There are few things in life as wild, raw, and utterly alive as the sound of a thousand motorcycles tearing through your hometown—and this June Bank Holiday weekend, I got to be right in the middle of it. We all need moments that wake us up, shake us out of the everyday, and remind us what it feels like to truly live. For me, attending and photographing Ireland BikeFest Killarney 2025 was one of those moments.

Celebrating its 17th anniversary, BikeFest isn’t just a biker event—it’s a full-blown experience. Riders from all over Ireland descended on Killarney, transforming the usually quiet roads into a living, roaring celebration of freedom and community. The Bike Village, set on the grounds of the Gleneagle Hotel just outside town, became a beating heart of energy—music, engines, laughter, and stories all flowing in the same rhythm.

I went with my camera in hand, not knowing exactly what I’d capture but trusting that the moments would find me. And they did. From the shine of chrome reflecting the Kerry sun to the lined faces of seasoned riders sharing stories over a pint, there was something deeply human about it all. I don’t ride (yet), but standing among all that machinery and movement, I understood the appeal. The bike is more than transport—it’s a symbol of escape, a moving rebellion against routine. And in many ways, so is photography for me.

What stood out most, though, wasn’t the spectacle—it was the atmosphere. There was this strange and beautiful mix of chaos and comfort. People who had never met before were suddenly laughing like old friends. Families, tourists, locals, bikers—everyone belonged. I watched kids on their dads’ shoulders at stunt shows, old friends leaning on each other during late-night gigs, and riders setting off into the mountains with that spark in their eyes that said, this is what it’s all about.

On Sunday afternoon, as the sun peeked through the clouds and the air carried the perfect blend of barbecue smoke and engine oil, the outdoor stage at Ireland BikeFest came alive with a different kind of energy. The crowd slowly gathered—some drawn in by the music, others just following the pull of something unmistakably Irish. On stage stood Drops of Green, a band that captured the heart of the afternoon with their powerful blend of traditional Irish folk and modern acoustic storytelling.

As soon as they began to play, the atmosphere shifted. It was as if the pulse of the festival slowed just enough for people to take notice—to really listen. Their sound was earthy and soulful, filled with emotion, yet lively enough to make boots tap and heads sway. The kind of music that feels like home, even if you’ve never heard it before. Whether they were singing of heartbreak, heritage, or the wild Irish countryside, each song carried the weight of memory and pride.

I had my camera ready from the moment they hit the first chord. There was something raw and beautiful about capturing them in that setting—surrounded by bikers in leather jackets, tourists with ice creams, and kids dancing in oversized ear defenders. I moved through the crowd, snapping moments that felt completely alive: the fiddle player lost in his rhythm, the lead singer throwing a knowing smile to the audience, the subtle interactions between bandmates that said, we’ve done this a thousand times, but we still love every second of it.

Photographing Drops of Green wasn’t just about getting clean shots—it was about preserving a feeling. The way sunlight bounced off their instruments, the genuine joy on the faces of people hearing them for the first time, and the contrast of old traditions being celebrated in such a modern, diverse space. It was one of those perfect Sunday moments, when time felt slower, fuller, and deeply human.

That performance reminded me of how much music adds to a place like BikeFest. Among the thunder of engines and the adrenaline of the road, here was a sound that grounded everyone. Drops of Green brought the heart of Ireland to the stage—and I was lucky enough to catch it all through my lens.

Tattoos and motorcycles have always gone hand in hand—both forms of rebellion, identity, and freedom etched in either metal or skin. So it’s no surprise that the Killarney Tattoo Convention, long a staple running alongside Ireland BikeFest, continues to draw in artists, collectors, and curious wanderers each year. While the roar of engines filled the Muckross Road, just a short walk away, the buzz of tattoo machines echoed from the Gleneagle’s convention hall—steadier, more focused, but equally electric.

I’ve always been fascinated by tattoos—not just the art, but the decision behind them. Every piece of ink carries weight: a story, a memory, a reflection of who we are or were at the time. This year, I had the chance to capture that process up close. My friend Lucas had booked in with @ty_ttoos, a Dublin-based artist known for his clean linework and rich colour saturation. The piece? A vibrant, grinning Gengar—a ghost from our shared childhood, and still Lucas’s favourite Pokémon to this day.

With my camera rolling, I followed him into the booth—no lighting setups, no big production—just raw, handheld footage. Ty prepped the stencil while Lucas sat quietly, focused, nervous in that pre-ink stillness everyone knows. The moment the machine touched skin, everything else faded into background hum. I caught tight shots of Ty’s concentration, the slow layering of shadows, and the way Lucas’s expression shifted—tense, then relaxed, then smiling as Gengar began to emerge.

The tattoo convention has its own rhythm. It’s not loud like the Bike Village, but there’s a constant pulse to it—quiet conversations, the buzz of machines, and the occasional laugh or wince from someone getting their first piece. Artists were working in every corner, each with their own style: bold traditional flash, delicate realism, blackwork sleeves, intricate Celtic patterns. It was a full spectrum of ink culture under one roof, and I found myself just as drawn to the atmosphere as I was to the moment I came to film.

Watching Lucas get that tattoo—something so playful, yet so personal—reminded me why I love videography. It’s not just about motion or visuals; it’s about preserving energy, the feeling in the room, the meaning behind a gesture or glance.

And for me, it was a chance to document another kind of freedom. Not the kind found tearing down the Ring of Kerry on a roaring engine, but the kind found in sitting still while something permanent is carved into your skin.

That contrast—between movement and stillness, between roar and quiet—might be what makes BikeFest and the Tattoo Convention work so well together. Both are about expression. Both are about owning who you are. And both, in their own way, tell stories worth capturing.

Engines, Ink, and Everything In Between: My Weekend at BikeFest

We Only Live Life Once