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 out in the bay. His posture is deliberate, 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. The masts of sailing vessels rise against the pale sky, their reflections soft in the sheltered water. In the background, a cluster of whitewashed houses, neat and orderly, overlook 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.

In this photograph from the closing years of the 19th century, the Lower Village of Dunmore East appears caught in a moment of quiet, familiar routine. Two ladies stand on the corner of the hill above the strand, deep in conversation, perhaps sharing the latest news or reflecting on the trials of the day — the kind of easy, timeless exchange that happens between women in a small village. Their posture suggests long acquaintance and easy understanding, the language of neighbours who have seen many such days come and go.

Below them, a small group of men have gathered on the wall near the Charles Galgey Inn, a favourite meeting spot for fishermen and locals alike. The door is closed, but their presence speaks of expectation — perhaps the hour is not yet right, or the landlord is otherwise occupied. There’s humour in the waiting, a patience born of habit and good company. Hats are tipped back, hands are pocketed, and glances are exchanged with the slow rhythm of men who know that the door will open soon enough.

It’s a study in village life — conversation on the hill, anticipation at the inn, and a sense that time here moves to its own steady, unhurried pace.

A family spend the day on the rocks staring at seaweed, it was a big thing in the 19th century.

 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."

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.

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.”

Two men and a bicycle strolling down Alexander Nimmo Boulevard on a quiet morning in 1910. It was probably the cleanest place to walk, there's a lot of waste from the vehicle's of the time closer to the footpath.

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.

This colourised photo of the Lower Village was taken in the 1890s. The centrepiece of the picture is the Charles Galgey Inn, an establishment that had been a second home for weary travellers and thirsty sailors for many generations.

Charles Galgey, a spirited entrepreneur who also owned a premises at 131 the Quay in Waterford, seized the reins of the Packet Hotel in 1882 and imbued it with his own indomitable spirit. With a keen eye for hospitality and a knack for business, he swiftly earned a reputation as a gracious host and shrewd businessman. His name proudly adorned the inn's entrance, marking the beginning of a legacy that would endure for 29 years.

Under Charles's stewardship, the inn flourished, becoming a beloved fixture in the bustling fishing village. From fishermen swapping tales of the sea to locals seeking respite from the daily grind, the Charles Galgey Inn welcomed all who crossed its threshold with warmth and conviviality.

However, amidst the tales of triumph and revelry, a curious incident stands out in the annals of Galgey's legacy. The story goes that that Charles, in his exuberance and dedication to running his business, inadvertently wasted a staggering 150,000 gallons of water due to a leaky tank in the water closet. For this seemingly innocuous misdemeanour, he faced the stern judgment of the authorities and was duly fined the sum of half a crown.

Yet, this minor transgression did little to dim the lustre of Charles Galgey's reputation and it was soon all water under the bridge. His commitment to the village and dedication to his craft remained unwavering until his untimely passing in 1894. In the wake of his departure, Catherine Galgey assumed the mantle of leadership, steering the inn through turbulent waters with grace and determination.

For another 17 years, Catherine Galgey presided over the inn, upholding the legacy of Charles Galgey with unwavering devotion. I’m not sure if she was Charles’ wife, sister or daughter, but a formidable woman by all accounts. She was once before the courts herself for causing an obstruction on the footpath while selling fish. Her tenure in the inn however was marked by hospitality of the highest order, as she welcomed guests from near and far with open arms and a warm smile.

In 1911, the reins of the Charles Galgey Inn passed into new hands as J.J. Breen assumed ownership, ushering in a new chapter in the inn's storied history. 

“The house in which I was born, 65 years later, can also be seen in the photo, it was the third black door on the left hand side of the white house.”

The account above is based on old newspaper reports interpreted by myself and might not be entirely accurate.

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.

This photograph, estimated to be from around the year 1900 or thereabouts, features the quaint establishment of Stapleton & Harneys, a shop and bakery. 

Notably, above the entrance, a curious girl is depicted peering out from behind a delicate lace curtain, having caught sight of the photographer. It's intriguing to imagine her reaction, considering that witnessing a camera in operation during those times would have been a remarkable novelty. One can't help but ponder what she might have made of the filming process for cinematic gems like 'Echoes' or the celebrated masterpiece 'Redwater'. Fortunately, she was spared such modern marvels, left to preserve her innocence in a less creative era.

Dunmore in the Late 1890’s

"This photograph captures Dunmore as it looked in the late 19th century. Grove Cottages were still standing where the entrance to the woods is located today. Sheep grazed peacefully in the field now occupied by the Light of Christ School. On Ladies Cove, wooden changing booths—erected by nuns to preserve modesty—can be seen. The Villa Marina, a relatively new building at the time, overlooked the scene, while St. Andrew’s steeple stretched skyward. Cookaloo Hill, just as steep then as it is now, slopes into the distance. The sky is a vivid blue, the sea a shimmering green, and the park’s freshly trimmed grass lends an air of meticulous care.

 The entire scene exudes tranquillity and charm. Yet beneath this idyllic surface, life in Dunmore was not always so serene, as evidenced by two minor cases from the Callaghane Petty Sessions, held in the late 1890’s."

Court Report: Waterford Jarvey Charged with Furious Driving

The usual monthly Petty Sessions were held on the 3rd of November, 1896, in the Callaghane courthouse. The presiding justices were Sir Robert J Paul, Barrister, V L; Hon Dudley Fortescue, D L; W Orr, Esq, R M; Capt Coghlan, and O P Bolton, Esq.

One of the cases brought before the court involved John Ganey, a Waterford jarvey and car owner, who was summoned by Sergeant Ryan on the charge of furiously driving a horse in Dunmore East on the 10th of September. Mr P A Murphy, solicitor of Waterford, appeared for the defendant.

Mr Fortescue inquired why the case had not been heard earlier. Sergeant Ryan explained that it had been called on the previous court day, but the defendant had requested and been granted an adjournment.

Sergeant Ryan testified that on the evening of the 10th of September, around nine o'clock, he was on duty in Dunmore East when the defendant drove past him at a furious speed. It was dark at the time, and as the defendant passed, one of the car's shafts nearly struck the sergeant on the side. When questioned about his reckless driving, the defendant replied that he had sailors on his car who had promised him an extra fare if they reached Dunmore before ten o'clock.

Mr Fortescue pressed the sergeant on the defendant's motives, suggesting that there could be no urgent need to catch a boat or train at that late hour in Dunmore East, which elicited laughter from the court. The sergeant clarified that he understood the defendant to mean that if he delivered the sailors before the public houses closed, he would receive the extra fare, prompting him to gallop the horse at full speed.

Under questioning by Sir Robert Paul, the sergeant confirmed that it was very dark when the defendant drove past him and that the car's shaft had grazed his overcoat, nearly striking him. Constable Joseph Brown corroborated the sergeant's account, adding that he had been at Shipsey's Hotel door when the defendant arrived and had barely avoided being struck due to the reckless speed. The constable also testified that the defendant admitted to galloping the horse to reach the hotel before closing time and secure the extra fare.

Mr Bolton remarked that a prosecution for cruelty to animals would quickly negate any financial gain from such an extra fare in the event of a conviction.

During cross-examination by Mr Murphy, it was noted that the sergeant and constable were not the only people on Dunmore's streets that night, as many Arklow fishermen were also present. Mr Murphy, unable to examine the defendant directly, argued on his behalf that the journey from Waterford to Dunmore had taken two and a half hours, which the bench acknowledged as evidence against the possibility of furious driving.

Constable John Hoberoff of the Ferrybank police station testified to the defendant's good character, stating that he was one of the most respectable car drivers in Waterford. When questioned by Mr Orr, it was confirmed that the defendant had no prior charges for furious driving in the past year.

In conclusion, the bench imposed a fine of 2 shillings and 6 pence, plus costs, on the defendant.

“Another unusual case I came across is that of Constable Howard, a man known for making many arrests for drunkenness in the village, that was until one night when he went crazy himself.”

The Curious Case of Constable Howard

In the seemingly tranquil village of Dunmore East, an extraordinary incident involving Constable Howard—a police officer previously known for his diligence in arresting villagers for drunkenness—revealed a startling turn of events one fateful night. The case, which left the community unsettled, began on a Wednesday evening when Howard, stationed in Dunmore and serving as barrack orderly, exhibited behaviour suggesting a sudden mental breakdown.

That night, Howard’s fellow officers grew concerned when they realized he was missing and discovered his rifle was no longer in its designated stand. A search party was promptly dispatched, following the sound of his police whistle, which led them to The Grove Cottages, beside Stapleton and Harney’s shop. There, they found Howard in a highly agitated and disoriented state. Further investigation revealed that he had fired two rifle shots over his own residence and attempted to force his way into the neighbouring cottage of Mr. G. A. Clampett. The Clampett family, alarmed by the bullets whizzing past their home, were understandably distressed by the ordeal.

On Thursday morning, Dr. Stephenson examined Howard at the barracks and deemed his condition deeply troubling, describing it as alarming. The nature of his sudden insanity—whether temporary or otherwise—remained unclear, but the incident left an indelible mark on the village.

“Despite extensive research by myself, no further details relating to this case could be uncovered, save for one notable development: Constable Howard appears to have been transferred to Belfast shortly after the incident. These episodes show that even during the 1800's, in the quietest of seaside villages, beneath the veneer of serenity, unexpected and unsettling events were known to unfold.”

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.

Although the details are somewhat hazy, I strongly suspect this photograph was taken during the notorious Dunmore Witch Trials of 1910. Local tradition held that anyone who couldn’t run up the steps from Stoney Cove in under sixty seconds without gasping for breath was, by definition, a witch. Those who failed the test were sentenced to wear oversized white hats and parade through the village while onlookers shouted “Witch!” in loud and spirited tones.

Their punishment didn’t end there. Each “witch” was then required to collect her broom from the Bay Hotel and set about sweeping the streets — gathering discarded papers, seaweed, and any other debris that had blown in from the strand. In truth, it was less a persecution and more an early Tidy Towns initiative. Litter had become something of a nuisance in Dunmore at the time, and, as ever, the village found an Irish solution to an Irish problem.

This colourised photograph of Dunmore’s pier, taken around 1910, captures the village at a moment of remarkable change. The coming of the Iron Horse had transformed how people travelled to and from Dunmore East. Passengers stepping ashore from an arriving steamer could stroll along the pier to the lighthouse and board the waiting train to Waterford — or continue onward to Carrick-on-Suir if the mood took them.

It was a new kind of freedom, a taste of modern convenience in an age still measured by tides and timetables. The railway connected the seaside village to the wider world, carrying fishermen, holidaymakers, and market-bound locals with equal efficiency. In many ways, it was the forerunner of today’s bus service — though with one key advantage: timetables were neatly posted throughout the village, and, by all accounts, were actually kept to.

Looking back, it’s tempting to think the early 20th century had a better grasp of organisation than we do today. The photograph stands as a reminder that even then, progress and practicality went hand in hand — and that Dunmore, in its own quiet way, was already keeping pace with the modern world.

With little or no other traffic on the roads in the early 1920's, the bus could comfortably pull up outside the post office—even on the “wrong” side of the street. In the photo, you can see that a sizeable crowd has gathered, eager for their journey to begin. The men are all dressed up in their good suits, suggesting it was no small occasion to be heading into town. Yet instead of hurrying his passengers aboard, the driver appears to be amusing two ladies with a spot of impromptu shadow puppetry, his hands moving theatrically against the side of the bus. The ladies in waiting seem delighted by the performance, perhaps enjoying the unexpected entertainment as much as the prospect of the bus ride itself.

Such characters behind the wheel are rare nowadays. Jimmy Cullinane was probably the last of the drivers to mix good humour and light-hearted antics with his duties. Today’s bus drivers, efficient though they may be, seldom provide quite the same level of comic diversion.

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!”

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.

When visitors came to Dunmore East in 1910, this was the view that greeted them — a peaceful seaside scene, with the sea rolling in. Over a century later, little has changed. A few extra houses have appeared here and there, and the odd car now rests where once people parked carts, but the character of the Lower Village remains remarkably the same.

In the photograph, thin trails of smoke rise from the chimneys of the houses on the terrace, suggesting it was taken in autumn. Coal was plentiful then — and it certainly didn’t cost a euro a lump — so no one thought twice about lighting the fire. Driftwood and fallen branches from the nearby woods added to the fuel, keeping hearths warm through the shortening evenings.

Fish, too, were in abundance, and for many families that meant they could heat and eat without having to rob a bank. It has to be said that people had it good in 1910.