Gollierstown Bridge was peaceful as I rested. Suddenly, another joined me, and spoke: “I remember the boats on the canal. The Grand Canal. Oh yes, it went from Portabella to Ballinasloe in the finish. The first cut was at Clondalkin. 1780. To Sallins. The boats? Longer than ye’d imagine: first one, 17 metres you’d call
I was taken by surprise when I took a detour to have a look at the weir of my childhood – a feature of my 7 or 8-year-old summer. The weir of my memory had high riverbanks that needed a dangle by the arms and drop from the bank to get to the concrete, landing
I smile as I make my way towards the marsh, binoculars dangling from my neck. A logbook and pencil are nestled in my pocket. Under my arm, I’m carrying a rather heavy book about Irish birds. You never know when you might need it! I have grown accustomed to this walk through suburban landscapes: the
Peddling fast, fearful that I was going to be late, my ticking watch reminded me that arrival a moment past 6:30am was frowned upon. A body of water that shaped a certain element of my existence, the Liffey, awaited. Undoubtedly, a body of water that was not recognised for its beauty, but rather its filth.
I had a dream last night that a tsunami hit Donabate. From a height above the hill, looking far below. I watched helpless and heart beating, as the swell grew and took on a life of its own. Beginning small, a murmur of motion. Waves forming, pronounced and large, like a serpent below the sea.
I come from a part of Dublin surrounded by buildings, roads and factories. Amongst, them is a place just down the road from where I grew up. Tolka Valley river, a connection to the royal canal that flows through Finglas on the northside of Dublin. It was where I would take the dog for a
July 30th, 2073 Dear Naty, Coming back to Ireland feels awkward. I arrived in Dublin yesterday and was hoping to find something of myself here, but I am not sure that will happen. I went to my old neighbourhood. I guess it is a very human thing, just to go back to looking for yourself.
Fishing memories flood back in these times of cocooning and lockdown and happy memories they are too. I remember my first fishing rod made for me by John Barry a keen fisherman neighbour and family friend. It was made from Bamboo, lettuce wire rings taped on with sticky to the touch black electrical tape and
Years ago when I started fishing there wasn’t many about to educate you on the fine art of our great hobby. I had been schooled by an older lad on how to use the float on the canal but not on how weather time of year and most of the other secrets that go into
My earliest memory is of when I was four years old and I had got lost down by ‘the river’. Thankfully a man out walking his Alsaitan dog found me and brought me home. It was a pattern of adventure forged at a very young age. I had a happy childhood, often spent playing down
My granny and grandad lived in an old farmhouse near the Camac river at Bluebell, which was still fields in the 1960s. The house was beside the old, single carriageway Naas Rd and the Camac ran just beyond the end of the garden, behind a row of mature Beech trees. There were cattle in the
It’s the closest to the Cote d’Azur you got in Ireland, 1972. Rush – the strand there – even the word recalled the waves pulled from the shore, stumbling over stony sand. Even the noise of the tides couldn’t drown the noise, though – ‘Achoo!’ she sneezed, for what must have been the hundredth time.