“As children, myself and my younger brother often heard our Father tell stories from his childhood about the river Greese across from his family home on the ‘Blind Lane’ as it is known locally. He told us about how himself and his younger brother Denis would catch trout and how with pollution over the decades
If I close my eyes and concentrate, I’m back there, three years old in a floral dress and green sandals with knee-length white socks. My small hand is clasped in my father’s on a beautiful June morning. Seagulls screech, soar and swoop and the salty pungent aroma of seaweed and salt water’s so strong, it
At the water’s edge Grains of wave-washed sand Years of my childhood. Today as a storm force ten wind whipped the normally tranquil harbour into a white fury, I walked the shoreline. As I listened to the gentle scrunch of rough sand under my feet and watched the unleashed waves hurl themselves at the unshaken
I developed an interest in the rowing club as a spectator over the past fifteen years because I live facing the river Liffey. I’ve seen the members practice their skills regularly in the evenings after work, and racing on the weekends. Once a year they hold their own regatta, and they also have a service
My family lived with Pop at the Mill House which was dwarfed by the mill on the gable end facing our kitchen. We had a beautiful garden, but to the side was an untamed wilderness full of wild rhubarb, wasp’s nests, and badgers, which led directly onto the river. Although we were forbidden to enter
I grew up along the waterways. In a way everybody did. From rivers to lakes to canals, the waterways are always close. Banagher was the town my family lived in growing up, so my waterways were the wide Shannon and the Grand Canal at Shannon Harbour. I used to love walking along the marina at
There was an organic, welling silence there, standing in the sea. A quiet seemingly born from the piercing cold itself, to stretch and drift in the air and float outwards like ripples from a rock thrown into the depths. He broke the earthly silence, shaking the metal bag with a dull, rough rattle before tying
There were very few houses in my West Cork townland, away back in the fifties, that did not give pride of place to the white enamel bucket inside the half-door and its companion, the Pint kitchen measure ready for the regular grand fill. The hob-kettle by the open turf-fire, which was known to burst into
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.
“Here! Hand me that pump, Har, and I’ll have these cans filled in no time at all”, said John. Looking up, Har counted five more neighbours with their tractors and trailers, behind John waiting in line to use his water pump by the Timogue River. Irritable as hell, he handed it over, saying ‘·Are ye
Uisce, uisce I ngach ait gan braon le n’61. Is minic muid ag clamhsan anseo in Eirinn go bhfuil iomarca baistf againn anseo- tuilte agus aibhneacha ag cur thar maoil. Tailte cludaithe le huisce sa gheimhreadh agus sa bhf6mhair nuair ata t-arbhar aib1 agus reidh le baint. Ach ni orthu siud ataim ag smaoineadh ach
God the Creator reached for the large box and lifted it carefully from the shelf. ‘What’s that?’ asked the apprentice. ‘Electrons. Just look at this.’ He pulled back the lid to show off the mass of tiny particles shimmering inside. The apprentice was eager to learn. ‘Electrons. What are they for?’ ‘Watch this.’ God the