Tag: tourism

The Dún Aonghasa cheval de fries field

…this defensive structure evokes the enormous scale of the struggles around this place of defense. 

MichaelStephenWills17 Comments

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.

Click the link for my Getty IStock photography of the Aran Islands
Click me for the first post of this series, “Horse Trap on Inishmore.”

References: search wikipedia for “Dún Aonghasa” and Google “cheval de fries definition” and “Dún Aonghasa.”

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Inishmore Landscape

Dún Aonghasa Elegy

High above the Atlantic on Inishmore, Dun Aonghasa Elegy reflects on sky, stone, and memory in a timeless Irish landscape shaped by wind and will.

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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.

Click the link for my Getty IStock photography of the Aran Islands

Inishmore Landscape

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.

Click me for the first post of this series, “Horse Trap on Inishmore.”

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A Whitewashed Memory on Inishmore

I reflect on traditional Aran cottages while journeying to Dún Aonghasa, emphasizing the beauty of simplicity and lasting memories.

MichaelStephenWills27 Comments

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.

Click the link for my Getty IStock photography of the Aran Islands
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.

Yarloop railway workshops Yarloop, Western Australia Kalsomine, wall ceiling plaster powder. Source: Wikipedia article on White Wash. Author: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/User:Gnangarra

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

Click me for the first post of this series, “Horse Trap on Inishmore.”

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Sunrise at Cocoa Beach: A Symphony of Colors on the Space Coast

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.

MichaelStephenWills32 Comments

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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

Iquique by Sea IV

Discover the vibrant blend of history and modern maritime traditions in Iquique. From the dramatic escarpment backdrop to the bustling harbor, join us on a journey exploring the city’s past and present, anchored in seafaring tales.

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Close Encounters at Cocoa Beach

A shark’s fin slicing through the waves at Cocoa Beach reminds me of a life-changing encounter I had with the ocean’s wild inhabitants, transforming my relationship with the sea and its hidden mysteries.

MichaelStephenWills10 Comments

During winter vacations to Cocoa Beach, Florida, I spent tiome relishing in the salty embrace of the Atlantic, and my love for the water extended beyond the ocean to poolside swims year-round. However, a few years ago, my carefree splashing in the waves took a drastic turn after an unexpected encounter with a creature lurking beneath the surface.

It was a warm, sunlit day, and the ocean seemed welcoming. I had just waded into waist-deep water when I felt it—a strong, unexpected bump against my side. I turned quickly, expecting to see a fellow swimmer, but there was no one nearby. My heart pounded as the realization dawned that I had been bumped by a large sea animal, most likely a shark. Although I didn’t see the creature clearly, the experience left an indelible mark on me.

From that day on, the ocean was no longer a place of carefree enjoyment. The once thrilling waves now seemed menacing. I found solace in swimming in pools, where the water was clear, and the risks were few. The ocean, with its unseen mysteries, became a distant memory.

On January 30, 2024, I was back at Cocoa Beach, but this time I stood firmly on the shore. It was noon, and the sun shone brightly over the shimmering waters. As I scanned the horizon, my eyes fell on a telltale fin slicing through shoreside foam of breaking wavews. A shark was feeding just three feet from the shore. I watched in a mix of awe and trepidation as the creature moved with effortless grace through the surf.

Shark feeding a few feet from shore, Cocoa Beach, January 30, 2024 around noon.

As I stood there, capturing the moment, a woman approached me. She had observed my intent gaze and sensed my apprehension. She introduced herself and then began to share an unsettling story about her daughter. She told me that her daughter had been bitten by a shark on her foot the previous year while swimming off the same beach. The young girl was still recovering from the ordeal, both physically and emotionally.

Her story, coupled with my own experience, solidified my decision to stay out of the ocean. I understood that the beach was the shark’s domain, a place where humans are merely visitors. The encounter reminded me that even in our pursuit of leisure, we must respect the natural world and its unpredictable inhabitants.

These days, I content myself with the safety of pools, where I can swim without fear of what lies beneath. But I still cherish the ocean from a distance. I understand its beauty and power, and I respect the creatures that call it home. I may not wade into the waves anymore, but I will always hold a deep appreciation for the vast, enigmatic sea.

Copyright 2024 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved

Arrival

Here we have a pleasant carriage rental trip, exploring and photographing the Aran Islands.

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Church Ruin on Inishmore

Join me on a journey through Inishmore, Galway Bay on a horse-drawn carriage. We’ll see a ruined church, horse pasture, and iron age fort, Dun Aengus, with reflections on the word ‘riven.’

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Lib Slope Hickory

the largest and brightest yellow canopy on Libe Slope.

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Libe Slope

Cornell University is on a west-facing hill above Cayuga lake.  Libe Slope is between the West Campus and Quadrangle / Libraries.

Besides the exercise of walking the 18 degree incline several times each day,  Cornell students and alumni remember The Slope for autumn color.

Built in 1868, McGraw Hall has the honor of having the first of Cornell’s towers. The building is built of Ithaca stone and is home to the American Studies Program, Department of History, Department of Anthropology, and Archaeology Intercollege Program. The first floor of McGraw Hall houses the McGraw Hall Museum, a collection of roughly 20,000 objects from around the globe used for teaching by the Anthropology Department.

Hickory

This is a Pignut Hickory (Carya glabra),  the largest tree  according to a 2009 Campus Tree Inventory (see link, below).

Seen from the north on a cloudy October day, this Pignut Hickory (Carya glabra) is the largest tree on the Cornell Campus, at 79 inches in diameter.

This hickory grows south of the Johnson Museum and among the autumn glories, it is the largest and brightest yellow canopy on Libe Slope.

Contrast

I remember this hickory for the contrast between the canopy and trunk, the way the clumps of yellow hang from dark boughs.  An overcast day is the best to capture this spectacle.  October 20, 2012 provided both bright sun and dark, rolling autumn clouds.  I waited on the north side, sheltered from the glare of the sky, for these perfect moments.

Leaves and Nuts

The pignut hickory is native to these Eastern United States.  It is known to favor moist slopes and this specimen has thrived on The Slope.  The ground beneath it is thick with nuts.

One week later as Hurricane Sandy approached the east coast

Just one week later, late afternoon on a sunny Friday as hurricane Sandy approached the east coast the hickory has fewer, tawny golden leaves.

Later in October the bright yellow leaves of the Libe Slope Hickory darken to a tawny gold. The Johnson Museum is in the right background.

Wonderful Flow of Limbs among Gold

Seen from the north on a cloudy October day, this Pignut Hickory (Carya glabra) is the largest tree on the Cornell Campus, at 79 inches in diameter.

References

A Photo Tour of Key Buildings at Cornell University by Allen Grove

Websites

Cornell Tree Inventory

Copyright 2023 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved

Keuka Lake Winter I

Keuka, the crooked Finger Lake….

MichaelStephenWills9 Comments

Sunday, Pam and I travelled across the peneplanes, past three Finger Lakes, to reach the Dr. Konstantin Frank winery where we subscribe to the “Wine Club,” a quarterly release of three 750 ml wines along with a newsletter with information and recipes.  For 2018/2019 we elected to “pickup” our selections, looking forward to these drives through the country and villages between Ithaca and the winery perched on the west side of Keuka Lake, just below the “branch.”

Preeviously, I posted “Glacier!!” and today there is this photograph of glacial topography 10,000+ years after the melt.  Keuka Lake is shaped like a “Y” chromosome, here we are looking northeast across the “foot” of the “Y” from the west lakeside.  Above the evergreens, to the left, is the headland separating the “arms” of the “Y”. 

 Spread out below our viewpoint are row upon row of grapevines, enjoying the microclimate surrounding the deep lake.

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Copyright 2023 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills