I live, work and write on the land. I am but a humble herder and weaver of wool, in service to my caprine queens and benevolent sheep, and the land that nourishes and holds me. My place is in the fields and fens, the woods, wide open hills and wild places, barefoot and breathing hircine sweat and honeysuckle and bathing in the rain.
My home is a wild little patch of the west of Ireland, on the edge of the Cork and Kerry mountains, on a ridge of shale, peat and clay where once-wooded valley meets heathered hill, where ravens scout and the hen harrier hunts and ducks come down to nest on the old flax ponds, where the only things that grow are willows, rocks and ruminants.
I write on life on the land and in nature, on our place in the great web of all life. On restoring the land I live on. On farming, localisation, ancestral nourishment and the deep alignment of eating and living seasonally and from place. On the food and fibre that are ultimately why we farm and what connect us all back to the land. On raising goats, sheep and other animals for food and fibre. My animals are the soul and sustenance of my life and farm, their lives entwined with mine from birth to butchering, and I write on all of it, full circle, the raw and the real. Sometimes I might rant political, and sometimes I may wax poetic on the meaning of it all. Always from my heart, imperfect, whole and human.
Why pay?
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