She is robed in green velvet, her tresses seaweed in the spindrift. Her lips pour forth songs and laments. Buffeted by storms and bathed in blood, still she welcomes strangers to her door to share peat-warmed poetry, potatoes, stout and good craic. She is gentle generosity. Her name is Ireland.

Rosie has been writing for fun all her life. She is from London, England, a city she hates – yet she is continually drawn back there.