings of pure delight, their cries a chorus to the morning’s light. They glide and dive with effortless grace, their freedom echoes in this sacred space.
On distant sands, the footprints of the few mark early risers greeting morning’s hue. Their presence, fleeting, soon to be erased, by tides that sweep the shore in gentle haste.
Oh, glorious dawn, thy beauty so profound, Inspire the soul where peace and love abound. Let hearts be lifted by thy gentle hand, to cherish all that’s wondrous in this land.
For in this moment, all the world is still, the chaos of the night’s dark dreams to kill. A symphony of light and life begins, as morning’s joy through every fiber sings.
So let us honor this celestial show, where sky and sea in radiant colors glow. In silent reverence, we stand and gaze, at dawn’s first light, and marvel at its blaze.
Awake, my soul, and bask in morning’s gleam, embrace the beauty of this waking dream. For in the sunrise, hope and peace reside, a timeless gift the heavens do provide.
Copyright 2024 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved
Waves built from onshore wind, fast, steady overnight, through the day from early morning until sunset. Pam and I adapted with a revisit to the Sands Space History Museum, Cape Canaveral just outside the Air Force Station. Click this link for a previous posting, “Cape Canaveral Lighthouse,” first of a series. This post header is a vintage gumball machine from the lobby.
By sunset the waves were roaring. Viewing from the safe distance of our condo porch we spied two surfers incredibly among the waves, taking rides. Waiting and attempting a ride. You can see for yourselves the two tiny dots of humanity, appearing and hidden among the waves. I spot them first and Pam does not believe me, I do not blame her. It is beyond my comprehension people are out there. I cannot recommend the quality of the video from my IPhone, our comments are humorous.
It is difficult, Pam is astounded when they come into view.
He rises briefly only to wipe out in this brief video.
Brown Pelicans (Pelecanus occidentalis) fly as linear flocks of a few individuals, at altitude over the shore, and low over the surf line as seen here. Taken January 27, 2020 with the IPhone 8, there is a the insertion of the modern world as a cruise ship comes into view. The ship departs Cape Canaveral Cruise port for parts unknown.
Pelicans, when skimming the waves solo, fly even closer, and do wipe-out when a wingtip hits the water. This bird successfully negotiates a path through the surf.
Discover a heartfelt story woven from the sands of Cocoa Beach on New Year’s Eve, where shells and stars intertwine, inviting you to ponder the delicate dance of near and far.
On the last day of 2023, as the sun began its descent on Cocoa Beach, I found myself tracing the contours of a heart laid out in Ark Clam shells. Each shell, with its ridges and grooves, felt like a chronicle of the ocean’s whispers. This artful mosaic, set against the granular canvas of the beach, was a testament to the playful hands of time and tide. I marveled at the intention behind it, the human desire to create and connect, to leave a mark, however fleeting, on the vastness of nature.
I found this beach heart while walking on Cocoa Beach on the last day of 2023. It is composed of the various shade of Ark Shells. Ark clam is the common name for a family of small to large-sized saltwater clams or marine bivalve molluscs in the family Arcidae. These are the most common shells found there.
The shells were cool and firm under my fingertips, each one a unique piece of the year’s mosaic. Some were a pristine white, while others bore the earthy tones of the sea’s floor. I pondered the journeys they had taken, tumbling in the ocean’s embrace before resting here, on the threshold of a new year. The act of arranging them into a symbol of love felt like an ode to the past year’s collective joys and sorrows, an offering to the unknown adventures of the year to come.
As the day waned, my gaze shifted from the shells to where the water met the sky. There, a sailboat floated serenely, a silent sentinel between two worlds. It was a picture of solitude, a single vessel on the brink of the infinite sea, beneath the expanding dome of the heavens. On the horizon, the silhouette of a cargo ship whispered stories of distant lands and the ceaseless pulse of commerce and exploration that defined our modern era.
On New Years Eve 2023 this sailboad moored off North 1st Street, Cocoa Beach, Brevard County, Space Coast, Florida.
The beach was quiet, the sounds of the day giving way to the evening’s peaceful lull. The sailboat’s stillness was a stark contrast to the perpetual motion of the cargo ship, each representing different paths on the water’s vast canvas. One was an emblem of leisure and simplicity, the other of industry and complexity. Both near and far, they were the day’s quiet companions, their stories part of the fabric of the Space Coast.
As twilight deepened into night, the stars began to emerge, one by one, until the sky was a tapestry of celestial wonder. With my iPhone 14 Pro Max, I captured this cosmic dance, the constellation of stars that had been the silent witnesses to Earth’s revolutions. The constellations, those mythic shapes that have long sparked human imagination, seemed to hold the secrets of what had been and what was to come. They were distant suns, their light traveling unfathomable distances to reach me, to reach us, as we stood on the brink of a new beginning.
Orion
I couldn’t help but feel a connection to the stars, a kinship with their ancient light. They reminded me that we, too, are part of this grand cosmic design, our lives stitched into the universe’s expansive quilt. On the beach, with the shells at my feet and the stars overhead, I was caught in the delicate balance of near and far—the tangible reality of the shells I could touch and the distant glow of starlight from ages past.
Orion, the belt and sword in center.
As the year ticked closer to its end, I stood between the intimate artistry of the shell heart and the boundless majesty of the star-filled sky, a lone observer of time’s relentless march. The Space Coast, with its unique blend of earthly beauty and human aspiration, was the perfect stage for this reflection. Here, on Cocoa Beach, I embraced the last moments of 2023, ready to welcome the new year, with its promise of continuance and change, its constant dance of near and far.
Copyright 2024 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved
Embark on a serene journey through a fog-enshrouded Cocoa Beach at dawn. Feel the mystique of Florida’s Space Coast in this introspective walk captured in poignant blank verse.
Upon Cocoa Beach, in morning’s gentle embrace, The world lies shrouded in a silken fog’s lace. Soft sands whisper ‘neath my solitary feet, As dawn’s quietude and ocean’s breath meet.
The sky, a canvas of muted grey, A prelude to the coming of day. The air, cool and moist upon my skin, A tender caress, a whispering kin.
The steeple rises, a ghostly spire, Amidst the mist, it stands, silent and dire. Palm trees sway with a rhythmic grace, In this hazy realm, time slows its pace.
A hammock hangs, still and forlorn, Awaiting the laughter of a day reborn. Houses peek, their outlines blurred, In this soft world, all is unstirred.
The sea’s soft roar, a distant sound, A symphony in the fog, profound. I walk, and my thoughts begin to roam, In this misty morning, I find a home.
The light grows, a gradual birth, As the sun climbs to illuminate the earth. The fog begins to lift, to rise, Revealing the awakening of the skies.
Yet, in this moment, I am alone, A soul adrift in a world of its own. Here, where space and time coast, I am but a specter, a fleeting ghost.
Copyright 2024 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved
Michael Stephen Wills Photography 