Another photo taken from the island, this one provides a good view of the convent.

The trawler 'George May', moored at the quayside in 1930.

Men and women barrelling herrings on what looks like a very slippery quayside.

A picture of the quay, taken back when it was still a busy fishing port.

A priest toys with the idea of walking on water, if only he'd known that the Board of Works would one day make it possible for him to do so.

This photograph of Villa Marina, taken from the park, offers a tranquil glimpse of another time. The grand house stands quietly beyond a stretch of tall grass that seems to have gone uncut for quite a while — clearly, there were no C.E. schemes in those days to keep things neat and tidy. The wild growth softens the scene, giving it a slightly untamed charm, as though nature was slowly reclaiming the space between sea and stone. 

This photograph captures the harbour in the days before diesel engines transformed the sound and rhythm of coastal life. Every boat in view depends entirely on the wind, and the stillness of the scene makes it almost hard to imagine the effort and skill that once went into coaxing these vessels home. It’s remarkable to think that people once placed their faith in canvas and rope alone — and yet, for generations, the wind was as trusted a companion as any engine that followed.

The sails rise like quiet monuments to an older kind of power: invisible, unpredictable, and endlessly renewable. On calm days, progress was measured in patience; on stormy ones, in courage. The harbour itself seems gentler here, a place defined by silence rather than the growl of engines or the scent of diesel.

It’s a reminder of a world still balanced between nature and necessity — when a change in the weather could decide a day’s work, and when the wind, not the fuel gauge, told a sailor how far he might go.

This photograph shows the only remaining piece of a castle in Dunmore — a small but striking reminder of the village’s long and layered past. Weathered stone and ivy tell of centuries spent facing the sea winds, standing guard over the Lower Village and the bay through peace and storm alike. Once a symbol of defence and authority, it now sits quietly among the traces of modern life, its battlements more decorative than strategic.

There are, it seems, plans afoot to replace this historic structure with something altogether more contemporary — a dry-robe rental emporium, no less. One can only hope the rumours are exaggerated, for few buildings in Dunmore hold such character or connection to its early story.

Jokes aside, the castle remains a tangible link to an older village — one of watchtowers, shipwrecks, and coastal vigilance. It reminds us that heritage often survives not through grand restoration, but simply by being allowed to stand, weathering the years with quiet dignity.

This photograph captures a man with his donkey and cart at the Horsequarters, taken long before Dunmore East grew into the bustling metropolis it is today — complete, of course, with its mighty roundabout. The scene belongs to a quieter age, when a steady donkey was the best form of transport for goods, gossip, and the occasional passenger who didn’t mind a slow journey home.

The Horsequarters was once a central part of village life — a place where horses could take on water before setting off toward Waterford, and where carts creaked, hooves rang on the cobbles, and the scent of hay mingled with the sea air drifting up from the strand. The man in the picture appears unhurried, at ease in the easy rhythm of the place — a time when traffic jams meant two donkeys meeting nose to nose and quietly negotiating the right of way.

In later years, the Horsequarters became the last boarding point for the bus into town. It was mainly used by the people of the Lower Village, who appreciated that it spared them the long walk up the hill.

I’d imagine that this photograph dates from the 1930s. At the forefront stands the central figure of the milkman, his sturdy cart drawn by a patient donkey and laden with a metal milk churn. He is the very image of reliability — a fixture of the community, faithfully delivering his goods door to door. Yet, as routine as his task may seem, there’s an element of unpredictability in the background: a large dog, its keen eyes fixed on the milkman’s posterior, perhaps contemplating an opportunistic nip.

As the milkman makes his rounds, a group of villagers engage in idle chatter, their talk drifting easily between the mundane and the speculative. Three men, their faces weathered by years of labour and local wisdom, debate the future of transportation in Dunmore. Will the motorcar — that novelty of the cities — ever find its way to this sleepy fishing village? The question stirs both curiosity and scepticism among the locals.

Amidst the easy flow of conversation and the rhythm of daily tasks, the essence of rural life is palpable. Smoke curls lazily from the chimney of a nearby cottage, carrying with it the comforting scent of home. In an age before environmental regulations, the air would have been thick with the familiar smell of burning peat, coal, or wood — mingling with the earthy aroma of the surrounding farmland.

Even the by-products of village life are attended to with care. Along the edge of the footpath, horse and donkey dung has been neatly swept into a tidy pile — evidence of the quiet pride taken in keeping the streets clean and orderly.

In this snapshot of a simpler time, life unfolds at a measured pace, guided by routine and grounded in community. It’s a scene that evokes nostalgia for a way of living long since passed, yet still resonates with warmth and humanity in the sepia tones of the old photograph.

In this vintage photograph, a charming scene unfolds at Stoney Cove, where a small group of young girls, accompanied by their mother — or perhaps a watchful governess — enjoy an afternoon by the sea. The backdrop is pure Dunmore: the rugged cliff rising behind them, the calm harbour waters glinting in the distance, and the air filled with the chatter of children at play.

Their chosen pastime is the much-loved local diversion known as “Count the Stones.” Each girl bends earnestly to her task, pencil in hand, trying to estimate the number of pebbles scattered across the stoney shore. When their guesses are in, the slips of paper are gathered and held by their guardian, who later announces the winner. The girl whose guess comes closest to the actual number receives a prized penny — while the others must content themselves with a colourful gobstopper or two.

It is a simple, wholesome game, born of imagination and the abundance of time that childhood once offered. The photograph speaks of a gentler rhythm of life in Dunmore East — when the world was measured not in hours or headlines, but in laughter, sunlight, and the endless counting of stones by the sea.

This colorized photograph, taken in the 1880s, offers a splendid view of the park. The grass has recently been cut, and stacks of hay are visible, piled high. It's conceivable that this cutting was done in anticipation of the annual sports day or perhaps a cricket match. Additionally, it's plausible that prior to the existence of a tennis court, the park served as an early garage forecourt, a stop where donkeys and horses could refuel, feasting on hay before resuming their journey.

Beneath the precariously constructed houses of Laweesh, a lonesome boatman can be observed rowing out to sea, possibly in preparation for the summer regatta. The rhythmic sound of his oars striking the water resonates across the bay. In the harbour, several fishing boats are anchored, awaiting the construction of the South and East Coast Fisherman’s Co-op, so as they can get the best price for their fish.

During those leisurely days, time passed slowly, and the village inhabitants were unconcerned with step counts, as walking was the primary mode of transportation. They strolled throughout the day, retiring for a restful night's sleep when fatigue set in. The worries of the world were distant, with foreign news limited to the occurrences of Waterford City.

This colorized photograph from the 1890s displays the charm of the harbour houses in Dunmore East during the 19th century. Apart from a few planks of wood outside Burke's shop, everything is in its proper place, reflecting the great pride villagers took in their picturesque village at the time.

This picture appears to be an aerial shot, possibly taken from a hot air balloon. Alternatively, it is well documented that in the early years of the last century, people had begun training crows to fly with a camera attached to their legs, using a piece of string to activate the shutter. These trained crows were often referred to as crones. However, regardless of the method used, the result is a great photograph.