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Welcome to Dunmore East Harbour: 

A Portrait of Place and People

The harbour in Dunmore East is more than just a picturesque landmark—it’s a living testament to the community that has shaped its character for generations. This section celebrates the harbour’s timeless beauty through captivating photographs, while also honouring the fishermen, families, and local faces whose stories are woven into its piers and waves. From the bustle of the daily catch to the quiet moments of reflection by the water, these images capture the essence of what makes Dunmore East so special.

Take a visual journey through the heart of the harbour, where tradition meets the tide, and every picture tells a story.

This colourised image, captured from the vantage point of the lighthouse, looks down upon the bustling harbour during the 1950s. The pier is alive with activity—weatherworn fishermen in caps and heavy work gear unload the day’s catch into barrels and wooden boxes, their muscles taut with effort. The scent of salt and fresh fish seems almost palpable.

Amid the hustle and bustle, a woman in her winter coat walks hand-in-hand with a small child, their figures a quiet contrast to the labour going on around them. In the background, the imposing grey stone facade of the convent school keeps watch over the scene, a reminder of the village’s enduring rhythms of work, family, and faith. The water glints dully under an overcast sky, dotted with fishing boats that embody Dunmore East’s maritime heartbeat.

This is more than a photograph—it’s a window into the daily life that shaped the soul of the harbour.

This photo, taken from the Lookout Wall, captures a quiet yet purposeful day in the harbour during the 1950s. Two vessels—the RNLI boat, Annie Blanche Smith  and the pilot boat Lily Doreen—rest side by side at low water, their hulls exposed and idle, like "Sea Sisters" taking respite on land. The boats, usually braving the waves, now sit grounded, their weathered paint and sturdy frames hinting at countless missions.

A lone man can be seen bending over a small fishing boat beached on the stony sand, his hands busy with repairs or possibly painting. His focused posture suggests routine maintenance, a small but vital act in the harbour’s daily rhythm. Nearby, three men stand clustered on the dockside, their relaxed stances and tilted heads suggesting an animated conversation—perhaps debating the day’s catch, the state of the tides, or maybe the previous night’s football match.

The backdrop of the harbour wall frames the scene with rugged simplicity. There are no modern intrusions; just the timeless interplay of work, friends talking, and the sea’s ever-present call.

This photograph captures a sparkling summer morning in Dunmore East circa 1930, as the harbour stirs with the genteel excitement of a yacht race about to begin. Sleek wooden yachts, their white painted hulls glinting in the sunlight, dominate the foreground—sailors bustle about decks, adjusting rigging and hoisting sails that snap taut in the breeze. The masts form a delicate forest against the sky, their reflections shivering in the harbour’s glassy water.

Rising sharply behind the scene, the cliffs cradle a row of fine Georgian and Victorian houses, their large windows and tidy gardens overlooking the spectacle below. These grand residences, with their wrought-iron balconies and ivy-clad stonework, speak of an era when Dunmore East was a favoured retreat for those of means—a place where sea air met sophistication. A handful of watchers can be seen enjoying the leisurely privilege of yacht-racing spectatorship.

The image hums with contrasts: the disciplined energy of the sailors versus the tranquil poise of the houses; the working harbour’s rugged edges softened by the frivolity of sport. This is Dunmore East at a crossroads—where maritime tradition meets the golden age of sailing, all frozen in a moment of sunlit anticipation.

This charming photograph captures Harbour Master Captain Desmond Carroll and his young son David perched on Dunmore East’s high harbour wall in 1952, a quiet moment between duty and childhood.

The captain stands tall, his weather-lined face turned toward the sea—ever watchful, as if instinctively tracking wind and tide even in repose. Yet his stance leans protectively toward David, one hand resting near the boy, balancing vigilance with fatherly ease. Both wear smart sea captain’s hats, their matching headgear a tender nod to shared maritime pride.

Young David, perched on the sun-warmed stone wall, his navy blazer hints at a boy dressing the part for a day with his father. The image speaks of tradition and legacy: a seasoned mariner passing on his love for the sea, one small moment at a time. The wall beneath them, worn smooth by generations of tides and time, anchors the scene in Dunmore East’s enduring story—where the harbour’s heartbeat syncs with family rhythms.

A quiet intensity lingers in this photo as a young David Carroll guides his small punt, The Turmoil, away from Dunmore East’s sheltering harbour wall. The boat sits low in the water, its wooden hull freshly painted. David, now older than the boy perched on the wall in earlier days, moves with the practiced ease of someone raised by the sea—his hands steady on the oars with a determined look on his face

The high stone wall looms behind him, its shadow cutting a sharp line across the water. Out beyond the high wall, unseen beneath the waves, his sole lobster pot rests on the seafloor—a small claim on the ocean’s bounty. The morning light slants low, glinting off the oar blades as they dip into the swell. There’s no fanfare here, just the rhythmic creak of oarlocks and the occasional cry of a gull circling overhead. The Turmoil, aptly named, seems a partner in the work, rising and falling with the waves as it carries him toward the mornings labour.

This is a portrait of inheritance and independence: the harbour’s lessons etched into muscle memory, the slow, solitary work of a life shaped by the sea. Beyond the frame, the lobster pot waits, and the sea stretches out—endless, indifferent, and full of promise.

This photograph captures Captain Carroll mid-stride on the quay, walking up from the lighthouse with purposeful bearing. Dressed in his crisp Harbour Master’s uniform—navy jacket with brass buttons gleaming, cap set just so—he carries a weathered notepad in one hand, its pages likely filled with tide calculations or maintenance notes. The afternoon sun casts long shadows across the pier behind him, where coils of fishermen’s nets lie like sleeping serpents, waiting for the next outing.

A boxy grey van, parked haphazardly near the harbour wall, frames the scene with its 1950s patina. You can almost smell the salt-tang of drying seaweed clinging to the nets. There’s a quiet authority in his posture—the look on his face suggesting he’s just noted something requiring attention, perhaps a frayed mooring line or a tide chart needing adjustment. The lighthouse stands in the background, its white stone walls glowing against the cloudy autumn sky.

Every detail whispers of a working harbour with Capt. Carroll—the steady hand guiding it all.

This image captures lighthouse keeper Martin Glanville standing tall on Dunmore’s pier, his posture as straight as the beam from his lighthouse. Smartly dressed—he gazes up the quay with the quiet vigilance of a man accustomed to watching horizons. Behind him, the park’s lush greenery spills down toward Men’s Cove, where the sea licks at the rocky inlet.

Martin was a man of exact routines and unexpected warmth. A former policeman (or so rumour claimed), he carried himself with disciplined precision, his pocket watch always synchronized with the lighthouse’s chronometer. Every morning, he’d walk from his cottage at Ballymabin to the pier, pausing to inspect moorings or exchange dry remarks with fishermen.

Though reserved, he had a storyteller’s charm when discussing his true passion: horse racing. He was known to vanish every July for the Galway Races, returning with tips scribbled on race cards and the scent of Galway turf smoke clinging to his coat. To all who frequented the harbour, he seemed as permanent as the lighthouse itself—until the day he wasn’t. The pier felt emptier without his steady figure pacing its length, though the lamp kept turning, as reliable as the man who’d tended it.

In this photograph, the old pilot boat Lily Doreen cuts a stately figure against the open sea, her masts spearing skyward like cathedral spires against the boundless blue. Sunlight dances across her hull, glinting off wave-kissed timbers as she rides the swell with the easy grace of a vessel bred for solemn duty. Her sails taut lines hint at the speed she could muster when racing to meet incoming ships—bow slicing toward the horizon with great urgency. Beyond her, the horizon stretches uninterrupted, a reminder of her countless voyages on Dunmore's ever-changing tides.

The Lily Doreen was no ordinary workboat; she was the village’s pride, her story woven into its maritime fabric. Built in the 1920s as a sail trawler, she was reforged in the 1940s into Dunmore East's steadfast pilot boat—her broad beam and deep keel making her unshakable in a gale, while her towering masts captured even the faintest breath of wind. Generations of pilots wore smooth her polished rails, their calloused hands gripping the same wood as they squinted through salt spray to guide freighters and tankers safely up the river. Her name, borrowed from the boat builder’s two young daughters, suited her perfectly—sturdy as oak yet elegant in her form, a harmony of hardiness and heart.

To witness the Lily Doreen under full sail was to see maritime poetry in motion: canvas snapping taut like gunshots, her bow parting waves with a hiss of foam, gulls wheeling in her wake as if cheering her passage. Now, suspended in this photograph, she is forever frozen mid-dance—a heavenly vision of Dunmore's golden age, her masts eternally reaching skyward, her legacy anchored in the memories of those who knew her proud service.

From the vantage point of the Island, this photograph captures the chaotic excitement of Dunmore’s annual regatta in full swing—a kaleidoscope of bobbing boats, sunlit sails, and the shimmering harbour alive with movement. The real stars, though, were the Olympic-class swimmers cutting through the water like arrows, their strokes sending up sprays of silver as they raced from the pier to the Island and back. The crowd leaned forward as one, eyes fixed on the churning wake, voices rising in cheers that bounced off the harbour walls.

But it wasn’t all serious competition. The Duck Race—that whimsical flutter of rubber ducks tossed into the tide—sent children (and more than a few adults) wild, shouting "Quack! Quack!" as if their encouragement might will a winner home. Nearby, the Greasy Pole challenge drew roars of laughter as daring souls wobbled across the slippery timber, arms wind milling, before plunging into the brine to the crowd’s delighted jeers.

And what’s a perfect family day without ice cream? Gertie Burke’s cones, sliced straight from the block, melted sticky-sweet in the summer heat, while grandparents shared tales of regattas past and toddlers waved flags stained with raspberry drips. The Island, with its ringside view, was the place to be—where the salt air mixed with laughter, and for one golden afternoon, Dunmore’s harbour became a stage for joy.

The summer of 1955 brought unusual activity to Dunmore’s harbour as work began on the crumbling foundations behind the lighthouse and in the harbour itself. Day after day, the rhythmic clang of hammers on stone echoed across the water as the Board of Works carried out repairs, but the real magic happened beneath the surface—where diver Bob Lewis became the talk of the village. He worked from the raft by the steps (normally John Roche’s berth, forcing his boat to relocate around the corner, as you can partially see in the photograph).

Bob was a serious man, not known for joking around. While working in Dunmore he always stayed with George and Maisie Roche. Each day, clad in his heavy copper helmet and weighted boots, he would descend into the murky depths to repair what the sea had stolen. The photograph captures the spectacle his work created: crowds gathering by the quayside, women abd children staring in awe, fishermen pausing their work to watch.

There was something mesmerizing about witnessing a man disappear beneath the waves. Once Bob submerged, the show became one of imagination rather than sight—just the occasional trail of bubbles marking his progress, the taut air hose snaking into darkness. Yet the crowd remained, as if their collective gaze could will him safely back to the surface.

The children would count the minutes until his helmet broke through the water again. The fishermen would nod at another job well done. And Bob? He’d simply wipe his faceplate and prepare to descend once more—Dunmore’s silent guardian, holding our pier steadfast against the tireless tide.

Over the years, people have wondered what the crowd in this photo was looking at. I can now reveal that they were watching diver Bob Lewis in action. Bob’s work was described above.

I seem to recall hearing that people used to bet on how long Bob would stay underwater during each dive. The person who guessed closest to the actual time won the pot, which was held in the wheelbarrow visible on the left side of the photo. Everyone could place a bet—except Bob, for obvious reasons.

The photo was taken by Padraig Kennelly from Tralee in 1955 and was later used as a postcard.

Thankfully, the people of Dunmore no longer endure this distracting vision of paradise disrupting their daily lives. Where sailboats once drifted lazily, a modern adventure centre now stands—offering thrills rather than idle admiration. Though the harbour’s upper view remains unchanged, its most picturesque temptations have been wisely removed.

Had the postcard charm persisted, productivity would have vanished. Crowds would linger all day, leaning precariously over the docks, more focused on phone selfies than their footing. We’d have needed a full-time lifeguard just to rescue camera-wielding tourists from the water!

The transformation wasn’t simple, but replacing hazardous beauty with purposeful recreation ranks among Dunmore’s wiser decisions. Now, the adventure centre provides real employment and activity—saving us from chronic neck strain and the folly of gazing when we ought to be working.

For years, I believed this striking photograph dated from the 1950s—until David Carroll set me straight. "That's the 1930s," he told me, though he conceded the scene could easily pass for the 1950s given how little the harbour changed over those decades. Such was the enduring character of our waterfront.

The group of boys in the foreground first caught my eye—their formal dress giving them the appearance of a religious cult. Given that the image comes from the Capuchin Archives, my theory about some long-forgotten parish youth group might not be far off. Were they altar boys on an outing? Members of a maritime sodality? The mystery lingers like morning fog on the horizon.

Yet beyond its unanswered questions, the photograph remains a treasure. Here is Dunmore’s harbour frozen in its prime—punts resting at their moorings, sunlight dancing on calm waters, the sturdy stone quays unchanged by time. It captures not just a moment, but an entire era when the rhythm of life moved with the tides.

This photograph captures the morning of Dunmore's 1949 regatta, hours before the harbour would swell with spectators. The assembled group—likely organizers or eager early arrivals—stand poised at the edge of the pier, their summer attire crisp in the morning light. In front of them, the Lily Doreen lies at anchor in the harbour, dressed in the International Code of Signal Flags, for the occasion. Swimming races would have started from a plank lowered over the far side of the vessel. 

Further out in the bay, what looks like a naval vessel, appears to keep watch. Though the war had ended four years prior, this boat suggests the Navy maintained its presence in Dunmore's waters—perhaps ensuring the rowdy "Duck Hunt" (that chaotic highlight where swimmers chased rubber ducks across the tide) didn't descend into complete maritime anarchy.

The line of eight gleaming motorcars parked along the quay tells its own story of post-war optimism. Each chrome bumper and curved fender reflects Dunmore's growing prosperity, these mechanical status symbols arranged like proud entrants in their own unofficial competition.

You can almost hear the gathering murmur of the crowd and the creak of Lily Doreen's rigging. This wasn't just another summer day—it was the social event of Dunmore's calendar, where the salt-weathered pier would soon tremble under dancing feet, and the harbour's usual workaday rhythms gave way to laughter and friendly rivalry.

This photograph captures a busy day on the pier in 1955, with the fishing fleet waiting to unload their catch. The boats are at rest, their work paused, as if awaiting the next tide. The smell of breakfasts being cooked fills the air.

To the right of the picture, the pilot boat Betty Breen and the Agnes Palmer sit side by side. To the left of the Betty Breen is the BCK 172, a vessel that would later be known as The Coreopsis. Owned by Jerry Doyle of Kilkeel, she passed through the hands of Dick Power in Tramore before finally finding her way to Tobins of Helvick. Each change of ownership finishes a chapter of a trawlers life at sea—of storms weathered, catches hauled, and livelihoods sustained.

These boats may have long since sailed their last voyages from Dunmore, but here, in this captured moment, they remain forever moored in history.

The seas off Dunmore East have always been treacherous—storm surges, hidden rocks, and sudden squalls had tested sailors for centuries. For Stephen Whittle, Coxswain/Mechanic of the Dunmore East lifeboat for 25 years, every emergency call could have meant the difference between life and death for all concerned.

On many stormy nights, flares lit up the sky over Dunmore. A fishing vessel, a cargo ship, or a lone yacht—battered by towering waves—would have sent up a distress signal. The crew was in trouble, and their last hope was their flare and a mayday call crackling over the radio.

Stephen Whittle and his team were always on standby, ready to launch into the darkness and guide the lifeboat through walls of spray. As coxswain, Stephen had to navigate not just the waves but also the fear in his crew’s hearts. The wind would howl like a banshee, but Stephen always kept a steady hand on the wheel, his eyes firmly locked on the radar.

When they reached a stricken vessel, they often found those on board soaked and shaking, clinging to the rails. Stephen would manoeuvre the lifeboat alongside, timing each swell perfectly, while his crew hauled the men to safety.

Back ashore, rescued men would clasp Stephen’s hand, their gratitude unspoken but deep. For Stephen Whittle and the crew of the Dunmore East lifeboat, heroic acts were a way of life. Each mission was just another night doing what they had trained for—lives saved because of the RNLI’s relentless readiness.

"Though Stephen Whittle's name may not have echoed far beyond Ireland's shores, to those he and generations of lifeboat crews saved from the treacherous sea, these men were nothing less than heroes.

In Dunmore East, where the ocean’s fury looms ever-present, the legacy of Stephen, and all who served in the lifeboats over the years, continues to inspire new generations to selflessly risk their own lives to help others in their hour of need."

This image captures a legendary Dunmore East lifeboat crew from the 1950s, featuring Johnny Dunne, Maurice Power, John 'Rocky' Power, John ‘Bulligan’ Power, Dick Murphy, Paddy Billy, and John ‘Bulligan’ Power Jnr—a fearless team who routinely braved the treacherous waters off Dunmore East.

Research in the Irish Newspaper Archive reveals that these men were involved in numerous daring rescues throughout the 1950s, saving countless lives from grounded trawlers and violent storms. Renowned for their skill and courage, they were rightly celebrated as Dunmore’s finest heroes of their time.

The photograph shows them on a calm day, likely just outside the harbour, their relaxed demeanour belying the dangers they regularly faced. But when Arctic gales roared and others barricaded their front doors against the storm, these men launched the lifeboat without hesitation—racing into the chaos to rescue those fighting for survival at sea.

True Dunmore heroes, each and every one.

"Here is just one example of their many rescues, this one took place in December 1954. No dramatic fanfare, just Dunmore men doing what they did best: saving their fellow fishermen from the wrath of the sea."

Fishermen Rescued by Lifeboat:

The crew of the Dunmore East lifeboat, under Coxswain Patrick Power, late yesterday evening rescued two Passage East fishermen, James Elliott and William Ivory, from the rocks off the Wexford coast.

They had been out fishing in a 19ft. boat Marian, owned by Mr. John Baldwin, Passage East, when they got into difficulties in a strong north-westerly gale.

Mr. Arthur Westcott-Pitt, secretary of the Dunmore East Lifeboat, who was informed of their plight, alerted Coxswain Power and his crew, who immediately went to their assistance.

The two fishermen had been stranded on the rocks for hours. The boat had broken down and filled with water. The sails had been blown away.

The lifeboat, with a rocket gun, managed to get a line across the fishing craft, which it towed into Passage East.

The 1920s were a prosperous decade for Dunmore East, as the small village buzzed with unprecedented activity. With record-breaking herring catches flooding the quays, an influx of young Scottish and Donegal women arrived to help process the haul. Their hard work and expertise injected new energy into the local industry, propelling Dunmore East to the forefront of Ireland’s herring trade.

A Hive of Activity:

The quay had always been a bustling hub, but the arrival of these young women brought an extra spark. Their presence not only boosted efficiency but also added a touch of glamour to the traditionally male-dominated workforce. The atmosphere crackled with excitement as the herring season reached new heights.

The Rise of the Kipper Trade:

A key driver of this employment surge was the booming trade in cured kippers. The herring was meticulously cleaned, salted, and smoked before being dispatched by rail across Ireland. Demand for these delicious smoked fish soared, and the skill of the Scottish and Donegal girls ensured that every order was met with precision.

Economic Prosperity:

The economic impact of this seasonal workforce was immense. Their labour not only supported the fishing industry but also invigorated local businesses, creating a ripple effect of prosperity. The kipper trade, a cherished Irish tradition, flourished thanks to their expertise and dedication.

More Than Just Work:

Beyond the quay, these young women brought new life to the village. On Sunday nights, they livened up the fisherman’s hall with fresh dance steps that left the local lads—dressed in their Sunday best—struggling to keep up. Their spirit and vitality left a lasting impression on Dunmore East.

A Lasting Legacy:

Once known primarily for its coastal beauty, Dunmore East became a thriving center of the herring industry. The combination of abundant catches and the invaluable contributions of these young women cemented the village’s reputation. Their determination and skill broke barriers in a male-dominated trade, leaving an indelible mark on the region’s history.

Dunmore East in the 1920s was more than just a fishing village—it was a place where hard work, tradition, and a bit of dancing shaped a community’s future.

On a crisp May morning in 1952, the crew of The Tulip made an extraordinary catch in the waters off Dunmore East—one that would become the talk of the village for years to come. Their nets hauled in not the usual herring or mackerel, but a magnificent 30lb Irish Republican Sturgeon, a fish so rare in those waters that its capture was nothing short of remarkable.

For the fishermen—Frank McDonald, Tommy McGrath, Johnny Rooney, Dando Whitty, and Muck Murphy—it was a moment of pride when the fish was brought ashore. The sturgeon, glistening and grand, was a prize unlike any they had seen before. Word spread quickly around the village and most people got to see it, the nuns even closed the school early that day to allow the children go and see the rarity. After the people in the village got fed up looking at it, the fish was transported to the Dunmore East fisheries shop on High Street, Waterford to be displayed there. For two days, crowds gathered, forming long queues just to catch a glimpse of this aquatic oddity. People marvelled at its size, it’s strange, prehistoric appearance, and the sheer improbability of it being caught locally.

The timing couldn’t have been more perfect. Ernest Hemingway’s book, The Old Man and the Sea, had just been published, filling imaginations with tales of epic battles between man and monstrous fish. While this sturgeon was no giant marlin, for the fishermen of Dunmore East, it was their own brush with legend.

And then, just like that, the fish was gone—sent straight to the dinner table of President Seán T. O’Kelly. It was said the president enjoyed his meal, perhaps unaware that he was eating a piece of local history.

Today, the story of the Dunmore sturgeon remains a curious footnote in the village’s maritime past, a reminder of the days when the sea could still surprise even the most seasoned fishermen. Who knows what else lies beneath those waves, waiting to be discovered?

Heroism at Sea: The Dunmore East Lifeboat Rescue of 1970

On November 25, 1970, amid gale-force winds and towering seas off Hook Head, the Dunmore East lifeboat crew performed an extraordinary act of bravery. Under the command of Coxswain Stephen Whittle, they battled treacherous conditions to rescue three fishermen from the sinking trawler “Glenmalure”. Tragically, one crewman was lost, swept from the bridge before help could arrive. The lifeboat crew’s unwavering courage and skill that night would later be honoured in a ceremony that celebrated their gallantry.

A Rescue against the Odds

The “Glenmalure”, a Kilmore Quay trawler, had foundered in the violent waters near the Waterford Harbour estuary. The lifeboat crew located the vessel’s survivors clinging to a life raft in mountainous seas. Despite the perilous conditions, Coxswain Whittle and his team executed a daring rescue, pulling three men to safety. The operation, described as both hazardous and heroic, underscored the lifeboat service’s vital role in safeguarding lives at sea.

Honours and Recognition

In 1971, Coxswain Whittle’s leadership during the rescue earned him the Royal National Lifeboat Institution’s (RNLI) silver medal for gallantry, presented by the Duchess of Kent. Later that year, on December 1st, the entire crew gathered at Dunmore East’s Ocean Hotel for a formal ceremony. Lieutenant-Commander W. L. G. Dutton, RNLI Chief Inspector of Lifeboats, presented certificates to the crew in recognition of their service.

The honoured men included Coxswain Stephen Whittle, mechanic Brendan Horgan, assistant mechanic Sean Kearns, and crew members John Whitty and Joseph Murphy. Also present was John Power, the lifeboat’s second coxswain, whose role in the rescue was equally pivotal.

The ceremony was attended by “Glenmalure” skipper Jimmy Bates, who publicly expressed his gratitude to the crew for saving his men. The event not only commemorated the 1970 rescue but also paid tribute to the broader legacy of the Dunmore East lifeboat station.

Celebrating a Legacy of Service

The occasion also honoured two retiring members of the lifeboat community. William (Bill) Barry, who served over 21 years as the station’s mechanic, received a certificate of service. Arthur Wescott-Pitt, retiring after nearly three decades as secretary, treasurer, and crew member, was presented with a commemorative vellum scroll. Their dedication, like that of the “Glenmalure” rescuers, exemplified the RNLI’s spirit of selflessness.

A Testament to Courage

The Dunmore East crew’s actions in November 1970 remain a powerful reminder of the risks lifeboat volunteers face—and the lives they save. This story, marked by both tragedy and triumph, continues to inspire. As Lieutenant-Commander Dutton noted, their success in such dire conditions was a feat of “great skill and courage,” a phrase that perfectly encapsulates the RNLI’s enduring mission.

Today, the rescue of the “Glenmalure” stands as a testament to the bravery of ordinary individuals who confront the sea’s fury to bring others home. Their heroism, honoured over half a century ago, still resonates in Dunmore East and beyond.

This colourised photograph captures a moment between two popular Dunmore personalities - Canon Dermot Jameson and Sheina Mosse, who would later become the wife of Noel Colfer. The image shows Sheina selling a flag to the Canon on the morning of the 1941 Regatta, a simple yet poignant picture of harbour life during wartime.

The annual Dunmore East Regatta took place on Thursday, 21st August that year, drawing enthusiastic crowds from Dunmore, surrounding areas, and Waterford City. The event proved remarkably successful, blessed with fine weather and spirited competition that matched or even exceeded previous years. While some events like the sailing race for yawls, the Ladies' Swimming Race, and the girls' under-16 swimming competition were cancelled due to insufficient entries, the day was far from quiet.

In a humorous twist of fate, several sailing competitors were notably absent, having abandoned the races to take advantage of a fortuitous shoal of fish spotted that day. The cheerful atmosphere was enhanced by the Barrack Street Brass and Reed Band from Waterford, conducted by Mr. M. P. Flannery, whose musical selections provided a pleasant backdrop to the festivities.

The ever-popular pillow fight, held on a pole extending over the water, once again drew crowds and laughter as competitors inevitably took their turns taking " a ducking" in the harbour. The quay itself was a colourful spectacle, with the Dunmore lifeboat and other boats in the dock, along with several buildings around the village adorned with bunting.

Credit for the event's success went to Mr. John Murphy, Honorary Secretary, and his dedicated committee, whose efforts maintained this nautical tradition even during challenging times.

The all-important Regatta result were as follows:

Sailing Race for Yawls — Cancelled.

Open Pair-Oared Race for Boys under 15 years — Messrs. Murphy and Shipsey, 1st; Messrs. Campbell and Lawlor, 2nd. Three competed.

Pair-Oared Punt Race — Messrs. Jepson and Murphy, 1st; Messrs. Kennedy and Madden, 2nd. Three competed.

Open Pair-Oared Punt Race — Doherty Bros., 1st; Messrs. O’Mahony, 2nd; Messrs. Heffernan and Power, 3rd. Four competed.

Pair-Oared Punt Race — Messrs. Power and Kelly, 1st; Messrs. Roche and O’Mahony, 2nd. Four competed.

Sculling Race (one oar) — Mr. Whittle, 1st; Mr. Heffernan, 2nd.

Pair-Oared Boats (to be rowed by amateurs—ladies and gentlemen) — Mr. and Miss Jepson, 1st; Mr. and Miss O’Mahony, 2nd.

Swimming Race for boys under 16 — Master Breen, 1st; Master Healy, 2nd.

Pillow Fight on Pole projecting over water — D. Murphy, 1st; — W. Kennelly, 2nd.

Race for Four-Oared Yawls, not exceeding 24 ft. — M. Fitzgerald's Crew, 1st; Mr. Walsh's Crew, 2nd.

Racing Boat winners.

Pair-Oared Punt Race (confined to Army) — Pte. Heylin and Vol. Dalton, 1st; Sgt. McKenna and Pte. T. Furlong, 2nd.

Pair-Oared Punt Race (confined to the Marine and Maritime Inscription Service) — Messrs. Kelly and Walsh, 1st; Messrs. Connors and Walsh, 2nd.

Four-Oared Yawl Race — Won by Heffernan's Crew.

Open Pair-Oared Punts (to be rowed by lady and gentleman) — Mr. and Miss Jepson, 1st; Mr. O'Mahony and Miss Power, 2nd.

Punts (rowed by one man) — P. O'Mahony, 1st; T. Whitty, 2nd. There were three competitors.

Marine Tug-of-War — Won by Mr. O'Connor's crew.

Tug-of-War (on land), confined to members of the Army, Marine and Maritime Inscription Services, L.D.F., and L.S.F. — Won by the L.D.F.; Army, 2nd.

Tug-of-War — Kilcor and Woodstown defeated a scratch team.

"This image of Canon Jameson and Sheina Mosse, paired with these accounts of the regatta, captures Dunmore's remarkable resilience - how even as war raged, the people of the village clung to their traditions with quiet determination, finding normalcy and joy in simple gatherings by the sea."

There are some sights from childhood that stay with you forever—vivid, almost dreamlike, as if they belonged to another world. For me, one of those was the SS Sisyphus, the Board of Works’ bucket dredger, making its slow, laborious journeys in and out of Dunmore East’s Harbour.

To my young eyes, the Sisyphus wasn’t just a dredger—it was a steamboat straight out of the American South, the kind you’d see in films and TV shows, chugging up and down the Mississippi with gamblers in waistcoats and saloon girls in frilly dresses. The great clouds of steam billowing from its funnel only added to the illusion, while the constant rotation of the buckets seemed almost like a paddlewheel, churning the water as it carried its passengers toward some grand adventure. I even imagined that the little house on the raft—visible in the foreground of the photo—was where cheaters at cards were held until the guards could come and lock them up in the barracks. After a day spent in the convent school, hoping the nuns wouldn’t ask me anything, I was entitled to a few fanciful thoughts.

In reality, the Sisyphus was a far more practical vessel. Its job was to drag the bottom of the harbour, scooping up mud and silt with a chain of buckets that descended through the bow. The system was hardly efficient—clanking and groaning as the buckets lifted their heavy loads before tipping them unceremoniously into the hold. But there was something hypnotic about its movements, a rhythmic, almost Sisyphean struggle against the sea (fitting, given its name).

Yet, for all its mundanity, the Sisyphus had a certain romance to it. Steam ships were already a rarity by the time I was a child, and the sight of its funnel belching smoke as it worked the harbour lent Dunmore East an air of industry from another era. It was a relic of a time when machinery was still visible in its workings—when you could hear the hiss of pistons and the clatter of chains, when labour was something you could see.

These days, dredgers are sleeker, quieter, and more efficient. But none of them will ever capture the imagination the way the SS Sisyphus did—at least not for a wide-eyed child who, for after school moments, thought Dunmore East might have its own little piece of the Mississippi.

The photograph captures Dunmore East on a day swallowed by fog—thick, damp, and persistent, likely around 1967. It was one of those mornings when the harbour disappeared behind a grey veil, the kind of fog that seeped into donkey jackets and left shirts clinging with moisture. The Board of Works crew called it a "wet time" day—not from rain, but from the mist's heavy, soaking presence.

In the photo, Eddie Cullinane stands apart—ever the eager one, ready to work despite the gloom. It might have been a Monday, with the heads of some of his work mates still woolly from the weekend, as foggy as the weather itself. Eddie can be seen leaving the shed with his sleeves rolled up, impatient with the delay, while the rest of the crew loitered in the shed's shelter. You can also see one man hesitating in the doorway, peering into the mist. I can hear him now: "Are you sure it’s safe out there, Eddie? You could fall in the dock!" Eddie, never one for idle talk, would have shot back something like: "Anything would be better than listening to all this pub talk from ye lot." That was Eddie—a man who’d rather be working than wasting breath, even on a day when the fog seemed determined to keep the world at a standstill.

Eddie got plenty of days to do the work he loved, but this fogbound Monday in 1967 kept him idle. The persistent mist obscured the harbour, reducing the crew's normal productivity to slow movements and complaints. What makes the photo compelling isn't just the weather—it's the contrast between Eddie's determination to work and his co-workers’ hesitation to brave the fog. The image captures a typical worksite dynamic: bad weather, reluctant labourers, and one man who'd rather work than talk.