I walked, heading South West, on the little road that ran along the edge of Bunduff lake in North Sligo. It is one of those lanes with a spine of grass running down the middle. Locally, the road is called “The Frolic”. No one knows why it is called that. Perhaps a hark back to
It was a warm school day. I knew that because I was only six or seven years old, and I was, indeed, in school. Senior Infants, to be exact. Behind my school, there was a small garden area- although given my tiny size, it may as well have been an Olympic stadium. It was filled
Summer comes to our house with the stink of boiling calf s foot glue closely followed by the antiseptic odour of hot tar. “Won’t last much longer. She’s had her day.” Dad says, “I think this summer at the island will be her last one.” The following Saturday Dad and I take the boat –
After an enjoyable evening fishing on the river Slaney, four anglers met in Deanes Bar, Bunclody. Whilst enjoying a few pints of the black stuff, the conversation turned to what had happened during the day’s fishing on the river. As they continued to enjoy their pints, each of the men claimed to have a great
Allow me to recall the culmination of events in the village of Mountshannon, on the western shore of Lough Derg. On this night in the early hours of June 2 2008, perhaps a hundred souls or more, most born and bred there, many others long blown in, a few for the first time, danced with
I was sitting on the bench by the front window of Murphy’s Bar on Brandon pier. Derry was standing in front of me almost done with his pint. He turned, stared at me with a little smile. “You still want to go out?” I tried to be as casual as I could, “Sure.” “Meet me
Rugadh agus tógadh mé ar bhruach abhann na Laoi, an abhainn is deise in Eirinn. Eirionn an abhainn seo i nGouganbarra agus imíonn sí uaithi trí gleann álainn na Laoi, áit ina bhfuil cultúr agus ceol na nGael láidir fós. Fá dheireadh shroiseann sí Cuan breá Chorcaí. Ach is le héirí na habhann i nGougánbarra a bhaineann mo scéal -se Fadó, fadó, bhí péist (dragón) ana mhór ina chónaí sa loch i n Gougánbarra. Lá amháin tháinig Naomh Fionnbarra go dti an loch chun mainistéir a bhunú ann. Ach bhi an ollphéist ag cur isteach ar phaidreacha na manaigh agus ag magadh fúthu. ‘Téir amach as an loch and Imigh leat as seo, a Phéist’ , arsa Naomh Fionnbarra. Ni Imóinn,’ arsa an phéist in árd a chinn is a ghutha. Bhí ceann mór ar an ollphéist and lasracha ag teacht amach as a bhéal. ‘Imigh leat, in ainm Dé’ arsa Naomh Fionnbarra go ciún socair, mar fear cróga ab ea é i gconaí. ‘Nilim chun imeacht’, arsa an phéist gránna agus é ag screadaigh go fíochmhar. D’oscail sé a bhéal chun Naomh Fionnbarra a shlogadh siar A Dhia, tar ar cabhair chugham’ , sin an paidir a dúirt Naomh Fionnbarra. Thug Dia neart seachtar fear don Naomh . Rug an Naomh ar an ollphéist agus tharraing sé amach as an loch é .Chaith sé ar an talamh é. Thug se cic don dragón. Theith an ollphéist ón naomh a bhí lán de ghrásta Dé. Rinne an phéist poll doimhin sa talamh agus é ag sleamhnú ón naomh. Nior stop an phéist ag síleadh an uisce go dti gur shrois sé an fharraige ag cuan Chorcaí. Léim sé isteach sa mhuir agus bádh é. Creid nó ná creid é, sin a mar deireann an sean-scéal . Ach is dócha gurbh é an Phágántacht ata i gceist i ndáiríre. Seasann an pheist don Phágántacht, mar chuir Naomh Fionnbarra ruaig ar an bPágántacht timpeall an ama sin. Bhi sé ag múineadh na Chríostaíochts don chos -mhuintir. Diaidh ar ndiadh tháinig deireadh le ré na Págantachta in Eirinn. Sin an sean scéat ar aon Nos . creid Nó ná creid, ach is Docha gurbh e an phagantach fein ata i gceist agus conas a chuir ANaaomh ruaig ar an bpagantacht .
You’ll never know what lies beneath if you don’t look, a man’s love for the river he grew up with. His strong arms cast the line to the other side of the fast-flowing river Blackwater. He gently coaxed the line back toward him hoping something might come with it. “Oh well “he thought to himself
Scéalaí: Cad is ainm duit? Bradán: Airgead is aimn dom. Scéalaí: Sin ainm ait! Bradán: Tá dath airgead nó geal ar mo chraiceann. Scéalaí: Cad as tú? Bradán: Sin scéal fada. Inseoidh mé an scéal duit anois… I mí Deireadh Fómhair I 2018 bhí tuile san tSiúir. Bhí m’athair agus mo mhátháir sa fharraige timpeall
We are on the Marina, my granddaughter and me. I hold her in my arms. She points and grunts. “Yes”, I say, “these are the great trawlers all tucked up in bed together now but soon they will be carefully making their way out of Wexford Harbour. They will bring back mussels for us”. She
Once upon a time there was a river. It was called the Liffey, or An Life, or Anna Livia Plurabelle. They say that the Barrow, the Nore and the Suir are three sisters. The intention is poetical, misguidedly. Siblings don’t speak delicately to each other, they argue. Rivers don’t babble or sing, they run. They
From the earliest depths of childhood’s hour I’ve watched it rippling by The majesty, the bubbling long blue vein That caught my eye The stately nautical centrepiece, That navigates my town Whose murmured song flows united on With accompanying wildlife sounds I still recall with dazzling glow Those evenings by the bank Casting pebbles across
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