Jack Loved Dungarvan Harbour and the bay that linked with the ocean where the Celtic Sea mixed with the Atlantic. He loved to see the water wash the old quayside in the town, the spreading coast on the north side, that stretched off towards Hook Head and the corner of Ireland in one direction, and
I doubt that anyone will pay me much heed, but I’ll put in writing what happened anyway. It’s not every day you get the chance to talk to a ciseach, to question a jumble of rock and earth and a rust-ing pipe. I’ll keep the background brief; what’s the point explaining if no one will
Years of sediment are slowly cutting a curve of river off from the current. A few centimetres of water still let life flow between the busy stream and stagnating pool. A floating leaf. A twig. A spiny orange Perch. All find their way into the microcosm. Layers of shoulder height hogweed enclose the pool. There
The village was small but served the hinterland well and it had a lovely bridge where you crossed the water and it was here that I grew up in a house that sat to the village side of the river, a beautiful source of fresh water for our farm. This place was alive with wild
It always starts the same: you’re stressed out at work, or run ragged at home, or nose down in the books or just tired of your own company all day long. You pack your gear bag, or your backpack, or your rucksack, or you just throw everything into the boot. You get yourself ready in
A path snaked down the cliff. The rocks beneath held out the prospect of good fishing. We were young and the old neighbour as he cautiously led the way regaled us once more with memories. Dark memories, perhaps which were troubling himself. One I didn’t like. He used point to a spot known as ”
I introduced my then girl friend to my grandfather who asked, “where are you from”. She replied “Clondalkin, County Dublin”. “Oh, a country girl and from which end of the village” he asked. She informed him she lived in Fox and Geese, off Robinhood road. “Near where the Camac (river) can be seen” he interrupted
I have risen with the early light and, calling the dogs to heel, slip down the back lanes across fields heavy with dew. My white breath floats into the air and joins with mists dancing in the new dawn. I am ten, or maybe eleven, and my blood pulses with daydreams and fairy tales. Cocooned
My latest ploy to help recapture the svelte figure of my teenage youth is to scale the steep hill leading to Knoackalongy mountain daily with the two dogs. I clamour over the stone wall surmounted by barbed wire and then, loose on spongy mountain bog, we roam for hours. That’s the theory, now. The practise?
No rods, nor gear. Catch a hold of strands of horse hair. Plait them. Loop them at the end like a hang mans noose and hope for the best. We would go to the river. It was not a river but a tributary yet we called it the Spring. And wait. There all the boys
“Can we go fishing can we go fishing?”daily she implored on the first rain free frosty day I conceded to this four year olds’ pleas . “Fishingfishingfishing” she whispered the air exploding with peals of winter suppressed giggles as I too softened. Brought a Jam jar, off we strolled, hand in gloved hand and soon
It was George Moore the Novelist who penned “Everyman has a lake in his heart”. George was referring to the wondrous Lough Carra on his doorstep. I’m twice as lucky as George because I have an abiding love for two lakes in my heart! Lough Carra with its magnificent wild trout and its historic hinterland
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