A life changing “Body of water” experience that influenced our family over 40 years ago, was brought about by a sight so startling that it became one of those “never to be forgotten, moment.” We, that is, Mum and Dad, and our four children, aged 11, 9, 7 and 5, were on a tightly budgeted
My granny and grandad lived in an old farmhouse near the Camac river at Bluebell, which was still fields in the 1960s. The house was beside the old, single carriageway Naas Rd and the Camac ran just beyond the end of the garden, behind a row of mature Beech trees. There were cattle in the
It’s the closest to the Cote d’Azur you got in Ireland, 1972. Rush – the strand there – even the word recalled the waves pulled from the shore, stumbling over stony sand. Even the noise of the tides couldn’t drown the noise, though – ‘Achoo!’ she sneezed, for what must have been the hundredth time.
The sea poured sound into my ears from the age of five when we moved to Seapoint but I didn’t like it up close and personal disliked the salt, hated the cold and, when it got up past my shoulders, found it terrifying. I loved the sea when I wasn’t in it. We climbed the
I developed an interest in the rowing club as a spectator over the past fifteen years because I live facing the river Liffey. I’ve seen the members practice their skills regularly in the evenings after work, and racing on the weekends. Once a year they hold their own regatta, and they also have a service
“As children, myself and my younger brother often heard our Father tell stories from his childhood about the river Greese across from his family home on the ‘Blind Lane’ as it is known locally. He told us about how himself and his younger brother Denis would catch trout and how with pollution over the decades
If I close my eyes and concentrate, I’m back there, three years old in a floral dress and green sandals with knee-length white socks. My small hand is clasped in my father’s on a beautiful June morning. Seagulls screech, soar and swoop and the salty pungent aroma of seaweed and salt water’s so strong, it
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
My family lived with Pop at the Mill House which was dwarfed by the mill on the gable end facing our kitchen. We had a beautiful garden, but to the side was an untamed wilderness full of wild rhubarb, wasp’s nests, and badgers, which led directly onto the river. Although we were forbidden to enter
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
“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
I smile as I make my way towards the marsh, binoculars dangling from my neck. A logbook and pencil are nestled in my pocket. Under my arm, I’m carrying a rather heavy book about Irish birds. You never know when you might need it! I have grown accustomed to this walk through suburban landscapes: the