graveyards.

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Every summer during our return to Ireland, our extended family always makes it a point to visit our beloved Auntie Kitty, who is peacefully buried in the little town of Cahir, Tipperary. I took loads of photos of this remarkably beautiful place this summer, so I could look back and relive those divine, obligation-free summer days at my leisure.

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Somehow I can’t find the right words to describe what we actually do when we’re visiting Auntie Kitty, because for that one afternoon, the hustle and bustle of life seems to evaporate entirely, leaving us astounded and somewhat dazed at the tranquil environment encapsulating us. We pack a small picnic in Granny’s picnic basket, and we dine amidst the damp grass in the shade of willowy trees. Dappled shadows smother the ground on which we laze, and a clear river trickles down from the mountains beside us.

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I have the fondest memories of this beautiful place; frolicking for endless hours in the adjacent sun-drenched fields (Irish weather seems to cooperate with us when it comes to Auntie Kitty!) and tumbling around atop hay rolls. There’s no better feeling than letting go and being a child again, even just for a day.

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Auntie Kitty couldn’t have asked for a more beautiful resting place next to her brother, and the little tradition of us going to see her once a year is something I hope will never cease. I believe Auntie Kitty is still alive in all of our hearts; busying herself in the kitchen baking her signature delicacies, or perched in an armchair, knitting us our very own winter woollies. Her scone recipes have lived on in all our kitchens, and her legacy of faith and indescribable zest for life is well ingrained in all of us. As Dad says, "the cold weather was what kept Auntie Kitty alive for so long.”
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