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I had one of my darkroom anxiety dreams last night. It’s the one I often get late into a shooting trip. I’m loading film onto the developing reels, but I’m watching myself do it. This, now, is a disaster. A darkroom is supposed to be dark. While the film lies naked and exposed on a countertop, I scurry about sealing light leaks in windows and doors.

It’s at this point of a trip, when I’m 50 or so rolls deep, that the anxiety level heightens. I say to would-be thieves: take the clothes, take the cameras. Just leave the film. And now I would add, leave the hard drive. This is the burden of a traveler who is also a chronicler.

Though I am thoroughly smitten with traditional music, I must admit my interests have gravitated more to the set dances. Last night I recalled the reason why. I spent the evening with a group of Americans on tour (www.gypsyreel.com), in session with some locals. The music was brilliant, the craic was wonderful. But washing out my shirt this morning, the wash water ran grey. I had to flee the pub long before the music ended when I could no longer withstand the smoke. Dancers can’t dance and smoke simultaneously, and they’re more inclined to order a club orange than a pint.

To clear the lungs I walked up a Burren hill. The overcast sky was kind for photography. Instead of being blinded by harsh sunlit limestone and impenetrable shadows, I could see the rocks themselves glow. I hopped from one blue-grey rock to another several hundred feet to a commanding view of the Doreen Peninsula, Galway Bay, and the farmlands of South Galway. Overhead rang the piercing melody of a skylark. They sing on the wing, and it’s rare when I can spot them. On my way down I came upon some familiar rocks—there was one of my photographs in front of me. Whether rocks or people, I keep running into familiar faces.

10 April 2000
Kinvara, County Galway