The Ireland Dispatches

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I’m desperate for a photograph. I’m at Tara Hill, famous landmark of Irish kings for millenia. Some people can feel the spirit of these places. The history and the lives bound up in a landscape haunt the visitor who is sensitive to those sorts of things. But I’m not one of those people. I’m getting the "so what" vibes instead. This spot is on my shot list for Berlitz, and damned if I know how I’m going to find a photo in these green empty hillocks and these uncooperative sheep. I keep shooting bad picture after bad picture, nearly a roll’s worth now.

It’s actually turning into a killer sky (which is just 6 stops brighter than the foreground), and I only need a silhouette of a person to rescue this situation. A lone young woman shows up, camera over her shoulder. I see her and I am seized with just one overriding urge—foreground element. There’s just her and me on this isolated hilltop, so how the heck am I going to approach her without seeming like I’m hitting on her. We exchange a few words, she’s from France, I’m from the States, on this assignment and all, and the conversation quietly drifts to a halt. I shift away from her, go back to the tripod and camera. I’m keen on staying harmless in her mind, even if it means losing the photo. A few minutes later she tops a mound. "Is it OK if I include you in my picture?" I yell. "Just look longingly into the distance." The photograph comes together. I score.