I’m not sure why this particular place in Ireland draws me in again and again. Its memory is always linked with thoughts of fairies and the movie, Fern Gully. Wicklow Mountains National Park was a short stop one morning during our travels through Ireland. The pervasive beauty of the scenery left me with a sense of wonder and the constant question, is this a real place? As we meandered through the wrought iron gates, a harpist serenaded us with her heart’s melody. We strolled through the cemetery towards the old stone church, eyeing moss covered crosses and head stones overgrown with wild flowers. We snaked our way along dirt paths through oak trees interspersed with holly and hazel. Everything was so green, almost fluorescent. Trickling brooks and small waterfalls lined the path as we made our way to the lake, babbling Mother Nature’s words. This was one of the few places that I was so enamored by my surroundings, that I forgot to capture it’s beauty by photograph.
