Jam jar in hand off to the river for the day. “Be back in time for dinner” the mother would say. Swin suit, old shoes when the sun was in place. Thinking I’d change colour with one more freckle on my face! Time meaning nothing, creating a minnow farm was the game. Called to a
High in the mountains above Killarney, Co Kerry sits the enigmatically named lake the Devil’s Punchbowl. In the 1780s Arthur Young described it as the crater of an extinct volcano; by the 1930s its’ depth, shape and steep sides revealed it to be a coombe (corrie) lake – a remnant of the Ice Age. It
“Who do you think you are?” “I’m the Ballybrennan Canal, and just because I’m small, doesn’t mean I’m not important. After all, I’m here since 1854 and I’m part of the South Slob network in Wexford. I’m the one that leads the way from the pumphouse at Drinagh to the estate farm at Ballybrennan .
The summer of 1976 may have gone down as one of the driest on record with lakes at an all time low and rivers reduced to a mere trickle, with “my own” river, the Owenea, lower than I had ever seen it. Finns pool, at the bottom of beat was just a collection of large
It flippity-flops against the plastic, making a bobbing noise every couple of seconds. I peer inside, its cold eye staring back at me with a look of reproach. Is that a wink? They probably don’t even have eyelids. I had the first go. It’s my fault it’s in there, hobbling against the insides of the
Once upon a time there was a girl called Emma she lived in the town of Tramore in County Waterford by the water. Tramore is a seaside town with a large beach sand dunes cliff walks and a very large amusement park. Which brings in loads of tourists. She was off college for the summer
My mother would recall how the sea breeze was her only comfort through a long difficult labour in St Geards Nursing Home in Kilkee on a hot July in 1958. My father was not present to greet his first born child as men were not birthing partners and the slogan “ Wild Atlantic Way “
Trickling waters o’er rocky stone, With trees there to shelter its flow. With sands and pebbles to cushion its bed, ’twas a tranquil haven, of beauty and show. Birds sweetly singing And minnows there swimming, And cows, their bellies they fill. The Bann with its beauty, Moves along smoothly, Come Winter, Summer or Spring. With
Grandma’s higgledly cottage stood roadside, though it was older than any road in the district. The doorways were low, the crooked windows small, the roof, though once of thatch, corrugated sheets. A red rose clambered untidily over a wooden porch, waiting to snatch at the sleeve of those going in or out. The cottage had
Memories of a childhood spent in Connamara and the Caothann River. The River rises up in the mountains and flows down through the bogs to the Atlantic Ocean at Port Na Linba. It is the boundary between the villages of Lettergesh and Mullaghgloss. Mullaghgloss was where I was born and raised in the 1950’s. At
Memories …. The gentle tuk tuk of the Yamaha outboard engine on our brand, new to us, 18ft wooden boat as we launched into Lough Carra near MooreHall is as vivid as it was 30 years ago. With my Dad on the tiller we glided the light blue boat though the soft reeds as we
The euphoria commenced as my father remarked, “who’s coming down to the Connemara shore with me to do a spot of sea-fishing?” One by one we all filtered out of my Aunt Peg’s house down the garden to the first small stone wall. Over we spilled into the field. The excitement was palpable among us
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