If there’s one thing I’ve rarely been attracted to photographing, it is flowers. With the exception of sunflowers. And dandelions at their last grasp of the familiar world, the only world they have known, before the winds pull the seeds from their place of origin and carry them to unknown territory. And maybe also, if it’s been raining, which it does a lot here, and the raindrops are still resting on the leaf or flower before their fall towards the wet ground, losing their individuality and returning to source.
I love looking at flowers though and their wonderful display of colours. In particular the wild ones. And to be even more specific, the wild ones in the flowering desert of the Burren in Co. Clare. However. This summer of 2020 (no one will ever forget 2020) I, for the first time since my arrival to Ireland in 2011, had time, loads of it, to stop and literally smell the flowers. All of a sudden I also felt compelled to pull out my camera. And then I hear what has become a most welcoming, very familiar and truly uplifting sound to me; the flutter of wings. The next thing, two small dark attentive eyes look up at me behind the flowers. I have been photobombed by my friend the winged one.