When I was in high infant’s class they decided to close the school while repairs were being done. The pupils were scattered to their next nearest school. In my case I was sent across the river Glore to Shanvahera. I didn’t know anybody up there and they did not know me. The only consolaiton that
We approached the house late in the evening, having travelled all day from England enduring delays and mishaps along the way, faitgued and disorientated, groping our way, ifguraitvely speaking, in the dark. Only the brief feeling of dampness on skin before we went inside, with a few essenital bags hasitly gathered, suggested the water present
The Anglia full of fishing bags, rods, the fishing net, sandwiches in brown paper; we’d often go fishing, my Dad and I. He’d drive up the long hill from Kilmacanogue. Then, on the Calary Bog road, I was allowed to hold the steering wheel. I was about ten years old. We were on our way
If you want to be deft with language, you can travel from anywhere in the world to a village in the south of Ireland, hang upside down in the ramparts of an old castle, with your ankles held by a pleasant gentleman, lay your lips on the Blarney stone, then words are supposed to flow
Oh how the memories come lfooding back of my childhood, the wonderful itmes we had in Graces bog, 6 acres of magic at the back of my own home. Every season had something different to offer in this oasis of beauty. Oh how I remember the morning mist as it rose over this wonderful place
Growing up in Clondalkin, County Dublin, in the 1960s had by far some great advantages over today’s children’s lifestyles. We had back then what seemed the freedom of the world where our countryside and especially our imagination created the excitement for each day. Clondalkin provided a child many exploratory opportunities from investigating ancient castle ruins,
My Grandad had a boat; a small ifshing punt with an outboard engine. Unfortunately, I never knew Grandad Dick, as he died suddenly atfer an ouitng in the boat with my dad. As a child, the madcap stories I heard of family escapades along the Irish coast, in this boat, letf me longing for adventures
My granny grew up beside the Mulkear river at the foot of Keeper Hill in the Silvermine Mountains in Co. Tipperary. It was so close that the house flooded a few times during the winter, and Granny remembers being carried out in the middle of the night. Until the 1970’s you could only cross by
Water, water – growing up near it, you never want to be away from it. I was brought up in Sandymount. Well, the address was Sandymount, but to us it was the tail end of Irishtown, which is the tail end of Ringsend. My dad had gone to sea as a young man, with Irish
There was a gentle rain that first evening in Pemberton as I sat on the veranda in the fading light, tying flies and dreaming of fishing trips past. I especially remembered those fish caught in mountain streams in the West. Small trout that danced on the water in anger when hooked and swam away with
The serene, rural village of Lispole in County Kerry may seem like any other small village at first, however the river that runs through it is heavy with history and carries with it an unusual tale. Abhainn an Londraigh flows peacefully from one end of the village to the other, under the old railway bridge
Knee deep in cold water stream, Stooped, cheek to water rush To see under belly bank Undercut by water gush. Dark caverns of witches rooty hair, Otters view of king fishers chair. A slick wet rat path from midnight dip Where they swim drip and slither And scratch marks where they grip. Squelching mud with
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