On the 22nd July 1996 John and I set sail in our 21 foot drop keel yacht for Inis Oir from the Galway Boat Club in lovely sunny weather with a gentle northerly breeze. On our left, and to the south, were the slate grey hills of the Burren that they ran all the way
Late last spring, when schooling and work had taken its toll on the whole family, I needed space. I needed solitude. Ideally somewhere wild, in nature, with flowing water. The canoe was hauled from under the hedge and loaded onto the roof-rack. Two tie-straps later and about as many minutes’ drive to the river Fergus
A young boy, to the ducks, threw some bread. “Not so close!” his parents berated. But too hard did he throw, Went head over toe, And sulked his way home, saturated.
The quay was more deserted then usual on my early morning dog walk. The chimneys empty of smoke, roads car free. The stunning view of the flood refilling the river, mists rolling back towards the ocean. A heron squawked and flew off when I got too close. It reminded me of a story I heard
The tiny stream beside our house was a favourite place to play. The bridge was a source of politics for our neighbours who claimed that either side of the small bridge was of equal importance. The question; “Are you on the Knoxtown side or the Killegney side?” became a well know statement and point of
“If only the water could talk” Faith kicked her feet with the cool water of the Erne, her dress dancing on the winds. The crystal water was shimmering with the sun reflecting onto the surface which was slowly disappearing in the horizon. The trees that were surrounding her were tall and full of life and
Mom said we could go to Tramore beach for a picnic. I jumped up and down. I loved the beach – even though I couldn’t swim. What more could a seven year old ask for? Mom asked me to butter some bread. I couldn’t wait to get there, so I eagerly agreed to help. We
This story is set in the picturesque Muckross National Park in Killarney, Co. Kerry. Every summer as far back as I can remember, we as a family would annually travel down to Kerry and stay in an old farmhouse in Brewsterfield on the outskirts of Killarney for a consecutive month, we were graced by having
I smell lavender, I smell mint, I smell fresh ferns with a Christmas tree tint. I hear waterfalls, I hear birds, I hear trees swishing, whispering summer words. I see strawberry flowers, I see ants, I see red dragonflies As they dance. I feel rough nettles, I feel rocks, I feel geraniums, soft like my
A grey sky lay over the Twelve Bens mountains, and Roundstone was drowning in the humidity of an August afternoon. It hadn’t rained in Connemara for five long weeks, but the ferocious sky above Roundstone Bay forewarned the village of the monumental downpour to come. Jimmy remembered his grandad out on Inishnee, across the bay
My childhood summers were spent running wild with brothers and cousins and neighbours in rural Mayo. Jim Conway took us fishing. He was a farmer, a small wiry man who played cards, cycled everywhere on a large black bike and smoked roll ups he made with tobacco stored in a small tin which he retrieved
Ballymore Lough is a freshwater lough in the parish of Attymass Co. Mayo; the parish is nestled by the Ox Mountains to the east and the River Moy to the west with Nephin in the background, surrounded by rugged scenery and steeped in local folklore and myths. The lough is overlooked by Old Killeen graveyard
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