The Night the Sea
Almost Swallowed Dunmore

Remembering the 1962 Storm.

March 7, 1962 dawned like any other day in Dunmore, but by nightfall the village would be forever changed. What began as a typical spring morning soon became the worst storm in living memory - the second such catastrophe to batter the coast in just five months. As winds reached hurricane force, Waterford City found itself flooded twice in one day, with the evening tide pushing three feet of seawater through the quays, drowning shops and leaving vehicles bobbing like corks in its wake.

Dunmore East suffered the storm's full wrath. The fishing pier, the community's economic heart, took a brutal beating. Roger Shipsey's curing station disappeared beneath the waves, taking £10,000 worth of equipment and inventory with it. Nearby, the Board of Works buildings crumbled as if made of paper, while the pier's sturdy timbers were ripped apart like matchsticks. Initial damage estimates reached £50,000 – a huge sum of money in those days.

Even Nimmo’s lighthouse couldn't withstand nature's fury. Floodwaters silenced its generator, leaving crews scrambling to install temporary lights as waves pounded its compromised foundation. The cliffs at the Shanoon bore permanent scars from the assault, fracturing under the pressure and sending tons of rock crashing into the sea below, leaving the Black Knob forever severed from the village.

The harbour transformed into a scene of surreal destruction. Fish barrels and boxes became projectiles in the churning water while a car, lifted by a freak wave, was carried fifteen feet uphill before being dropped like a discarded toy. Near the Protestant Church, parked vehicles disappeared under foaming spray, abandoned by owners who couldn't reach them. Boats tore free from their moorings - smaller craft washing inland, larger vessels smashing against the rocks.

The Lost Beauty of the Black Knob.

Had the fierce storm of March 7th, 1962, never ravaged the Dunmore East coastline, the legendary rock formation known as the Black Knob would still be joined with the village today. The view from the High Wall would remain unspoiled—we'd still be able to walk over the ancient archway to the spot where families once gathered for picnics at the cliff’s edge, laughing as the wind carried their voices over the sea. Perhaps nowadays it might have been repurposed as an extra parking space on the Shanoon, accommodating visitors in camper vans eager to witness the sea view.

But nature had other plans. The storm in 1962, one of the most violent the village had ever endured, tore through the landscape with merciless force. The storm was a brutal reminder: nothing is truly permanent. The land we cherish and the views we take for granted, can all vanish in a single night.

In my photo, I’ve tried to imagine what might have been with the Black Knob still intact, standing tall against the horizon. Although it has to be said that the empty space between the rocks today, somehow speaks louder than any reconstructed photo. It tells a story of impermanence, of how even the mightiest stones yield to time and tide.

And so, we are left with memory and myth. The villagers still speak of the awful storm of 1962 and the Black Knob in hushed tones, as if the absence of it's archway is a ghost lingering over the cliffs. Visitors pause to take photos, straining to picture what once was. The lesson remains: cherish the beauty before you, for the sea does not wait, and the wind shows no mercy. Some things, once lost, are gone forever.