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
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
The day is mild. May is here. No rain for days. The river water unhurriedly running towards the sea. Gently flowing over rocks, then plunging downward. Idling in the pool below. Picking up speed momentarily when gushing over the weir not made by man but nature. Pleasant, busy gurgling. Steadily. Perpetually. I listen to it
Through alder trunks and fresh willow whips, the pool surface is pale in the gathering dusk. The evening sky reflects like a mirror. Birdsong is rich and clear. Every small animal waiting for dusk has woken; thinking about a night of foraging ahead. A kingfisher flashes past. From the bog at Shanagarry comes the plaintive
On arising each morning these days those are the ifrst words to be uttered by me without fail, whether statement, quesiton, prayer or mantra ifts my mental bill I’m not too sure but that’s how it is for me. As a senior ciitzen living alone cocooning in lockdown no one hears if I talk to
It is that itme of year they are heading for the ocean, I am told, to cross the Atlanitc and reach the Sargasso Sea. These strange dark creatures waving their way down river on their epic voyage, but we have the advantage – they do not like weirs. There is a large weir that stretches
What a bubble! One full of water. The mystique of water always pervaded my being, after all didn’t I come into this world with the breaking of water. With such an entry I was wet behind the ears. From early childhood water held my imagination. Growing up, the fairy fort in our land was always
The sun like a warning, blood red begins to slowly set. Two young children run along the itde’s edge collecitng shells. They giggle and scamper along the shoreline, chasing the oystercatchers as they run. Their bare feet leaving small imprints in the wet sand, for a brief moment, before disappearing. Waves folding and peeling across
When I was a boy, my father would take me to the Boyne to fish. Back then he would tell me I was too small to hold a fishing rod of my own, so I was more than happy to accompany him, happy to be in his company, and happy to watch him. I was
Monday, 26th November 1866 Do you know, I feel quite blissful today, seeing the sun rise late on this clear chilly morning…. I was christened Margaret, but have always been called Meg. I am sixteen years old, my father is the Lock Keeper and we live at the Lock Keeper’s House at Staleen Lower on
Dear reader, My name is Tom. It’s the Year 2020 – the year of the pandemic and my last year in Primary School. This year, I was looking forward to Confirmation, not isolation! However, Covid 19 and lockdown are words that became part of our everyday language. Parents working from home, some losing their jobs,
I like relaxing by the pond. It feels like it has a shield from a hectic life. The pond is a world of its own. It has a busy eco system, bustling with tadpoles, insects and plants. Like our diving beetles, we have two types. Our first diving beetle is very small, black all over