July 2025 (finally posted April 2026… fashionably late, obviously)
Before the meeting, I also had a small adventure trying to find the pub where it was held—very much in the spirit of The Hobbit, complete with an unexpected quest structure and absolutely no clear difficulty setting.
The journey featured betrayal in the form of Google Maps, which confidently directed me towards places that felt increasingly fictional the further I walked. Helpful NPCs (also known as very patient strangers) tried their best to redirect me, and I suspect I still managed to walk straight past at least two “hidden treasure chests” disguised as perfectly ordinary-looking side streets.
At one point, I was genuinely unsure whether I was late to a meeting or simply progressing through a poorly explained side quest. But eventually, after enough wandering to qualify as character development, I arrived—slightly out of breath, mildly suspicious of my navigation skills, but intact.
It felt fitting, in hindsight: a small prelude of chaos before a gathering full of creativity, generosity, and people who, thankfully, knew exactly where they were going.
This edition of Inis is an opportunity to celebrate Northern Irish writing and illustration for children, and the ecosystem that supports it—one that is growing, thriving, and very much deserving of recognition for its vibrancy and brilliance.
In this special edition, I had the pleasure of being present at a gathering that captured this creative energy in action. I also had the pleasure of… not writing about it until late April 2026. Consider this less “breaking news” and more “gently simmered reflection.”
(The photographic evidence does exist, by the way—I’m the lovely woman in the yellow patterned headscarf, in case you’re squinting at any event photos wondering who’s who.)
The event in question was Illustrators North, a new venture bringing together creative talent across Northern Ireland. Hearing Ashwin Chacko and Clive McFarland discuss their collaboration gave a real sense of momentum behind the initiative, and reassured me that while my blog timing may be questionable, theirs is not.
They spoke about the importance of connection: creating spaces where illustrators can share work, exchange ideas, and support one another in what can often be a solitary profession. It was thoughtful, generous, and inspiring—and, reassuringly, memorable enough that even I couldn’t forget to write about it… indefinitely.
What stood out most was the sense that this isn’t just about individual success, but about building something sustainable and inclusive for the future. Illustrators North feels like the kind of initiative that will continue to grow—possibly at a faster pace than my publishing schedule.
All joking aside (briefly), the impact of that gathering, and the wider landscape celebrated in this issue, still feels immediate: a community defined by collaboration, creativity, and a deep belief in the value of storytelling and visual art.
And if nothing else, let this post stand as proof that it’s never too late to share something worth saying—even if it does take… nine months.
At one point, I even found myself sharing my own process—opening up my Procreate files and walking through how I build up an illustration. It felt slightly like handing over the magician’s handbook, but in the best possible way.
Have you ever watched The Sorcerer’s Apprentice—that slightly chaotic, spell-gone-wrong segment from Fantasia? It felt a bit like that. Thankfully, no enchanted brooms ran amok and flooded the room with duplicate sketches (or at least, not yet), but there was that same sense of “here’s how the magic works… proceed responsibly.”
What followed was exactly what the event promised: generous conversation, curiosity, and that rare feeling that everyone in the room was rooting for each other.
In the end, I had to leave a little early due to prior commitments—namely, the unglamorous but unavoidable reality of getting up early for work the next morning. I slipped out quietly, slightly reluctantly, like someone leaving a really good book mid-chapter.
Even so, I left with that familiar post-creative-gathering feeling: full of ideas, slightly buzzing, and already mentally revisiting conversations on the way home.
