Reviews

Wogan urges us not to lament the ``lack of order or dearth of historical fact'' in his memoir cum guide. But as a celebration of a people known for their storytelling prowess, this chronicle proves disappointing. In England and Ireland, Wogan--Irish by birth--is a popular broadcaster, but his anecdotes, and Stead's photographs of him soaking up scenery or stout, will mean little to American readers. The ``dearth'' Wogan notes may refer to the book's disregard of Irish culture: there's no sign of Yeats, and Joyce puts in an appearance only because his alma mater met Wogan's in a football match. Stead's 200 color photographs capture Ireland's stark beauty but are at times set adrift on the page and printed with the baby-blue skies common to National Geographic . He gets beyond stock scenes in his lunar landscapes of reeks (mountains) and his shots of the wild coast. But quaint storefronts and stucco inns abound, and the two-page spreads of coastlines at sunset are all but identical. And except for the Mountains of Mourne, photographed from within the Republic, neither writer nor photographer takes note of the lovely and troubled North. (Oct.)