Homage to Kinsale As nights obsidian curtain lifted, the skylark heralds the dawn chorus in my demesne of duck egg blue. From my balcony, a mirage of matchstick masts navigate the thirsty mouth of the harbour and my skin drinks it all in. Sometimes, when I bury myself in myself, never quite reaching the point when thinking stops, I unlatch the door, drink tea and savour wild berry tart at Poets Corner, or stroll to the Spaniard where the swans dance to Francesca’s mandolin and in my solitude I feel quietly content. I look at life in black and white at The Gallery, buy a chiffon scarf from Stone Mad – peacock feathers with handstitched beads and fly it like a kite on the beach. After sundown you’ll find me in The Black Pig sipping a glass of red, satisfied with the feeling that finally, I have arrived. The Art of Seeing There is a place I sit and sketch the still shade before the light fades in and out of restless dusk. There is a place where broken s...