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

One of Nicko Murphy's fleet of trawlers, the Silver Spruce.

This photo of Con was taken in the Candlelight Inn.

Here we see Louis O'Dwyer and Neil "Dodgo" Whittle with a lady who is unrecognised.

Leo "Liffey" Whittle, Anne Hickey, Whiskey Regan and Tom “T.C.” Coleman enjoying a quiet night out together. 

As the night wore on, Leo was spreading himself about a bit. He is pictured here with Mary Barlow, Shirley Barlow and a friend. 

Paddy chooses to take a seat at the bar in the Anchor. 

In this photo Paddy is joined by his wife, I think, and Walter AbrahamssÖn, who seems to be amusing the couple no end.

Paddy "The Baron" O'Regan provides the musical entertainment on the night. The man on the left looks a bit like Eddie Don, though I'm not sure. The person in the middle is unknown.

Ann Murphy and Ringo are also pictured in the bar on this Saturday night in 1973. Ringo can be seen staring intently at the hat he is holding. It dawned on him then and there that owning such a hat might help him become a singing star. It was at that very moment that he first thought of becoming a Lonesome Hobo. 

This is Conor "Chaucer" Barlow, sporting a 1970s Afro hairdo, no one messed with him.

Maurice Glody is seen here in a guitar playing pose with a large fish, I hope he was able to get a tuna out of it.

This is a crewman on one of Nicko Murphy's boats, looking very happy with himself after doing battle with a swordfish. I'm afraid that I don't know his name, or that of the crewman.

This is the Gary Óg, laying on it's side during a break from fishing. It was a boat so big that there wasn't enough water in the dock to keep her afloat at low tide.

This is another of Nicko's boats, this one is believed to be the Noz Dei

This is the Gary Óg again, this time out of the water comletely, possibly to have her bottom painted.

This was one of John "Guno" Murphy's boats, the Sharabaun, on the breakwater back in the 1980s.

Here we see a swordfish being hauled out of the hold of another of Nicko's boats.

It's thought that the man in this punt might be Davey "Muck" Murphy, but as of yet it's unverified.

I'd say this photo dates from the early 1980's, when Dunmore was still a relatively busy fishing port.

Another photo likely taken in the 1980's, there was no end to the village;s prosperity back then.

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