A TOWERING talent cloaked by the most endearing mix of gentleness and humility characterised the extraordinary lady and journalist that was Ruth Rogers.

Gifted with the eye of a true photographer, Ruth produced an amazing body of work over the decades and excelled at capturing the moment – that elusive quality that sets a great photograph apart – and so deservedly saw her capture top national and international photography awards in what was then very much a male-dominated craft and profession.

Her photography was widely published in the top national and international press titles here and overseas and needless to say, all this was accomplished so quietly – no fuss, no fanfare, no ego.

Ruth’s love and knowledge of the racing world – both horses and greyhounds – stemmed from her family heritage but it was her in-depth knowledge of the colourful world of the iconic Connemara Pony that she will forever be best associated with and remembered. She was an absolute treasure trove of all things Connemara – its ponies and people, the rugged beauty of the place calling her back to its magic again and again. Ruth had friends all over the world through her Connemara magazine and the overseas societies she so enthusiastically kept up with.

Any call to Ruth was typically met with, “Leave it with me, I’ll see what I can come up with,” and come up with it she did, every single time, never missing a deadline.

She worked until almost her final days on this earth. Her last major work, tracing the main family lines behind the Connemara Pony, complete with beautiful photographs, is about to be published.

For decades, Ruth Rogers called in with photographs to newspaper offices – in those days, fabulous black and white photographs, often of winning racehorses – the envelope would be dropped on the desk and she’d be gone. “These are probably no good, I’ll leave it with you,” were the parting words and she’d be gone in a flash out the door. Inside the envelope, always a touch of genius awaited.

This week before any of us had time to turn around, Ruth has done it again, she’s gone out the door in a flash, this time leaving us all bereft in her wake.

Connemara has called one last time.