The Dunmore-East.net Website

"Back in 2005, Ringo Regan, Louis O’Dwyer and I began gathering old photographs, stories and memories with the idea of creating a website devoted to the history and people of Dunmore East.

As far as I can remember, Ringo was living in Australia at the time, but he was very much the driving force behind the project. Louis was the technical expert who built the website and got it up and running, while I had a few old photographs that seemed suitable for inclusion. We exchanged countless ideas by email and, before long, other Dunmore people began sharing their own photographs, memories and stories with us.

It is worth remembering that, back in 2005, social media as we know it today had yet to become part of everyday life. In many ways, Dunmore-East.net filled the role that Facebook and other social media platforms would later take on, giving people with connections to Dunmore East, both at home and abroad, a place to share photographs, and memories of the village.

A great deal of work and writing went into the website, much of it contributed by people who generously shared their family photographs and recollections. Remarkably, the original site is still online today at www.dunmore-east.net.

The pages that follow in this section are intended to serve as a back-up and lasting record of some of the material from that original website. I have received Louis’s permission to reproduce it here, and I am sure that Ringo would also have approved."

“There is a town in north Ontario, With dream comfort memory to spare,

And in my mind I still need a place to go, All my changes were there.”

Folk singer Neil Young spoke of his hometown in the above lines. The website we have created is focused on a time past in the village, when most of us never realised that one day it would change into what it is today.

Dunmore has changed in a similar fashion to many other seaside towns in Ireland. It is the price of progress, and whether progress can be totally defined in terms of wealth is debatable. Ireland herself has changed; the Raleigh bicycle and the May processions now belong to another era, the time of our parents.

Tomás O'Crohan spoke of his book The Island Man, which chronicled his life as the last remaining islander on the Blasket Islands. He said of writing the book: “I wanted to set down in writing the tale of my people, my island, and our way of life, because the likes of us will never be seen again.” Dunmore, too, had a time, a way of life and a people, the likes of which will never be seen again.

Childhood was the beginning of all our journeys, from our parents, who joyously held us aloft on the day we were born, through our school years and into our teens, and finally to adulthood. Those are the formative years, and most of us take our surroundings for granted. Youth is often wasted on the young, and to some extent we took Dunmore for granted. Like Neil Young, we lived through our changes surrounded by its unspoilt beauty.

The herring seasons, the fishermen who fished them, the quay workers, fish buyers, barrel boats and German and Dutch luggers will never be seen again in Dunmore. The farmers who ploughed fields in the cold months of spring, sitting on old grey Ferguson tractors with nothing but an overcoat for shelter, are now thin on the ground.

The poorer people of the village, the characters who cut grass, painted fences and dug graves for a few large bottles, are all gone now, their memories left to those who cherish the fact that they were once among us. They belonged to a working-class community that cared for them in its own unique way. They were accepted and looked after, the only available social services often being a kind neighbour, shopkeeper, hotelier or publican.

The pint of Guinness, once the working man's drink, has now become exclusive both in price and consumption. Most of Dunmore's bars are now restaurants, and the days of John Molloy's Ship and Con Barlow's Anchor are gone. Pat Flynn in Aggie's and Mick Power at Bill's still carry on a traditional business, but the pub may someday become just another tourist attraction as Ireland embraces multiculturalism, boy racers and take-home liquor barns.

The pub once belonged to the village. Fish were caught at the bar, and weather and work were discussed, as in one famous conversation that took place in Bill's in the early seventies, when salmon fishermen were blaming the “Yanks” for a spell of bad weather. The suggestion was that rockets to the moon were having an impact on Ireland's climatic conditions.

Such was the innocence of the time, but that innocence is now long gone. The Celtic Tiger has roared, and with it has come wealth and prosperity. In Ireland's case, this has been long overdue, and the best of luck to all who stand to benefit.

In the process, however, we have “lost the living room.” We have lost some of our sense of identity, and Dunmore has been no different. Let us not try to over-glamorise the past or pretend that everything back then was excellent. There were hard times in Dunmore, as hard as in any other village of the day, but the people persevered and displayed a sense of neighbourliness that is fast fading with our newfound prosperity.

We hope this site will remain for those who want to take a little peek into Dunmore's past. As children, Westcott Pitt flew over our heads and landed at Pitt's Airfield, Mikey O'Toole delivered milk to the door, and Billix McCarthy delivered newspapers. Twink Ivory cut the grass in St Andrew's, and the pub was the sanctuary of the working man.

We were sent to bed on summer evenings with the light still shining in the sky. In our bedrooms, we fell asleep, only to awaken again and go through another change on our way to growing up.

Louis O'Dwyer 2005

I have often looked at the quaint country villages that you see on holiday programmes on TV and wished I were there. Some are scattered throughout the English countryside and usually feature old houses from yesteryear and a river that snakes its way through green fields, which always seem to contain an abundance of tall trees heavy with summer foliage.

The houses and cottages probably date back to Tudor or Victorian times and, for the most part, are inhabited by successive generations of the same families, who are quite content to leave well enough alone, apart from the general upkeep of their traditional dwellings. The pace of life appears slow. People stop and converse about the weather and local gossip, while across the old stone arch bridge, fly-fishermen cast their lines from the banks of farmers' fields into the winding stream. Every now and then, a river barge passes, putt-putting towards the lock gates to continue its journey into the warm summer's day.

Food at the village inn usually features a breakfast of bacon, eggs and sausages; the lunch menu offers an array of meat pies and pasties; and for dinner, salmon, trout, duck, beef and chicken can be enjoyed, as well as pheasant or quail, which make a regular appearance. Of course, nowadays the food is prepared by a chef of noted distinction, whose array of gravies and sauces adds something special to the everyday and ordinary, transforming it into the extraordinary, with results that tease the palates of locals and tourists alike.

Why do people come to such places, you may ask? What is it about this simple scattering of houses and people that attracts visitors from all walks of life when sun-drenched holidays are readily available just two hours away on Spanish or Greek islands?

The answer is simple. People are tired of the hustle and bustle of today's existence, and swapping one type of confusion for another, although it may be sun-baked, does little to relax the spirit during those precious few days each year that we know as holidays.

The golden goose of these village excursions can often manifest itself in giving the traveller a chance to revisit a time that seems to have stood still, yet has somehow managed to embrace all the trappings of modern life, including speculation and an ever denser and wealthier population.

The English planning authorities have managed to preserve such treasures, although that's not to say that areas have not also been ruined by holiday developments in England, Wales and Scotland. A few jewels still remain protected under a particular legal precedent, not available to Irish planners, known as Crown Land. This particular arrangement allows the British version of our Planning Board to defend and make final decisions free from expensive legal actions by developers who feel they have been hard done by a local planning authority or government body with regard to proposed developments.

But what of Dunmore and other seaside towns and villages in Ireland, whose masters have nothing under the Constitution to defend their decisions?

Dunmore has always had its share of tourists who were prepared to leave well enough alone, in the knowledge that the simple, natural beauty of the place was the golden egg that enticed them back year after year. Then someone must have said, Wouldn't it be nice to build a summer home here? Then another followed, and then another.

There was no shortage of encouragement for such lunacy, as Section 25 tax relief was available to those who earned enough to even consider tax relief, and so the cuckoo began to lay its eggs in the nest of the golden goose.

Along with the cuckoo laying its eggs, the very essence of local planning was also compromised. The responsibility of decision-makers to foster and nurture the existing local population, and to allow people to continue building homes for their families, suffered and eventually became extinct because no one could realistically afford the asking prices for building sites, which were far beyond the reach of the ordinary working person.

Of course, it was not just the tourists who began to strangle the goose. There were plenty of locals who couldn't wait for the chance to sell their land or develop it into yet another eyesore for tidy sums of money. Money can come and money can go, but Dunmore and other such places should have been protected from such ignorance.

Today, I read that the beaches are so polluted that bacteria are making doctor's appointments because even they feel sick. The cuckoo's eggs hatched, and out went those of the golden goose. The goose herself was finally hung by a rope of newfound fortune and an inability to realise the obvious.

Sometimes, if you overdress the lady, she begins to look like a gaudy tramp. Is this not now the case with Dunmore?

Ringo Regan

This photograph was taken in the early 1970s and shows two young men from Dunmore East, Louis O’Dwyer and Thomas McGrath, posing at the Ballyseedy Monument near Tralee in County Kerry. At first glance, it’s a typical photograph of its time: long hair, flared trousers and two young fellows out on their travels. Yet the monument behind them commemorates one of the darkest episodes of the Irish Civil War.

In the early hours of the 7th of March 1923, nine anti-Treaty Republican prisoners were taken from Ballymullen Barracks in Tralee to Ballyseedy. There, they were tied together around a land mine, which was then detonated. Eight of the men were killed; only Stephen Fuller survived, having been thrown clear by the force of the explosion. 

Those who died were Patrick Buckley, John Daly, Patrick Hartnett, George O’Shea, Timothy Tuomey, James Walsh, Michael O’Connell and John O’Connor. The killings came only a day after five National Army soldiers had been killed by a booby-trap explosion at Knocknagoshel, and Ballyseedy is widely regarded as a brutal act of reprisal carried out during the bitter final months of the Civil War. 

For many years, the official account claimed that the prisoners had been killed accidentally while clearing a Republican mine. Stephen Fuller’s survival ensured that a very different story was told. His account described how the prisoners were bound together around the explosive before it was deliberately detonated. 

The monument seen in the photograph was erected decades later to preserve the memory not only of the men who died at Ballyseedy but also of the wider suffering endured during the revolutionary period and Civil War in Kerry. Its dramatic figures give some sense of struggle, grief and sacrifice, standing today as a reminder of a time when former comrades who had fought together for Irish independence found themselves on opposing sides of a bitter conflict.

And so this old photograph contains two very different stories. In the foreground are Louis and Milo, two young men from Dunmore East enjoying the freedom and optimism of their youth. Behind them stands a monument to events that had occurred about fifty years earlier and which, for many Irish families, were still very much within living memory.

It’s one of those photographs where the ordinary and the historic meet: two young men on a day out, pausing for a photograph at a place forever associated with one of the saddest chapters in modern Irish history.

Even though he liked the finer things in life, Ringo wasn't afraid to get down and dirty when the occasion called for it. Here he is seen clearing the deck of the Wisemans' trawler after a party had been held on board. 

"This is a photo of Connie Fancy, sent to me by Ringo Regan some years ago. The story below is a tale written by Ringo about his experience of lobster fishing with Connie back in 1972. It was originally published on www.dunmore-east.net"

THE CRUSHING OF CONNIE’S LOBSTERS

During the summer of 1972, I was content to sit at Coxtown Cross and watch the world go by. The other young fellas of the village, all of us on our summer school holiday break, were involved in drift-net fishing for salmon.

I was not that fussed. My first job had been a disaster. I had been employed by a local chicken farmer of the day, Paddy O'Neill. Paddy had handed me a few sheets of fine sandpaper and instructed me to scrub hen shit from individual hen eggs prior to packing them into large crates.

I must have scrubbed a million eggs and removed a ton of hen shit when, suddenly, one day, I dropped one of the large crates full of shiny eggs, and Paddy immediately offered me a V.E.R. — Voluntary Early Retirement.

I was therefore not that tempted to run out, find another job and receive another arse-kicking, only this time at the hands of some Long John Silver-type salmon fishing boat skipper. My outlook on life was one of love, peace, tranquillity and playing my guitar. My hair was long, and my platform-style boots had a purple stripe across the toes, with zips up the sides.

The boots reached above my ankles and were a source of constant irritation to my Auldfella, who reckoned they were similar in fashion to boots worn by old women he remembered from growing up as a child on Sherkin Island. My bell-bottom trousers and long hair also irritated him. I'm sure he thought that most of the young fellas of the day were not actually victims of fashion or fad but were undergoing a gradual gender change which would eventually see Dunmore East inhabited by fine, strapping young women, all married to transsexuals.

Whether or which, I needed to do something to keep him and the Auldwan quiet, as they had both reached boiling point on account of what they perceived to be my indifference to honest toil.

I did go down the pier and look around for a job, but I knew that most of the jobs on the salmon boats had already been taken, as most of my friends had taken them.

Then, one Saturday afternoon, the unthinkable happened.

The Auldfella arrived home from Powers Pub and, under the influence of a dozen large stouts, announced that he had secured me a berth on a fishing boat. My mind raced as I tried to figure out what skipper in Dunmore did not have a crewman. Every skipper I thought of had some misfortunate individual on the deck of a motorboat or in the saturated confines of an open punt. I couldn't think of one who hadn't.

“And who is going to take him on?” queried my doubting mother.

“Connie Fancy,” announced the Auldfella.

“Connie,” he continued, “has no one to help him with the lobster fishing, and I just had a drink with him, and he's willing to take the other fella to sea.”

The last few hours in Bill's flashed before my eyes. I could imagine Connie and the Auldfella negotiating my contract of sale over pints of stout and Paddy whiskey.

“I'll take him, Paddy,” Connie would have said. “I'll take him, Boyyyyyyy, long hair and zipped-up boots or not. I'll make a Mon of him.”

“Good man, Connie,” the Auldfella would have said. “Will ye have another pint?”

Christ, I thought, I have been press-ganged into a trip with Connie. Me own Auldfella has sold me onto the high seas for stout.

“You're to be at Portally,” he said, “at 6 a.m. in the morning, outside Connie's house.”

In order to keep the peace, I agreed to the challenge — and a challenge it turned out to be.

The next morning, I arrived at Connie's at 6 a.m., and we put to sea from Portally Cove in his punt. Connie had fished out of the cove for most of his life and was a well-known Portally man. He had three sons, Buddy, Jimmy and Anthony, who were also fishermen, but of course they were all fishing for salmon.

Connie, being older, was happy enough to stick to his lobsters — not a bad choice, considering prices were reasonable and few were chasing them at that time.

Anyway, no sooner had we cleared Portally Cove than Connie turned off the outboard motor attached to the stern of the punt. It was a new motor, and he was very proud of it. The only thing I had noticed about the engine was that it had to be turned to face the opposite direction if one wanted one's boat to “go astern”.

“Now, Boyyyyy,” he said, “put out your oars and we will row.”

He should have said, “You will row.”

I don't know why he did not want to use the engine, but I never rowed as much in my entire life as I rowed on that particular day. I rowed east and west, from Red Head to Ballymacaw and back again, until I could barely sit up in the punt.

We were hauling lobster pots, and by midday we had a dozen lobsters, which Connie placed on the floor of the punt up near the bow and covered with an old oilskin jacket.

We then decided to go in for dinner, as Connie reckoned he could see Mick D — Dennis Power, another Portally resident — standing at his door, and therefore it must be dinnertime.

It was from then on that my demise as a lobster Fishermon began.

Connie started the engine, and we headed towards the mouth of Portally Cove. The idea was that when we neared “the frail” — an endless rope tethered from one side of the cove to the other, onto which the punts were tied — I was to grab it and bring us gently to a halt.

I was more than concerned, however, when we entered the cove and I saw that Connie had not reduced speed. We were only a few yards from the frail when he finally tried to throttle back on the horsepower.

Because of the “turn the engine about” thing, he could not stop the punt in time and shouted at me to “run to the bow” and try to stop us going ashore by grabbing hold of the frail.

I did as he commanded and leapt into action, landing near the bow. I failed, however, to grab the rope, and we ended up striking Portally beach at about 20 mph and coming to a sudden halt.

It was then, in the silence, that I heard Connie moan as if he had been shot.

When I looked at him, he was staring at the floor area of the bow beneath my feet. I was still standing on the old oilskin onto which I had jumped a few moments previously while trying to stop the boat.

It was then that it dawned on me that, in my panic and haste, I had jumped on the lobsters and crushed the life from their little bodies with my zip-up platform boots.

They were all dead.

Connie was dejected.

We tied up the punt and walked up from the cove to his house, where we stood by a fence smoking a pair of Woodbine cigarettes.

It was then I got the sack again — twice in a fortnight.

“Ye killed them, Boyyyyyyyy,” he said. “Ye killed them. They're crushed and dead. I will have to boil them for me tea. 'Tis a long walk,” he continued, “to Coxtown.”

“Here,” he said, “take me wife's bicycle and ride home.”

He did not tell me to return.

I took Mrs Power's bike and rode down from Portally to Coxtown. I told the Auldfella about killing the lobsters; it was as if I'd told him I'd killed a bunch of his close family relatives.

To add to my troubles, my mother did not believe that Connie had given me the bike and tried to suggest I'd hijacked Mrs Power's bicycle to ride home.

Like I said, it was the summer of '72, and I was content to grow my hair and play guitar.

I never returned to sea with Connie but remained friends with him for years afterwards. He often reminded me of the day I crushed his lobsters.

“'Twas the hair that blinded you,” he would say. “Boyyyyyy, you were a fine Mon but for the long hair.”

This is an expanded A4 version of a photograph taken in 1973. Pictured beside the wall at the Bay Cafe are John “Busty” Griffin, Eamonn “Yaw” Power, Ringo Regan and Sean Murphy. The wall was a familiar gathering place for anyone waiting for the bus into town and, as often happened, it also provided the perfect setting for a photograph.

Among the treats available in the cafe at the time were Smoky Bacon Hula Hoops, Twirls and HB Ice Burgers, which were Sean Murphy’s favourite ice cream. Any boy boarding the bus for town from this stop would usually have a supply of sweets and a packet of ten Major to keep him going on the long journey into the big city.

Upon arrival in town, and provided you weren’t heading to the pictures to see Bruce Lee, the Wimpy would have been the first stop. You could nearly smell the onions frying for the burgers as soon as you stepped off the bus down by Mackey’s. The conversation would probably have centred on Bruce Lee and whether it might really be possible to break a cement block with a kung-fu kick or karate chop.

The year 1973 was a great one all round, though I was a bit too young to enjoy it properly. Anyone old enough to grow facial hair seemed to have sideburns like Noddy Holder. I remember cutting the fur from the hood of an anorak and sticking it to the sides of my face in an attempt to achieve the Noddy look. Unfortunately, it only made me look foolish and not at all like a Glam Rocker, so the idea was quickly abandoned. Trying to look twenty when you were only twelve was never easy; I simply had to bide my time and suck a Kojak lollipop. 

This is Jim Mason, a well-known pilot and fisherman, photographed beside the wall leading down the Island Road, most likely sometime during the 1970s. It is a simple but memorable portrait of a man whose working life was closely connected to the sea and harbour.

This photograph was taken in the Ocean Hotel sometime during the mid-1980s. The two musicians were wonderful entertainers who never failed to please an audience. Their repertoire included songs by artists such as James Taylor, the Eagles, Neil Young and Townes Van Zandt, to name but a few.

They had a great ability to connect with the crowd and always seemed to finish their set with the audience wanting just one more song.

This photograph was taken during the early 1980s, when Ringo captained Paddy Glody’s trawler, the Polaris. Nick O’Toole was also fishing aboard her at the time.

Ringo always remembered those seafaring days with great fondness: huge catches, big money and plenty of craic. It was hard work and the hours were long, but the friendships, excitement and stories made it a memorable period in his life.

This photograph was taken at the Mercy Convent Debs Ball, held in the Tower Hotel in July 1976. Noel Duffin, a Passage East man, is pictured escorting Anne Murphy, while Ringo Regan accompanied Shirley Mason.

It was a particularly glamorous occasion, with everyone dressed in their finest for the night. Ringo had not worn a suit since his Confirmation, so the fact that he was persuaded into one again shows just how special the evening must have been.

This photograph of Nicky Bowe probably dates from the early 1990s and was originally uploaded to dunmore-east.net by Ringo Regan. Nicky was supervising the building of one of Ringo's houses at this time, but he must have been enjoying a well-earned break when the camera caught him practising his first love, hurling.

Nicky has always been a man capable of turning his hand to almost anything. I remember working with him in the South and East Co-op during the 1980s. Whenever a difficult or unpleasant job had to be tackled, Nicky was invariably the first to volunteer. No task seemed too demanding for him.

During quieter moments at work, he often entertained himself by jovially antagonising Mayor Brendan Griffin, although the Mayor did not always appreciate the humour quite as much as Nicky and the rest of us did. He was also a gifted mimic and could impersonate many local characters, with his impression of the parish priest, Father Aylward, being particularly memorable.

When his years working on the quay came to an end, Nicky embarked on another career as a DJ, bringing music and dancing to far-flung destinations such as Ballymacaw. His musical talents extended beyond playing records, however, as he is also an accomplished tin-whistle player, a skill he learned under Mrs Grant, the music teacher who visited Killea School once a week during his childhood.

In more recent years, Nicky has become the chief groundsman in the Dunmore East Park, where praise is heaped upon him almost daily for the wonderful condition in which he keeps the place. Even the flowers appear to have smiles on their faces. I have heard that he plays them a tune on the tin whistle each evening before heading home, although I cannot confirm whether that’s true. One thing is certain though: Nicky has nimble green fingers and remains a true force of nature.

These men were Nicky Bowe's assistants on the building of the house. Ringo named them as, Sean and Coney, on the left, and Eamonn Cullinane and Ernie Moyser, on the goal.

When Maurice Glody and Paddy Mullally landed this magnificent salmon, they did not send it off to Áras an Uachtaráin for the President’s dinner, as was sometimes the custom when an exceptionally large fish was caught. Instead, they carried it to the door of a far more important man—Tommy McGrath—so that he could admire their catch and, no doubt, confirm that it was every bit as big as they claimed.

The photograph captures the two proud fishermen displaying their prize outside Tommy’s house. After all the admiration and discussion had finished, the salmon was probably taken away and sold. Judging by its size, it must have fetched a very good price.

Here we see Declan Butler driving one of his older tractors. It is somewhat reminiscent of the one Mr Douglas used to drive in the television series, Green Acres, back in the 1960s.

A photo of the Lower Village which possibly dates from the early 1970s or maybe the late 60s.

This colourised photograph was taken at a fundraising event for Nurse Barry, Dunmore East’s Jubilee Nurse, probably sometime in the early 1960s.

Seated on the floor at the front is George Roche junior. In the front row, from left to right, are Nurse Ellen Barry, I'm unsure of the identity of the lady beside her, in the middle is Maisie Roche. The woman beside Maisie is thought to be Annie Molloy, while seated next to her is Mary Moll O’Sullivan.

Standing at the back, from left to right, are George Roche senior, possibly Cissy and John Baldwin from Passage, and Nellie McDonagh on the far right.

Nurse Barry was the daughter of Nicholas Barry, a farmer from Annesboro, Carrick-on-Suir. He had also been the proprietor of Annesboro Corn Mills, which remained in production until 1940. Nicholas lived to the remarkable age of ninety, dying in 1960, which was considered a great age at the time. Ellen had two sisters and a brother: Rita Barry, who lived in England, and Jane Barry of Carrick-on-Suir and Jimmy Barry, who I think also lived in Carrick.

As Jubilee Nurse, Ellen provided an important service to Dunmore East and the surrounding districts. During the 1960s, she held a monthly clinic in the Reading Room at Cheekpoint on the first Tuesday of each month. She travelled there in her Morris Minor, a car that would have been familiar to many families throughout the area.

One of her journeys became the subject of a court case following an accident near Coolbunia on 26 November 1963. Nurse Barry’s car was struck by a motorcycle ridden by Martin Hutchinson of Kilcullen Upper, County Waterford, who was hurrying back to work at about forty miles an hour. He failed to negotiate a bend properly and swerved across the road. 

Mr Hutchinson suffered minor injuries and was treated both at the scene and later in hospital. If you had to collide with somebody’s car, I suppose a nurse’s car was as fortunate a choice as any.

When the case came before the court in January 1964, Martin freely admitted that he had been in the wrong. He was fined one pound, with the judge remarking that it was seldom he had heard such a candid defendant.

The photograph is a reminder of the regard in which Nurse Barry was held. Fundraisers such as this were not simply social occasions. They were held because Jubilee Nurses were not originally supported in the same way as nurses employed through a fully state-funded health service. The system had developed as a voluntary district-nursing movement, with each area usually forming a local committee, known as a District Health Association, to employ and support its nurse.

Although county authorities and public health schemes gradually became involved, local communities still had to contribute towards the cost of maintaining the service. A district generally needed to be able to provide accommodation and help pay the nurse before it could secure one.

Money raised locally could go towards the nurse’s salary and pension, travelling expenses, medical supplies, and the upkeep or replacement of transport. In a rural district, a bicycle or car was essential, as the nurse might have to cover a wide area, make home visits, carry out midwifery duties during home births, and hold clinics in neighbouring villages. Historical accounts describe committees raising money through dances, garden fetes, subscriptions, and door-to-door collections. 

It took a lot of background work and organisation to keep this service running, but I suppose because of the local involvement, she was appreciated all the more.

This photograph, believed to date from the late 1960s, was taken outside the old tennis pavilion that once stood in the park in Dunmore East.

Pictured from left are Patrick Glody, Brendan Glody, Liam O’Regan, Jim Walsh, Seamus O’Regan and, partly hidden from view, Dermot Murphy. Liam and Dermot have both since passed away.

"Jim Walsh is a cousin of local man Sean Murphy and is thought to be living in Swansea today."

Whether any of the lads were regular tennis players is difficult to say, but the hut was clearly put to good use. It probably served as much as a meeting place as it did for its original purpose. It offered shelter, somewhere to gather and, no doubt, a convenient spot to smoke cigarettes. It was the original ‘Men’s Shed’ in Dunmore.

The fisherman in this photo is Tommy Kehoe from Ballymacaw. It dates from 1977, when he was fishing aboard the Girl Margaret. As you can see, at least one fish was caught that day.

Back in the 1970s, it was commonplace for local fishermen to bring their laundry with them when heading out in the boat, where they were sure of getting a good breeze. It was some consolation, if no fish were caught, that at least the washing got dried

This iconic photo dates from 1982 and captures the day the legendary “Butchers Beer Squad” set off for Thurles to support Waterford in the Munster hurling final against Cork. It was a great sporting occasion, at least in theory, though for some of the men pictured here the hurling may not have been the main attraction.

The squad gathered outside the Butchers Bar in Dunmore East, full of confidence, thirst, and civic pride. Some of them hadn’t been outside the door of the Butchers in years, never mind as far as Thurles, but on this day they were ready for the road. Waterford were playing Cork, the sun was shining, the bus was waiting, and the refreshments had clearly been organised with great care.

At the head of operations was the Beer Meister himself, Alan “Big Al” Kearns, who did his level best to keep discipline among the ranks. It was not an easy assignment. The atmosphere was high before the bus had even left Dunmore, and by the time they reached Thurles, the occasion had already proved too much for some of the travelling party. A few, it was said, never managed to get off the bus at all.

As for the match itself, memories were vague by the time the squad returned home. No one seemed too sure who had won, whether Waterford had scored, or if any of them had actually seen a sliotar struck in anger. But that hardly mattered. The day had become less about the result and more about the expedition itself — a grand outing, a mighty session, and a chapter in Butchers Bar folklore.

It was a bit like what is often said of the 1960s: if you can remember it, you weren’t really there.

A photo taken in the 1950's, either outside of Eddie's house, or possibly the Strand. 

This is a photo that was taken in the Candlelight Inn by Billy Power at Joefy Murphy’s wedding back in the 1970’s. Those in the picture are, left to right: Tommy McGrath, Con Barlow, Sean Kearns, Brendan Horgan and Jim Mason. Michael O'Dwyer can seen in the background.

A photo that dates from around 1900. A scene that still looks similar to this day.