Howth, Ireland
There is something about it—the salt that clings to everything, from air to sea to skin to hair. The white noise of water sloshing over the beach, day after day. It is no wonder early physicians thought it to have healing powers—standing on the side of a cliff, looking out at the water that drops like an infinity pool into the horizon, being reminded of our place in the world: how reassuringly insignificant we are.
The rattling sound of the train gliding along the tracks was the only noise in the car. I held onto one of the six poles stationed throughout the train car, wrapping my arms around it so I could rest my head and look out the window. The worn Vibram soles of my hiking boots gripped the slick metal floor with a squeak. I watched as cityscape transformed into green fields, spotted with eggshell white cottages and herds of sheep.
Traveling to Howth had been a last minute decision. My original plan had been to spend two days in Dublin, Ireland, and then return back to England for a few days before returning to the States. After a morning and early afternoon spent in the smog of Dublin, however, I decided to head to the coast. Howth, Ireland is a coastal town located on the tip of a peninsula, east of Dublin. Howth Harbor, built in 1807, used to be a bustling harbor as it was the main point of access for boats coming from England from its inception until 1813. Now a small fishing village, Howth is quiet and unassuming.
Twelve euros and thirty minutes later, my train reached the town. I stepped off at DART Station into the busiest area of the town—a single woman, her eyes peeking up from a scarf braced against the biting winter winds, slipped into the door of a pub down the street. I began walking towards the start of the highly recommended cliff walk. On my left, dozens of boats sat tethered to the dock or anchored a couple of hundred yards off shore. Their white bellies, decorated with blue stripes and their name, bobbed gently up and down with the water. Within a few minutes of walking, I made it to the base of Upper Cliff Road, the narrow, black pavement that would eventually lead me to the cliffs.
My view on the left alternated between claustrophobic houses and jagged shoreline. Most of the houses didn’t have very many windows and were enclosed by 2-3 foot tall concrete walls, painted white to match the house. The shoreline was inaccessible from my point on the road. Behind the houses, it dropped sharply twenty feet down to black crag. I couldn’t tell where the sun was in the sky. Thick clouds and mist from the sea refracted the light to where it felt like it was coming from all around me. The sky was a red haze—maybe it was nearing sunset?
On my walk to the cliffs, I saw three cars, all of which looked exactly the same. Three black, compact sedans drove up the hill, eventually disappearing into the mouths of the concrete walls. The windows of the cars were heavily tinted—making it appear as if these big, black bodies were moving of their own accord. Faceless, nameless bodies.
Eventually I made it to the trail—“Howth Cliff Walk.” I walked up the path, deep pockets of red mud causing me to pay more attention to my feet that my surroundings. After about a mile, I made it to the summit.
Wind swirled around me in all directions, whipping salty hair and air into my mouth and eyes. Deep green, wet shrubs surrounded me like the elk brush of southern Colorado, vividly contrasting the red mud of the trail. I looked out at the sea, a thick haze blocking my view after 400 yards. A small distant island danced with the haze, slipping in and out of view. There was no one else on the cliff—no boats in the distance, no sound of cars or planes. Mist began to collect in my hair, wetting it with moisture from the sea. Black cliffs jutted up along the southeast part of the coast, eventually rising to connect to the edge of the path I was on. I braced myself, pressing my feet into the earth, leaning into the wind, the force of it threatening to push me off the path. There was something about it—standing on the edge of the cliffs, feeling like a sapling the wind could uproot and send tumbling into the sea. I wondered—would I even make a splash amidst the sloshing of sea on black crag?
Anna Claire Beasley is an adventurous wedding, elopement, + portrait photographer based out of Texas. She travels for the majority of all of her sessions, from across Texas, to New Mexico, California, Oregon, Arizona, Utah, Hawaii, and anywhere else there’s a story to document. Her work is grounded in the belief that photographs are about remembering moments + experiences and she makes it her goal is to capture how it felt so those memories can stay fresh for years to come.