‘The Lough has a mind of its own’, so the natives declare. Lough Funshinagh – the lake of the ash tree, there is none like it in Ireland, or Europe indeed. It overflows, then disappears almost fully, then overflows again. A type of turlough they say, we have many a version in our county of
She was feared and fearless. The Queen of Connaught. Meabh rode her black stallion from county to county in the search for property. There were many warlords who were seduced by her beauty. Once she had him in her lover’s lair and his property signed over, she killed him. No one could resist her beauty
Well was when my story really began. Following directions, I found the well, and filled my bucket. As I made my way back, I met a neighbouring young man whom I had known previously as a lankly shy bashful young fellow who always carried a hurley while he was romance It was the Summer of
If you want to be deft with language, you can travel from anywhere in the world to a village in the south of Ireland, hang upside down in the ramparts of an old castle, with your ankles held by a pleasant gentleman, lay your lips on the Blarney stone, then words are supposed to flow
Oh how the memories come lfooding back of my childhood, the wonderful itmes we had in Graces bog, 6 acres of magic at the back of my own home. Every season had something different to offer in this oasis of beauty. Oh how I remember the morning mist as it rose over this wonderful place
My Grandad had a boat; a small ifshing punt with an outboard engine. Unfortunately, I never knew Grandad Dick, as he died suddenly atfer an ouitng in the boat with my dad. As a child, the madcap stories I heard of family escapades along the Irish coast, in this boat, letf me longing for adventures
My granny grew up beside the Mulkear river at the foot of Keeper Hill in the Silvermine Mountains in Co. Tipperary. It was so close that the house flooded a few times during the winter, and Granny remembers being carried out in the middle of the night. Until the 1970’s you could only cross by
Water, water – growing up near it, you never want to be away from it. I was brought up in Sandymount. Well, the address was Sandymount, but to us it was the tail end of Irishtown, which is the tail end of Ringsend. My dad had gone to sea as a young man, with Irish
There was a gentle rain that first evening in Pemberton as I sat on the veranda in the fading light, tying flies and dreaming of fishing trips past. I especially remembered those fish caught in mountain streams in the West. Small trout that danced on the water in anger when hooked and swam away with
Knee deep in cold water stream, Stooped, cheek to water rush To see under belly bank Undercut by water gush. Dark caverns of witches rooty hair, Otters view of king fishers chair. A slick wet rat path from midnight dip Where they swim drip and slither And scratch marks where they grip. Squelching mud with
If Emy Lough in Emyvale County Monaghan could talk, many a historical story it would tell. One of these stories, below, is about Leo Mc Mahon and his family on the era of trout fishing on Emy Lough. As a young boy, in the late 1950’s, Leo Mc Mahon remembers the then Inlands Fishery Trust
Growing up I was incredibly lucky with the location of our house. We lived right beside the River Shannon and Lough Derg. From a noticeably young age my brothers and my dad would take me out with them in the boat, or even just go for a swim in the lake. We were members of