There are places we go that take us back in time, where the sounds and smells, and the feel of the ground under our feet says ‘you are home’. The Camac has been part of my life for as long as I can remember. It has been part of my family history. It is the
I was 12 when it happened, so cast your mind back to 1974! We lived on a dairy farm but had a field two miles away. Every day after I arrived home from school, my Mother would have a well-prepared hot meal waiting for me but once consumed, I would walk to this field to
I walked, heading South West, on the little road that ran along the edge of Bunduff lake in North Sligo. It is one of those lanes with a spine of grass running down the middle. Locally, the road is called “The Frolic”. No one knows why it is called that. Perhaps a hark back to
It was a warm school day. I knew that because I was only six or seven years old, and I was, indeed, in school. Senior Infants, to be exact. Behind my school, there was a small garden area- although given my tiny size, it may as well have been an Olympic stadium. It was filled
After an enjoyable evening fishing on the river Slaney, four anglers met in Deanes Bar, Bunclody. Whilst enjoying a few pints of the black stuff, the conversation turned to what had happened during the day’s fishing on the river. As they continued to enjoy their pints, each of the men claimed to have a great
Allow me to recall the culmination of events in the village of Mountshannon, on the western shore of Lough Derg. On this night in the early hours of June 2 2008, perhaps a hundred souls or more, most born and bred there, many others long blown in, a few for the first time, danced with
You’ll never know what lies beneath if you don’t look, a man’s love for the river he grew up with. His strong arms cast the line to the other side of the fast-flowing river Blackwater. He gently coaxed the line back toward him hoping something might come with it. “Oh well “he thought to himself
Once upon a time there was a river. It was called the Liffey, or An Life, or Anna Livia Plurabelle. They say that the Barrow, the Nore and the Suir are three sisters. The intention is poetical, misguidedly. Siblings don’t speak delicately to each other, they argue. Rivers don’t babble or sing, they run. They
The quay was more deserted then usual on my early morning dog walk. The chimneys empty of smoke, roads car free. The stunning view of the flood refilling the river, mists rolling back towards the ocean. A heron squawked and flew off when I got too close. It reminded me of a story I heard
A man once told me he saw a space craft hovering over Marlfield Lake outside Clonmel. This is a true story as told to me and I believe he believes it. I wasn’t there. It was a nice fresh morning in the late 1990’s, the sort day where you know will it be warm when
While nursing wounded American soldiers in France during the Great War, Sara met Paul Dubois, her future husband. It’s a story of her early days on Bayou St John, New Orleans. Sara came from a family of lock keepers on Dublin’s Grand Canal and loved waterways. . . .As Paul rows his crab boat past
The only thing I remember about my school days was the day I went mitching with my brother Vincent. Somewhere between our house and Boyhan’s Forge we decided we would go mitching for the day. Heavens only knows what put the thought in our heads: perhaps I didn’t have my homework done and knew I