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The longest winter | No. 5

This morning I filled my coffee cup too full and it spilled over the edges. Wasted coffee washing over brownish-black glaze. I thought nothing other than, “dammit, less for me,” but now that I am sitting and writing this I feel the urge to use it as some existential metaphor for the time we find ourselves in. Though I’m not sure I have the energy to make one up.

Sitting on top of the Sheepshead Peninsula looking out over Bantry Bay and the Caha mountains of the Beara peninsula.
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How to start carving wooden spoons safely and sustainably

Carving can be exasperating and (extremely) dangerous without the correct tools and techniques. But don’t worry, this article will tell you everything that you need to get started, how to do so safely, and how to do so while supporting small and local businesses.

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The cost of innovation in agriculture | No. 4

Hard to believe it is already November. The days have become similar to nearly six months ago when we arrived in France and within two weeks began our first lockdown. Ireland is now amidst its second lockdown and we have found ourselves in the same position again: Arrive, begin looking for a new place to call home, get locked down (large sigh).

A stop sign that is the only thing stopping cars from plunging into the Atlantic at the end of the Mizen Peninsula in west Cork, Ireland. A suitable feeling metaphor for modern times.
A stop sign that is the only thing stopping cars from plunging into the Atlantic at the end of the Mizen Peninsula in west Cork, Ireland. A suitable feeling metaphor for modern times.
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How did we get here? | No. 3

Ella and I have arrived in West Cork and I am feeling contemplative. Maybe it is the mountains and sea and stars allowing my mind to be at ease, or maybe it is all the contemplative benches we’ve found over the past few days. Either way, I feel like reflecting back on a few things, and trying to answer the above question from three different directions: physically, personally, and then philosophically.

How did we get here? | No. 3
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The (spoon) horse | No. 2

It seems that if I don’t immediately start writing down my thoughts early in the morning, I lose hold of them within a few hours. From migraines (not mine), to people in cars rushing past, to needing to break to consume sustenance, the things seem to pile on top of the clarity until they’ve buried it beneath the earthworms.

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Behind the name

In late 2019, a family member gifted me a book called Wilding, by Isabella Tree. It is the story of a 2,500 acre farm in West Sussex which she and her husband inherited. For many years they tried to industrially farm the land, but they began to realize that all they were doing was wreaking havoc on a natural habitat for no profit. They finally quit trying to farm the land and instead decided to let nature take it’s course.

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