The sea and sky merge seamlessly on the horizon. We stop on the brow of Mattie’s Hill and gaze at the sea at Woodstown glistening and shimmering in the distance. It never fails to thrill and excite us. “The tide is out.” Our war cry goes up. We cycle, freewheeling down the hill, shrieking with
Summertime was a great time for us in 1960s Parnell Square. We rose early and were out of the house and gathered in the square to plan our day which was usually dependent on the weather. Hot Sunny days were spent by the river swimming or if we had the money we’d hire one of
Years ago when I started fishing there wasn’t many about to educate you on the fine art of our great hobby. I had been schooled by an older lad on how to use the float on the canal but not on how weather time of year and most of the other secrets that go into
The Amazon flowed at the bottom of our housing estate. As a young boy this is where I had my first great adventures, on my return as a man many years later I discovered it had shrunk to a babbling brook. Hopping from stone to stone and running along the river bank, I rarely returned
“Don’t go beyond the river.” My grandmother called as she sat by the cosy fireside. Her rural West of Ireland lilt soon to be lost to her generation. The words were echoing through the walls of the cottage as we bundled out the front door. The house sat perched at the edge of the earth
Will you all remember, Remember how we ran, Through the glistening water, Pink faces turning tan. Horsey gallopey, horsey gallopey, Four tinny voices cried, Tiny minnows darted, As the breeze of summer sighed. We clambered up the clodded banks, We fell and grazed our knees, We gathered heads together To whisper secrets in the trees.
My local waterbody, Potter’s River, may seem minuscule in the grand scheme of waterbodies. However, it’s ubiquitous presence around my homeland has allowed it to trickle into copious amounts of my childhood memories. I remember quite clearly the day we ‘named’ our home. Noting the difficulty that the postman had in finding our house in
I come from a part of Dublin surrounded by buildings, roads and factories. Amongst, them is a place just down the road from where I grew up. Tolka Valley river, a connection to the royal canal that flows through Finglas on the northside of Dublin. It was where I would take the dog for a
Fishing memories flood back in these times of cocooning and lockdown and happy memories they are too. I remember my first fishing rod made for me by John Barry a keen fisherman neighbour and family friend. It was made from Bamboo, lettuce wire rings taped on with sticky to the touch black electrical tape and
July 30th, 2073 Dear Naty, Coming back to Ireland feels awkward. I arrived in Dublin yesterday and was hoping to find something of myself here, but I am not sure that will happen. I went to my old neighbourhood. I guess it is a very human thing, just to go back to looking for yourself.
The River Moy is my Favourite Waterway in Ireland. I have been to Lakes, Rivers, Streams and all of the Seaside Resorts around Ireland but I love the Moy best. I was born in the mid – forties in a Hillside Farm Cottage overlooking the River Moy. The Moy flowed gracefully at the bottom of
Tied off at the jetty was an old colourless boat we named the Athytanic. The word around a recent campfire was that it belonged to the local legendary angler, Nicky Cahill; who was yet to discover her missing. Our gang, the self styled Barrow Boyz had commandeered it after the unusually late floods washed her
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