My grandmother told me a story when I was small about Manannán Mac Lir, the powerful sea god of Atlantica who had the ability to change the weather. My grandmother was on the White Claddagh seashore seeking shelter from the storm when suddenly Manannán Mac Lir, from the old legends rose up from the waves
It weaves its way through woodland, fields, ravines and bogs and meanders through the ditch near my house, a forgotten place, silent and peaceful, yet full of life. To see water in the ditch, you must push through the nettles that rise up like guards defending it. Fallen branches cross it like old bridges, some
Ferneo Bay is a small sheltered bay on the Mullet Peninsula, created by the land of Devlane on the south side and Elly Point to the north. It has a beautiful silver strand sheltered by sand dunes all along the shore and the townland of Mullaghroe in the background. On the commonage behind the sand
The South Down area can boast many splendid natural attractions for visitors and residents alike. I was aware of many of these before moving there several decades ago but one was a delightful surprise when I discovered it less than a mile from my home. The Donaghaguy Reservoir – or The Waterworks to locals –
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
Once upon a time, the Mountmellick branch of the Grand Canal was a hive of activity, channelling brimming barges and their solid equine companions from Monasterevin, Athy and beyond. Today, the amputated waterway bustles with other colourful creatures. Stretches of it echo Kavanagh’s “leafy with love”, while elsewhere cold cement roadways have ceased its life
The wind is Southerly tonight. Through the porch window I watch the golden flowers on the Rose of Sharon bush whip, dip and dive. The whine of the autumn wind reaches my ears even through the double-glazed windows. It is the twentieth of October and the nights are, as we say locally, “drawing in”. We
On the wall, the old clock ticks. Tick tock, tick tock. I’m carried back to another house, another time. The latch lifts on the two part cottage door and my grandfather comes in with his usual greeting, “God save all here”. His son, my uncle Paddy, follows him in with a big grin on his
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
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
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
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