The shop on view in this photograph, dating from the 1890s, became the Bay Café in more recent times. It sold everything from ice cream to petrol and served as a hub for the people of the village. This was where passengers gathered before boarding the bus to Waterford, and it also functioned as a popular meeting spot for the local youth.

I seem to remember their fresh orange juice machine, with oranges floating inside, though I can’t remember ever getting any of it to drink. It’s possible that I preferred Squash Orange at the time. It was also where I used to pick up my weekly comic and the RTÉ Guide. Sometimes, if I hadn’t collected the comic for a few weeks, a small stack would be waiting for me, as it was kept on order.

The café also had a few small tables where people could enjoy a cup of tea and maybe a bun. Their ice cream even rivalled Gertie’s—a high compliment in those days! I can’t recall a single thing I disliked about the place; it was a memorable part of my childhood.

Today, the building has been converted into a private house, but the memories of its commercial past live on.

Even with all the new changes that Dunmore has seen in recent years, the view from the spot where the man is standing has changed very little in the last 140 years, apart from an extra house here and there. Many a person has stood in that spot, taking in the view and the sea air, since the photo was taken in the 1890's.

Beneath the wall of The Strand Hotel—or Galgey’s, as it was called when the photo was taken—you can see stakes stuck in the sand. I’m not sure what they were for, but I remember some of them still there in the 1960s.

The shortcut to the top of the Terrace, going up beside the Strand, has a wall in the photo. By the time I used it as a child (on my way to Councillor’s Strand), most of the wall was gone, apart from the base. There was always a chance you could fall onto the rocks below, but that just made it more exciting.

On the corner of the Terrace, you can see the gateway to what is now the Dispensary, along with a couple of trees I don’t remember. They were likely removed when the Dispensary was built.

Back then, the village seemed to end at the Anchor Bar. There was no Marian Terrace, Seaview Park, or Woodview Estate—none of the hundreds of houses that now line the Killea Road.

The village water pump is visible halfway between Hope Cottage and the corner of the Lower Road. I suppose the council hadn’t yet installed the state-of-the-art water supply Dunmore has today.

When I was in Dunmore recently, I noticed a man looking over the wall in the exact same spot as the man in the photo. Chances are, in another hundred years, people will still be standing there, admiring the view.

"You may need to zoom in on the picture to see some of the described features."

Judging by the number of fish boxes stacked on the right-hand side of the pier, Dunmore East was clearly a busy port in the 19th century. Boats were coming in, others were heading out, and some were undergoing repairs—it was all go, by the looks of it.

Two of the men observing the boat being repaired appear to be in uniform, possibly constables ensuring nothing underhanded was going on.

If all the boats visible in the harbour were moored there, you could almost walk from the pier to the Island—much like in the 1960s and ’70s.

In 1897, there was talk of running a light railway to Dunmore. Given the sheer volume of boats present, it’s easy to see why the idea was floated. A newspaper report from the time stated:

Reliable sources confirm that efforts are underway to establish a company for the construction and operation of a light railway from Waterford to Dunmore East, with stops at Cheekpoint, Passage East, and Credan. It is reported that influential and wealthy backers are leading this initiative, and they are fully committed to ensuring the project’s completion, regardless of cost or other obstacles.

The railway is intended to operate as a private venture, with no request for public guarantees. The promoters are confident that the project will prove financially successful, supported by holiday traffic, the substantial trade in fish transportation, and improved connectivity between South Wexford and Waterford via rapid steam ferries from Duncannon and other locations. The public views this initiative with goodwill, and there is widespread hope that Dunmore’s scenic beaches and pier amenities will soon be easily accessible not only to the people of Waterford but to visitors from across the south of Ireland.

Perhaps this initiative should be revisited—it would be wonderful to travel to Dunmore by steam engine!

This striking photograph, taken from above Councillor’s Strand in the late 19th century, captures Dunmore East at a moment of picturesque perfection. The scene unfolds like a carefully composed painting—with the woods, the park, a sheltered harbour, and the still sea. The thatched cottages, clustered together in harmony, seem to grow naturally from the landscape.

This is how you would design the perfect village if starting from scratch. Every element is in its right place: the balance between land and sea, the harmony of human settlement and nature. Someone should have shouted, Stop—it’s finished now! at that point in time.

Yet Dunmore East was never frozen in time—it lived, breathed, and evolved. Still, this photograph preserves a moment when the village appeared as if it had reached its perfect form: a seaside idyll where nothing more needed to be added or taken away. It’s a reminder that beauty lies not in grand designs, but in the quiet, unassuming balance of a place that simply feels and looks right.

This evocative photograph captures a scene that has altered almost beyond recognition over the years. Where once small craft rested in the calm waters near the Island, a quiet roadway now winds its way down, carrying little more than the occasional passing car. The island that bestowed its name upon the road has long since disappeared, claimed by the persistent forces of the Board of Works.

Thanks to the careful lens of Robert French, however, this moment has been preserved. We can see the punts drawn up close to the shore, their position suggesting that they could be reached with ease from the island itself. In the background stands what had been the Bay Hotel, which by 1883 had been taken over by the Sisters of Mercy from Clonakilty. Their vision was to establish both a convent and a school to serve the children of the village and surrounding district. When this photograph was taken, their mission in Dunmore East was still in its infancy.

The absence of kittiwakes in the picture is notable. In later years they would arrive in great numbers, establishing themselves noisily on the cliffs around the harbour. At this time, however, their presence had yet to be felt. Perhaps they followed the nuns to the village once the sister’s colony was fully established, as the old saying says, where penguins go kittiwakes follow.

Time has a way of reshaping even the most familiar of places. Within the span of a century, Dunmore East’s only island has disappeared from the map, while cars now travel where boats once floated. Yet this photograph preserves a moment from that vanished world—a fragment of the village’s layered past.

Loss is inevitable, but through images such as this, memory is kept alive.

Between 1818 and 1824, Scottish engineer Alexander Nimmo designed and oversaw the construction of Dunmore East’s lighthouse—a beacon that has been flashing away ever since, steadfast through two centuries of storms and changing tides.

But Nimmo’s impact on Dunmore East extends far beyond this solitary flasher. His harbour, a masterpiece of early 19th-century engineering, is more than just a workplace for fishermen or a scenic backdrop for visitors. It stands as a monument to vision of a man whose brilliance shaped not just this harbour, but in at least thirty other harbours in coastal communities across Ireland.

Solid, functional, and still admired for its elegant design, the harbour is a perpetual reminder of Nimmo’s genius. A Scotsman by birth, but an adopted son of Ireland in legacy, he combined practicality with artistry, creating infrastructure that endured where lesser works might have crumbled.

Today, as boats come and go against the same stone quays Nimmo once mapped out, his influence remains unmistakable. The lighthouse still casts its light, the harbour still shelters those at sea, and Dunmore East still thrives—a living tribute to an engineer who built for the ages.

Some men leave their mark in history books. Alexander Nimmo left his in stone, water, and flashing light.

An article on the life of Alexander Nimmo can be read here: Alexander Nimmo – The Engineer Who Shaped Dunmore East 

This striking late-Victorian view of Dunmore East shows the harbour and bay alive with sail. Dozens of fishing boats crowd the water, their tall gaff-rigged sails rising in dark triangles against the blue sky. Close to the quayside, vessels are rafted side-by-side, their canvas partly furled after returning from the herring grounds. Smaller rowing craft gather in the inner water, while beyond the sheltering piers the bay is dotted with boats beating across the horizon.

The red sandstone island, with Nimmo’s arch and a natural one, frame the harbour, surrounded by a forest of masts. On the pier, Nimmo’s distinctive white lighthouse stands tall, marking the entrance to one of Ireland’s busiest fishing ports of the period. At this time, fishing in Dunmore East was flourishing, with catches landed daily and the harbour thronged with activity.

You didn’t need a “Tall Ships Festival” in the 1890s to create a spectacle here—everyday life on the quayside was a pageant of sails, sea, and industry.

Another great view of the dock end of the village. There's a guy wearing what looks like a witch's hat doing his business against the wall in the middle of the left hand side of the picture. There must have been no public facilities back then. The photo would need to be downloaded and zoomed upon to see this man in action.

This photo was likely taken either from the Shannon or by someone very tall. Notice the rail track running along the top of the wall, which was used to transport large stone slabs from the quarry during the construction of the breakwater. 

I’d imagine that fish is being landed in this photo. There’s a lot of horse and cart transportation lined up to take away the catch. Much more eco-friendly than the 40 foot containers.

This photograph suggests that even in the 1800s, “illegal parking” was an issue in Dunmore East, with the donkey seen here clearly obstructing the footpath. The image predates the construction of the Fisherman’s Hall by the Malcomson family. Their decision to build the hall would prove transformative, as it became the venue for dances, cinema showings, youth clubs, and the much-anticipated Christmas jumble sales—an enduring legacy of their foresight and community spirit. 

It appears that part of Lawlor’s Hotel was getting plastered in this photo — though, on most days, that job was left to the customers. The scene seems to capture a bit of renovation work in progress, suggesting the building was being freshened up for the season ahead. People still moored their punts off Peg’s Rock at this time, probably for transport to the dock if they were feeling too tired to walk up Long’s Hill. 

During the 1890s, visitors to Dunmore East often found their way to Power’s Tea Room, where a pot of tea and freshly baked scones offered a touch of refinement and comfort. The café was a popular meeting spot, so much so that on busy afternoons latecomers were sometimes turned away. Just further along the same street stood the local pub, where the same horses and carts could be seen lined up each day, their owners inside raising their voices in song or argument — sounds that occasionally drifted as far as the tea room, much to the amusement or dismay of its patrons.

In the photograph, a young boy stands between the two establishments, perhaps already wondering which world would claim him when he was older — the genteel calm of the tea shop or the raucous energy of the pub.

Also in the picture are two young girls, absorbed in conversation and appearing to pay little attention to their surroundings. Their talk, most likely of the newly opened convent school, or possibly a playful quarrel about the proper rules of hopscotch.

This scene depicts an ordinary afternoon in 19th-century Dunmore East, a village where genteel respectability, youthful chatter, and everyday merriment all mingled along the same narrow street.

A good view of Ladies’ Cove, taken in the 1880’s.

The original version of this photograph dates from around 1900. One detail that catches the eye is the submerged punt lying close to the water’s edge. I suppose it may have come into the harbour so heavily laden with mackerel that it sank before it could be unloaded. Fish were plentiful off Dunmore East in those days, and events like this wouldn’t have been unusual, most likely it’s been salvaged by now.

In this photograph, taken in the closing years of the nineteenth century, the Lower Village of Dunmore seems to have paused for a breath. Up on the corner of the hill above the strand, two women stand in conversation. You could nearly hear them if the years were not in the way. Perhaps it was the price of fish, a child with a cough, a neighbour’s bit of news, or some small domestic trial that would have been understood without too much explaining. They have the look of women who knew one another well, the easy stance of people used to meeting in the same places, with the sea below and the village around them.

Below them, by the wall near the Charles Galgey Inn, a few men have gathered in that patient fashion men had when they wait for something worthwhile. The Inn door appears to be closed, though that has not discouraged them in the least. They wait as if waiting itself is part of the ritual. Caps are set, hands are in pockets, and there is surely a remark or two being passed along the wall — not too loud, not too urgent, but enough to keep the company warm until the door opens.

There is a quiet humour in the scene. The women have the business of the day in hand above, while the men below seem to be keeping watch on the inn with the seriousness of harbour pilots awaiting a signal. No doubt they knew well enough that all doors open in time, especially the important ones.

At the centre of this photograph is Stapleton and Harney’s grocery shop and bakery, a name that would have been well known to generations of Dunmore people. In its day, it served the needs of countless families in the village, stocked with the sort of everyday essentials that kept households going long before the convenience of modern supermarkets and quick trips to town.

This area, at the top of Long’s Hill, had an identity all of its own. It was almost a middle village, sitting between Lower Dunmore and the Dock end, catching people as they passed up and down the hill on their way to and from the harbour. You can imagine the comings and goings — messages being delivered, loaves being bought, groceries collected, and news exchanged at the shop door, as important in its own way as anything printed in the papers.

Through the trees, the steeple of St. Andrew’s can be seen, along with Villa Marina, giving the photograph that familiar Dunmore layering of houses, trees, church and sea air. Grove Cottages also stand out, looking as if they had recently received a fresh coat of paint. There is a neatness about the scene, a sense of pride in the place, and a hint of the order that villages once seemed to carry naturally.

One telegraph pole can be seen standing at the top of the hill, though there is no obvious sign of any wires. Maybe it was still waiting to be connected, or maybe it had found a secondary use holding election posters and notices for dances, meetings, and whatever else needed the attention of the passing public. In a village like Dunmore, every pole had multiple uses.

The trees are also a big part of the scene. Fine in summer, no doubt, but you would wonder about the autumn. It must have been a fair job clearing the leaves from the road and paths when they started to fall. There were no leaf blowers then, roaring away on a Saturday morning. Just brushes, shovels, strong backs and patience. How they managed to survive such hardship is one of the great unanswered questions of old Dunmore.

Captured by the lens of Robert French in the 1890s, this image reveals a moment of quiet observation in a harbour poised between centuries. Standing near Nimmo’s Lighthouse, a man holds a telescope to his eye, scanning the calm expanse of water in the bay. His posture is deliberate and steady — the stance of someone accustomed to looking seaward, perhaps a coastguard, a ship’s officer, or simply a curious watcher drawn to the horizon.

Behind him, the harbour lies in gentle repose. A number of sailing vessels and punts lie anchored near the Island, their reflections soft in the sheltered water. In the background, a cluster of whitewashed houses, neat and orderly, overlooks the scene.

The photograph captures a balance between human watchfulness and maritime stillness. It is easy to imagine the faint clink of rigging, the distant call of gulls, or the low hum of conversation carried on the wind from the pier below. The man with the telescope, anonymous yet central, becomes the silent witness to it all — to the timeless habit of those who have always stood here, looking out, measuring distance, and waiting for the next sail to appear on the horizon.

There was a time when a day at the seaside had very little to do with swimming, surfing or stretching out on a towel to alter one’s skin tone. In the late nineteenth century, families came to the shore with a very different purpose in mind — health.

Victorian mothers, practical and determined, believed firmly in the healing powers of nature. Sea air was good for the lungs, salt water strengthened the constitution, and seaweed — dark, glistening and plentiful along the tideline — was thought to be particularly beneficial for the eyes. It was widely held that the iodine contained within the seaweed could somehow be absorbed simply by looking at it. So children were encouraged to stand quietly on the rocks for hours, their gaze fixed upon the wrack and kelp as it lay drying there.

In an era when families were often large, spectacles were an expense few could afford. If there were six, seven or eight children, prevention was far more practical than cure. A day spent “improving the eyesight” cost nothing but time and patience.

This photograph from the 1890s captures one such family at the seashore. They are not here for leisure in the modern sense, nor for sport or sunbathing, but for wellbeing as it was understood then. They became known locally as one of the families who stared at seaweed. It’s a gentle reminder that the seaside has always been a place of hope — whether for stronger lungs, clearer vision, or simply a healthier life shaped by the rhythms of the sea.

Sean Murphy remembers: "That section of rocks, (next to Lawlor’s and before the ‘cave’) when the tide is out, is my dearest childhood memory of Dunmore. I loved it there and spent hours on my own, just ‘being’ there. I knew each pool individually like it was my own little garden and I had my favourites. Some would periodically fill with sand; other times they were deep and clean and full of ‘cobblers’, which would dart into the small seaweed growth when I’d approach the pool. We were blessed growing up in such a natural environment and... we had it all to ourselves. Heaven to a ten-year-old."

It came as a shock to this band of jolly mariners when they found the Ocean Hotel closed one cool sunny morning in 1910. None could remember the bar ever shutting its doors before. The youngest, looking more like a cabin boy than a sailor, stood there barefoot—such was his need for an early beverage. The oldest complained that the light stung his eyes; he hadn’t been out of the bar at this hour in years. A rumour spread of smoke in the night, perhaps a fire out back. “We never valued the Ocean when it was open,” one sighed, “and now look at us—thirsty, cold, blinded by the light and stranded on dry land.”

In this photograph, we witness what might be called a daily ritual among schoolboys of another era. Four lads are on their way to school when a stand-off unfolds on the Dock Road. The tallest of the group, playing the part of the bully, demands a farthing from one of the smaller boys. Failing that, he declares he’ll take his conkers as payment. The younger boy, with his pocket lining pulled out, protests that he has neither coins nor conkers to give.

Another companion, anxious about the time, shouts that they’d better hurry up or they’d all be late for Killea School. But the bigger boy, determined to assert his dominance, sneers at the others, calling them “sissies,” and boasts that he won’t be going to school at all — he’s bound instead for the Flat Rocks and was going to fish for the day. After another volley of name-calling and a few pushes, he walks off, leaving the younger lads to continue their uphill journey to school in peace.

Such skirmishes were commonplace, part and parcel of childhood in a village setting. Yet, as many who grew up in olden times will recall, once the tormentor disappeared from view, the matter was quickly forgotten until the next morning’s encounter. How different from today, when the reach of the bully extends beyond the road to school and the playground through mobile telephones, offering no respite. Looking back, one cannot help but feel a certain gratitude for a childhood in which the worst of it was a single dose of intimidation each day — and once you got home from school you were in the clear.

This photo most likely dates back to the late 1890s, an era when horse and cart ownership was fairly common. However, a carriage like the one shown here was more of a status symbol. Having a pair of horses pulling your rig was the equivalent of driving a four-wheel-drive SUV today—it sent a clear message: “I’ve arrived, make way!” 

This may well have been the first outing for the couple in this photo with their new baby. Both parents look a little uneasy, checking every minute that baby was okay,—and no doubt the baby was nervous too. One can almost imagine the child thinking, “Why are we walking in the middle of the road, and how did I end up with such cuckoo parents?” 

In truth, there was little to worry about. In 1930, the greater danger was a fox darting out from the Villa Marina or a badger wandering up from the cove beneath the park, rather than any passing motorcar. It was a time of calm and quiet on the streets of Dunmore East.

This photograph is a reminder of just how angry the sea can be. It was taken during the great storm of March 7th 1962, a storm that was described at the time as the worst in living memory. Dunmore East alone suffered more than £50,000 worth of damage, a huge sum in those days, while across Waterford the destruction was widespread and almost impossible to fully count.

This is another photo of the Lower Village, this one shows a somewhat calmer day than the one captured in the previous picture. No waves are breaking over walls here, no spray climbing the buildings, the village looks to be enjoying one of those quiet settled days of summer when Dunmore appears at its best.

The photographer, whoever he or she was, became a little creative for this shot. Rather than taking the usual view from the High Road, they appear to have gone up into the woods, and possibly even climbed a tree, before taking the photograph. The result is an unusual view down over the Lower Village, taken from on high.

Curraghmore Terrace can be seen below, that familiar row of houses which has remained remarkably unspoiled since 1835. There is something very reassuring about that. Generations have come and gone, storms have battered the Strand, cars have replaced carts, and fashions have changed, and yet the shape of those houses still holds its place in the village.

I would imagine the photograph dates from the late 1940s or early 1950s. The cars, the quietness of the road, and the general feel of the scene all seem to belong to that era, when Dunmore East was already well known as a seaside village, but still had much of its older character intact.

I don’t remember where I got this photo from. It has been sitting on the computer for a good few years. It's a peaceful picture in which nothing dramatic is happening.