Back from Ireland—Again

I just returned from my second trip to Ireland. (Well, it's actually my third, but that's a long story for another time.) The first was sixteen months ago, and the contrast between the two couldn’t have been more striking.

That first visit was full of wind, rain, and low, moody clouds. In other words: classic Irish weather. I remember being cold, damp, and constantly ducking into cafés or behind stone walls for shelter. But photographically, it was gold. The skies were dramatic, the landscapes full of atmosphere, and the light—though dim—was richly textured. Every shot felt layered with something deeper: mystery, tension, even a bit of danger.

This time around, Ireland surprised me. Day after day of warm sun and blue skies. Locals called it a stretch of rare luck, and I won’t deny that the bright weather made the trip easier and more comfortable. But here's the twist: as a photographer, I found it less compelling.

Take the Cliffs of Moher, for example. I visited them on both trips. Under clear skies, the cliffs are certainly grand, but they feel almost like a postcard. The drama’s been softened. In contrast, my earlier photos—taken in high winds with fog rolling in off the Atlantic—have far more presence. You can feel the scale, the isolation, the danger. There’s a kind of poetry that bad weather delivers, whether you ask for it or not.

Here’s the comparison:

Cliffs of Moher, Second Trip (Sunny & Clear)

A rare clear day at the Cliffs of Moher. Beautiful, but almost too polite.

Cliffs of Moher, First Trip (Windy, Foggy, Moody)

The same cliffs, sixteen months earlier. Wind, mist, and a sense of raw isolation.

This trip reminded me that beauty isn’t always found in good conditions. Sometimes it’s the imperfect, the unpredictable, the uncomfortable that offers the most expressive images. And while I’m grateful for both experiences, I’ll admit: part of me missed the clouds.