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.
Ar an 23ú Bealtaine 2019 shocraigh mé dul ar thuras campála le mo kayak go hInis Oirthear. Seo oileán amach ó chósta Ghaoth Dobhair i nDún na nGall a tréigeadh sna 1950idí, ach anois is iad na caoraigh atá ina gcónaí ansin. Bhí mo mhadadh beag Séimí liom. Bhí seaicéad tarrthála liom. Chuir mé m’fhón
“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
BHÍ SEÁN MÓR AG BAINT PHRÁTAÍ sa chuibhreann beag gainmheach ag barr na binne nuair a chuaigh bád Mhicí Shéarlais soir an bharra ag tarraingt ar bhéal Oileán Bó. Dhírigh sé a dhroim agus thóg sé a bhearád leis an allas a ghlanadh óna éadán, nuair a chonaic sé an bád ag dul thart leis
Trusk Lough, a mountainy lake , a tarn , lies 5km from the town of Ballybofey. It is a popular spot with locals who go to fish, swim ,walk or meet up for a chat there . On a sunny afternoon you will see the people come, some walk ,some drive or cycle , drawn
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.
Bogaimis siar chuig na seascaidí i gCorcaigh. Bhíomar inár gcónaí i mBaile an Locha – ach loch ní raibh ann! Bhí taithí againn ar dhul go dít an “Lough”, ceart go leor, ach bhí sin i mBaile Féitheán, thart ar dhá mhíle go leith ó Bhaile an Locha de shiúl na gcos. Is cuimhin liom
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
I was eighteen and in the Ballinrobe area, my father was fixing a bull-dozer and I was his helper. Father and son working together but for all that I was no help to him that day, we were in a field on a blazing summer’s day and the heat made you feel lazy. There was
That summer was the hottest I remember. It took the good humour out of everyone so by the time Mum and I arrived at the shoreline of the lake’s dry basin, we weren’t speaking. The boy who was already a man with layers of mud on his hobnailed boots indicated we should follow him. I
I sit at the icy waters’ edge, toes, feet, legs, slow descend into the murky cold blackness. Suddenly shivering, receptors on high alert, white caps move towards me to envelop my initial endeavour, almost forcing retreat. I submerge entirely and move forward, eyes closed trusting my instinct. Hands joined as in prayer, moving my body
My childhood home was perched on the edge of the Atlantic in the village of Mullaghgloss, in Renvyle. From our front door I could see the Mayo coast, the cliffs of Achill, Clare Island and Inish Turk. The sea was a constant in our lives with all its moods. Sometimes it would be flat calm
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