Editor’s Note

A different type of post this week. Here I share a short story of my favourite piece of architecture. You’ll know your favourite piece of architecture because it sticks with you long after you leave it. You carry it with you. You reflect on it, turn it over in your mind. It distracts you, bugs you, prods and pokes, until you’re forced to talk about it. And then, when it tries to escape your head, you’ll find that words can hardly do it justice.

The greatest work of architecture on Earth looks like a mound of dirt. I’ll explain.

My wife and I were visiting Ireland in 2018, just as I was finishing my architecture studies. We had travelled abroad to see the world, to see architecture, and to visit family. While staying in Dublin with my in-laws, we had marked a site on the map that didn’t mean much to us. It had been recommended somewhere, but I couldn’t remember why. I only knew it was supposed to be a great piece of architecture.

The hour-long drive north of Dublin was already an adventure. Driving on the “other side” of the road, through winding rural lanes, had me eager to return home before we even arrived. After parking, we boarded a scheduled bus that took us through a quiet farming area to what felt like the middle of nowhere. We were not dropped off at a town or a village, but just a field. As we stepped out into it, I remember asking my wife, “Is this it?”

But as we approached across the field, the picture became clearer. What had seemed unremarkable began to take on more weight. This was not just a tourist stop, but an encounter with something special. 

We had arrived at Newgrange, an ancient burial tomb still standing after 6,000 years. Some believe it predates the Egyptian pyramids. When you first arrive, you are not greeted by a grand entrance or a set of formal steps. Instead, there is a large rock, almost as if blocking your way. It’s strange and blunt. The intricate stonework surrounding the exterior is excellent (added recently by contemporary hands) but it’s not original. For a long time, Newgrange had been forgotten. It was only rediscovered in recent centuries and restored for public access.

There isn’t much to Newgrange, at least in terms of what remains. In a short visit you can take in almost everything. But it holds a depth that far outweighs its scale. My wife and I sidestepped the large stone guarding the entrance and began our descent into the tomb. It’s not for the claustrophobic. The passage into the central chamber is narrow, winding, and low. At one point, I had to crouch on my knees to pass beneath a beam, bracing myself to get through.

Once inside, we stood in the heart of the burial mound. There, etched onto the walls, was graffiti from the 1700s, left by those who had stumbled across this forgotten site long before it became protected. At one time, it had likely been a place for mischievous locals, not sacred visitors. But the real reason for its protected status was what lay at the center. Our guide explained that the entire structure was built in perfect alignment with the winter solstice. On one day each year, for only a few minutes, a beam of sunlight passes through the entryway and strikes the center of the chamber. This was no accident. It was architectural intent.

A few lucky visitors, chosen by raffle, get to stand in the chamber on that day and experience the moment for real. We were not among them. But the guide turned off the electric lights to show how dark it becomes in the tomb. To our amazement a narrow stream of natural light broke through and poured into the room. Then we realized: we were only a few weeks away from the solstice. Everything clicked. Somehow, impossibly, the sun had found its path through a narrow, winding corridor and illuminated this small room from across the galaxy.

In that moment, the fine tuning of the universe became clearer. We were struck by the realization that this wasn’t just clever engineering or historical coincidence, it was a moment where the vastness of creation touched something human and small. And in that singular moment, the weight of Newgrange (and of architecture itself) was revealed. My wife and I experienced something more than history. We gained a kind of galactic perspective, one that connected us not just to the people who built Newgrange, but to the order that governs the heavens.

For a moment, we could understand a people who built their lives around the movements of the stars. Newgrange had been built in context: with the sun, the moon, the seasons. To them, light must have been everything. The tomb would have been dark to them too. The result was not just a burial site, but a sacred alignment. A ritual that gave death the dignity of eternal weight.

That is what all architecture should strive for. That is the poetic potential of architecture. Anything short of that would be a disservice.

This poetic alignment is not reserved for ancient wonders. It is achievable in every place and every building. It happens when an architect considers how light moves through trees in a park and creates a moment for an office worker on their lunch break. It happens in the careful placement of a breakfast nook that catches the morning sun just right. It happens in our churches and synagogues, when the light at a certain time of day coincides with a moment of collective focus and makes something divine feel possible.

We are physical beings. Our environments should speak back to us, poetically and meaningfully. Newgrange did that six thousand years ago. That is why it remains the best piece of architecture I know.

Until next time,