Snapshots from opposite sides of the world
These stones are old, very old and were placed in the river by people who somehow knew they would never move again. Picture: Pat McCarrick
I have been taking photographs all my adult life. I think of photography as a mixture of maths and art – a bit like creating a painting with a mechanically configured device. Combining the right subject with the right composition is the key to creating pleasing photographs.
The great American photographer, Ansel Adama once said: “You don't take a photograph, you make it.”
They say that all stories have two basic themes: A Man Leaves Home and A Stranger Comes to Town. Photographs are a bit like that; a good photograph should tell a story, or at least create a story in the viewer’s imagination. This week, I want to share two of my favourite photographs with you; one taken in the Ox Mountains, the other taken in China.
The first image is of stepping stones in the river Moy. These stepping stones lay across the early headwaters of our famous river. These stones have remained untouched for decades, maybe centuries. Thankfully, the Moy drainage scheme of the 1960s stopped a few hundred yards short of their location. These stones are old, very old and were placed in the river by people who somehow knew they would never move again. No storm, no flood that ever passed over them, was able to dislodge them.
These stepping stones marked a convenient river crossing for local people. A century ago, people walked everywhere because that was simply how people got round. At these stones, a mountain laneway led to the crossing point and another lane led away in the general direction of the parish church. Given the number of houses on the Ox Mountains at that time, I am sure this was a busy crossing. Further back that lane, towards the mountain, there was reputed to be no less than three little shops servicing the simple needs of the local population.
I am quite sure the sight of these stepping stones, the marker between townlands, the boundary between parishes, was an image that many people carried with them as they walked away from home for the last time, the Ox Mountain to their backs, on the start of long and lonesome journeys to England or America.
These crossing points were the bridges of their day and the laneways that let to them, the main thoroughfares. The points were carefully chosen and provided a safe passage for humans and animals alike. The Irish word for road, – the way of the cow, is derived from the paths made by cattle in ancient times. These wandering paths later became our early roads.
In the early 19th century, the British authorities began to improve Irish roads. These improvements were initiated by a need for faster and more direct movement of magistrates and the like - all the quicker to hang or deport you, my dear. Such roads were certainly not put in place to facilitate the locals going to mass. The building of roads and bridges continued through Famine times. These construction projects were often undertaken to provide work and this work in turn was paid for through the provision of food.
The development of new roads meant that river crossings could be built anywhere. A line could be drawn on a map for the construction of a road and any river that came into that path could be crossed by a permanent stone-built bridge. Soon the fords and stepping stones that had served communities for centuries were forgotten, as were the laneways that led to them.
My second image is of a Chinese woman sitting outside her cabin. Her story is that she is blind; her sight lost for the want of a simple medication which she could not afford or access even if she could afford it. She sits outside, when the weather permits, and listens to the world go by.
I was privileged to meet her and hear her story. I was drawn to her quiet dignity and what seemed to be her complete acceptance of her situation. Her colourful outfit somehow belied her age and her world of darkness. She was as a young girl in her blue headdress, which enhanced and protected her all at once. She was clearly loved by her family and cherished by her community.
I was in China on a work project when I met this woman and that trip took me deep into their rural regions. I went to places where there were no bridges over the rivers, to places where people lived simple lives amid quite basic living conditions. I was reminded countless times of a life that I heard described by my father; the Ireland of his childhood - he was born in 1911.
If you ever sat and wondered what life in the Ox Mountains must have been like for our forefathers, I think I got pretty close to those scenes while on that trip to China. It was like travelling back in time, getting a glimpse of how our ancestors might have lived. Crossing a wide river on stepping stones to gain access to a local village was the highlight of my trip.
If you have never been to China, it is not like any other country. It is so vast that to say you have visited the place is to say you have visited the Milky Way. From north to south, from east to west, China is a vast continent. Amazingly, it has only one time zone; in the west, your farming day starts at 3am while in the east, it is the same 3am in a Beijing nightclub. In these February days of the Chinese New Year, communities there awaken in line with the rising sun.
Every aspect of Chinese life is monitored and controlled; politics and the influence of government is everywhere. In the most far-flung village, the authorities know what is going on. Often, someone such as the local postman, is the link. They visit each house regularly, reporting to the next official up the line and so on until the information reaches the top. In Ireland we worry about Big Brother, maybe it’s the postman we should be wary of.
When choosing the images for this piece, I noticed they had something in common; the colour blue. I am not sure what, if anything, this means but I’d like to think it reflects something; perhaps the blue of leaving, the blue of loss or maybe… the same blue sky that covers us all.
