The generous sunshine in Cork this summer leaves little room for heavy thoughts.

By six in the morning, the city is already shaking off the night. Street cleaning machines glide along St. Patrick’s Street, brushing away the dust and dirt — polishing the city for another beautiful day.

Rory knows these mornings well. He’s learned to stay awake when the street cleaners come. One morning, he nearly got caught in the middle of a rubbish storm, those giant brushes almost rolling right over him.

The footpath is his bed. The city is his home.

 

Rory is homeless. For years now, he’s been watching the world go by — fast-moving feet, people dodging eye contact. He speaks to himself as he walks, like a lost child who never had the chance to grow up properly. His mental health makes life on the streets even harder, and he probably doesn’t even realise he might never sleep in his own bed or watch the sunrise from his own kitchen window. The footpath is his bed. The city is his home. And he’s become invisible — a stranger in his own land. Rejected so often, he now only talks to himself.

His neighbour, Nile, also sleeps rough — but he’s been luckier. He was offered a bed in a shelter, recognised officially as one of Cork’s homeless. You see, you need to prove a connection to the area in which you are seeking help. If you’re not from there, your chances drop fast.

Nile was born in Cork, so he qualified. But he turned down the shelter bed. Why? Because his partner, Rose, wasn’t allowed to come with him. Rose is from a town in County Cork, not the city. And that made all the difference.

So Nile chose to stay on the street with her. For him, keeping Rose safe and warm through the long, cold nights means more than a bed and a roof. This morning, he was rushing back to her with a bottle of milk. Every breakfast is a little picnic for Cork’s own Romeo and Juliet. They are holding on to each other when there’s not much else to hold on to.

“A family. A house. A bit of stability.”

 

And then there’s Anders. Thirty-three years old, sleeping down by the Marina. He jokes that he has the best sea view in all of Cork. The fishermen know him well and often share their catch. With his rough beard, he could pass for a sailor.

“Entering the age of Jesus Christ,” he says with a wide smile. “Just like my Saviour, I’m trying not to lose hope.”

Anders has been sleeping rough for two years now. But he’s not officially recognised as Cork’s homeless anymore. Why? Because he spent four months outside the city, trying to find help elsewhere. A mistake, he says now. The help never came, and now he can’t get back into the system.

“It’s a vicious circle,” he says. “I want to work. But if you’re homeless, you’ve no address — and without an address, you’ve little hope of getting a job.”

Anders dreams of working in a car dealership. But if you ask about his deepest wish, he doesn’t hesitate: “A family. A house. A bit of stability.”

This morning, Anders woke with a sore eye — maybe an infection. He tries to keep clean by showering at the Cork Simon Day Centre, where he also gets a hot meal. But at night, it’s back to his tent of plastic sheets — and back to his dreams.

Now he lives hidden, surrounded by others who feel forgotten.

 

Not far away, hidden by bushes along the river, lives Gediminas. He’s from Lithuania.

“I worked here in Ireland for 20 years. I paid my taxes. Still, I sleep in a tent.”

Today, he’s smiling, though. Despite his homelessness, he managed to find a two-day job.

He once got a place in a shelter in another city — but barely made it out when a fire broke out. Since then, he avoids shelters, choosing the risk of cold over the fear of flames. Now he lives hidden, surrounded by others who feel forgotten.

There are people living on Cork’s streets who are only in their twenties — young men and women at the very start of life, already sleeping rough. That’s when people should be starting careers, learning to drive, building their future — not drowning in problems and addictions.

And then there are those who suffer from mental health issues. Many are confused, isolated, traumatised. They don’t get the care they need. Not because no one cares — but because there simply isn’t enough help available for them.

It touches every street, every corner, every park.

 

This beautiful Cork morning continues. Cars cruise past. Most drivers never see the ones waking up on the concrete.

Some believe homelessness is a choice — that people somehow prefer freezing nights, empty stomachs, aching bodies. Others feel sympathy but keep their distance: It’s not my problem.

But there are those who understand the truth: that homelessness is not just someone else’s issue. It’s growing, and it’s all around us. It touches every street, every corner, every park.

Life can run out of options. Sometimes your battery is too low to keep going. Sometimes all it takes is one wrong turn, one bit of bad luck, or one tragedy — and suddenly, you’re the one outside looking in.

And still, the irony cuts deep: many of Cork’s rough sleepers curl up at night on the steps of churches, libraries, music schools — places built to nourish minds and souls.

Fitzgerald’s Park? You’d be shocked to know how busy it can be at night.

Every glorious morning hides a darker truth. Dozens of people wake up on Cork’s streets. Some don’t wake up at all.

Behind every rough sleeper is a story: trauma, addiction, broken homes, untreated illness. But one thing binds them all — none of them wants a life like this.

Nobody chooses to lose their dignity. Nobody wants to be forgotten.

Being homeless should never mean being hopeless.

These are people.

These are Cork’s people.