The Gillian Nicholson Collection

"The photographs below feature the “Butcher” Power family, who, through selling meat, groceries and beer, were always at the heart of life in the village. They also bring us back to the quay in Dunmore East — a place where something was always happening, even when it appeared that nothing much was going on at all. Boats rested against the wall between trips to sea, conversations stretched longer than intended, and children somehow managed to stay underfoot without ever being told to move too far away.

The quay was workplace, playground, meeting place and grandstand all in one, and these photographs preserve those everyday moments that rarely seemed important at the time, but mean much more now.

The images were kindly shared by Gillian Nicholson, daughter of Max and Helen “Power” Nicholson and some were loaned to me by Peter Power in 2005. My sincere thanks to Gillian and Peter for making these photographs available and allowing a few more stories from the village and the quay to surface once again."

The two children in this photo are John Martin and Helen Power, and it was taken around 1945 or ’46. John was sporting a fabulous haircut at the time. Possibly he had been to my grandfather’s salon, as many children left there in a hurry with similar haircuts once he produced the clippers.

During the late 1970s, when punk rock was a popular music trend, many teenagers spent fortunes on haircuts like the one seen here. John was clearly ahead of his time, having perfected the look some thirty years earlier. He was a real trendsetter.

This photograph was taken in Falloon around 1968 and shows Helen Nicholson standing with her mother, Katie Power. It appears to be a fine summer’s day, though if you know Falloon at all, you’ll understand that a breeze would have been part of the arrangement. There’s hardly a day there when something isn’t flapping — be it washing on a line or a strand of hair refusing to behave.

I’d say Katie was overseeing proceedings, keeping a steady eye on whatever task was unfolding. Mothers of that generation had a way of supervising without seeming to do so — present, watchful, and quietly in charge.

Parked beside them is the unmistakable little Mini, the iconic car of the 1960s. First sold as the Austin Seven and the Morris Mini-Minor, it later became known simply as the Mini — and nowadays the “Classic Mini,” to separate it from its modern descendants. By today’s standards it was a small car, but back then it was capable of holding what felt like half the parish. I’ve often heard it said that eight could fit in comfortably. I suppose people were indeed smaller in those times, or perhaps just better at folding themselves into tight spaces.

Here we see Gerry O’Neill and Max Nicholson, suited and booted at the Waterford Rugby Football Club dinner dance in 1963. Tuxedos sharp, bow ties more or less straight, and glasses in hand, they appear to be enjoying a rather refined mix of Milk and Alcohol. Who would have thought a rugby celebration could look so civilised — at least it did for the photo session.

This photo of Heather O'Neill and Helen Nicholson, was also taken at the Waterford Rugby Football Club dinner dance in 1963. While the menfolk battled it out in a scrum at the bar, the ladies sat back and enjoyed a gin and tonic. No doubt they discussed the pressing issues of the day and the emerging fashions, all the while keeping an eye on the front row at the bar.

It was a time of great change in Ireland, and women were beginning to come to the fore. By 1982, women were playing international rugby themselves and had taken their rightful place at the bar counter, side by side with their more rugged male counterparts.

But in 1963, women were considered more genteel and ladylike, and were often happy to let the men handle the rough stuff.

Gerry and Max, Still Partying.

The night may have worn on, but the two boys didn't wear out.

In this colourised photograph, we see Katie Power returning from one of her daily cycles, a familiar and reassuring sight around the village of Dunmore East during her lifetime. Whether travelling uphill or downhill, it made little difference to Katie — she moved along at her own steady and dependable pace, never hurried and never delayed.

She may well have been returning from a trip to Falloon when this photograph was taken, as no hill in the parish was ever considered too steep for her bicycle. The gateway she is entering here led to the Power family home at the time, a place long associated with village life.

Today, the site is occupied by the Centra supermarket. One suspects that, had it existed in Katie’s day, she would have run the business with the same quiet efficiency and determination for which she was known.

This photo of the harbour in Dunmore East appears to date from the 1950s. It looks as though a few yachts must have crept in quietly while the real working boats were out beyond the Hook, hauling nets and earning their keep. The harbour, usually alive with the business of fishing, seems in this moment to have taken on a more leisurely air.

Still, no matter how many yachts lined the quays, the harbour’s true identity was never in doubt. It was built on fishing, shaped by it, and always waiting for the working boats to return and set things right again.

I’d say this photograph was taken around 1966 or perhaps 1967, and it captures a moment of great upheaval — one of the last remaining sections of the old harbour being removed as reconstruction gathered pace. Stone walls and grassy banks that had stood through generations were being lifted away, making room for progress. It must have felt like watching part of the village’s memory being dismantled stone by stone.

What makes it all the more remarkable is that this transformation was happening against the wider backdrop of what became known as the “Herring War”. While tensions played out at sea, closer to home the harbour itself was being drastically reshaped. Improvement was necessary, of course, but it came at a cost — and not just in stone and banks of clay.

One of the most visible casualties of the works was the annual Dunmore East Regatta. On Friday, 24th June 1966, the News and Star carried what must have felt like a body blow to many locals:

“The 100-year-old Dunmore East Regatta will not be held this year.”

The committee explained that their reluctant decision was influenced by the present state of the harbour and a feeling that local support was lacking. With reconstruction and enlargement works ongoing, it was simply impossible to stage a successful regatta. The quay, once alive with colour, bunting, and spectators leaning over the rails, was now a building site. Amenities were limited. Access was disrupted. The very space that had hosted over a century of celebration was, for the time being, unrecognisable.

The statement carried a tone of disappointment but also of hope. The committee expressed the wish that, once harbour works were completed and local enthusiasm revived, the “colourful local event” would return. In the meantime, six offshore sailing races would still be run by the Sailing Club, four of them for the News & Star Trophy — a reminder that while the regatta was diminished, it was not entirely extinguished. Many members of the Regatta Committee were also members of the Sailing Club, and vice versa, so the spirit of the event still flickered on the water, even if the quayside celebrations were absent.

And thankfully, Dunmore being Dunmore, the social side of things refused to be silenced altogether. The Regatta Dance went ahead in the Haven on 14th August 1966, with music by the Pathfinders. If the harbour could not host its usual spectacle of sails and summer crowds, the dance floor would have to suffice. One can imagine the relief of it — polished shoes instead of red dust and fish scales from the quayside, music instead of machinery, laughter rising where only weeks before there had been disappointment.

So while this image shows demolition and change, it also marks resilience. The old harbour was giving way to the new. The regatta paused, but it did not disappear. And even in a year when pathways around the quay were impassable, the Pathfinders ensured there was still a tune to follow and a reason to gather.

Progress may have interrupted tradition in 1966, but it never quite managed to silence it.

This is a photo taken from outside the church in Killea in the early 1970s, a time when life moved at a much slower pace than it does today. There weren’t too many houses on the Killea Road at that time, and you’d be more likely to be obstructed by a herd of cows than by a traffic jam. Speeding wasn’t an issue either, as most cars struggled their way up the hill in second gear, engines grumbling in protest. Coming back down, however, was another matter entirely — gravity had a way of reminding you who was really in charge.

When I look at this photo now, I don’t just see fields — I see my childhood territory. I remember galloping around those fields pretending to be a horse, utterly convinced of my own speed and grace. I must have been sixteen or seventeen during those energetic performances. When this photo was taken, I was probably about ten — and much more sensible.

The village was surrounded by woods in those days. For the children growing up in Killea, they were our wilderness and our playground during the summer months. We’d head into the deep undergrowth and make bows and arrows from whatever branches we could find and from twine, which we always carried in our pockets. We would then promptly turn them on one another in mock battle. The arrows were sharpened with our penknives, which every boy also had. By some miracle, no one ever lost an eye. It was a different kind of childhood from the one children lead today — unsupervised, inventive, slightly reckless, and entirely active.

Autumn brought its own rituals. Weeks would be spent roaming the fields collecting mushrooms that no one ever ate. Bag after bag of them were gathered with great seriousness and absolutely no purpose beyond the thrill of discovery. It seems pointless now, but at the time it felt important — like work that needed doing.

Killea today is a different place. There’s an abundance of houses now, neat and orderly where open pasture once stretched. It’s all much more civilised. Children growing up there today are spared the hardship of having to entertain themselves in the woods, chase imaginary adventures through open fields, or dodge cattle on their way home from school.

I must say that I have great memories of my years living there, and every time I pass the remaining green fields of Killea, I feel that familiar tug — the urge to get out of the car and go for a slow trot across my old pasture.

Some instincts, it seems, never really leave you.

In this photograph, Bill Power, the butcher, is pictured with his wife Catherine, daughter Helen and son Billy Jnr.. The photo was likely taken outside the Powers’ home, which was beside the butcher’s shop in Dunmore, probably at lunchtime, as Bill is still wearing his white work coat. I would estimate that it dates from the late 1940s or early 1950s.

After a long day cutting meat and entertaining customers in the butchers shop, Bill Power liked nothing better than going for a walk with his dog, Rags. They often wandered around the harbour, and sometimes through the park or down the Island Road. If the boats were in, Bill would sometimes take orders for supplies, which he would have ready early the next morning.

On evenings like the one we see here, the boats were out and the harbour was quiet — just Bill, Rags, and the photographer, who was possibly his wife, Catherine. They were free to savour the simple pleasures of 1950s village life, and thanks to this photograph, we can still enjoy that moment more than 70 years later.

Here we see Bill and Catherine Power enjoying a quiet moment in the garden. They were possibly discussing whether Billy or Peter was the better storyteller — a hard choice for them to make.

Here we see a number of boats tied up in the harbour in Dunmore East, probably during the 1950s, or certainly before harbour development work began in 1963. Fishing was good in the 1950s, and it was decided that a bigger, safer harbour was needed to accommodate the large number of boats fishing out of Dunmore at that time.

This is the Polarmay, a ship that visited Dunmore East in a hurry one Saturday night during the 1970s. A full account of this extraordinary visit can be read about after the next photo.

One Saturday night in the late 1970s, a strange thing happened in Dunmore East — not an unusual occurrence, you might think, but this was out of the ordinary even for Dunmore. A Swedish research vessel, which had been at sea for several weeks, spotted the lights of the village on their horizon. That day, the last of the vodka aboard had been drunk and the crew were starting to get uneasy. They had heard many stories about the legendary “Bill the Butcher’s” bar, and when they realised they were within three miles of it, the captain set a course for Dunmore.

By the time they reached the mouth of the harbour it was 11.20 p.m., just ten minutes to closing time. The captain decided not to bother berthing at the quayside and instead made straight for Stoney Cove, tying up at Goosey Rock. Within seconds the crew were ashore and making their way up the steps behind the Fisherman’s Hall. Out of breath, they ran towards the Butcher’s Bar and salvation. However, when they reached the front door, they could hear time being called inside. They could smell the drink and their tongues were hanging out.

Peter Power was on the door and apologised to them, explaining that no drink was ever sold after hours on his premises. A more forlorn bunch of Swedes he had never seen. Taking pity on them, he suggested they might try further down the road.

And so they made their way to the Ocean Hotel, not expecting much. To their surprise, Mr Gallagher held the door open for them. Luckily for these thirsty sailors, the Ocean could sell vodka all night long to Swedish visitors under the “Jolly Mariner Act” of 1977. Overjoyed with their welcome they sang ABBA songs into the early hours of the morning, accompanied by Brendan on the guitar.

As no damage had been caused to any boats when the captain steered the vessel ashore, they were free to depart again the following day, their hold filled with the finest vodka Swedish money could buy.

By lunchtime the next day, the ship was seen on a zigzag course heading towards Sweden. It was an unusual event for a ship to pull in at Stoney Cove, but given the circumstances, who could blame them? 

Crowds Thronged to Dunmore Regatta:

One of the biggest crowds ever seen, attended the annual regatta in Dunmore East on August Bank Holiday Monday, 1961. Favoured by excellent weather conditions, the occasion was unanimously voted the most successful regatta to date. Rain held off until the final event was being concluded, a piece of good fortune for organisers, participants and spectators alike. A light, steady breeze provided ideal sailing conditions for the dinghies.

The day offered something for everyone. The duck hunt provided its share of excitement, while the yacht and dinghy races drew strong interest along the harbour walls and surrounding cliffs. For many, however, the highlight of this popular aquatic fixture was the thrilling speedboat race, which brought colour, noise and excitement to the waters of the harbour.

Equally impressive was the water-skiing display, where three skilful demonstrators formed a daring human pyramid, one standing on the shoulders of the other two, to the amazement of the watching crowd. The magnificent, expensive and beautifully coloured speedboats added further spectacle to an already splendid scene.

A delightful programme of music was provided by the St. Patrick’s Brass Band of Waterford, whose lively performance added greatly to the festive atmosphere throughout the afternoon. As evening fell, many of those who had spent the day by the harbour adjourned to the local Fisherman’s Hall, where the regatta dance brought the celebrations to a happy and fitting conclusion.

It was a day that showcased Dunmore East at its very best — a perfect blend of sport, music, community and seaside charm — and one that lived long in the memory of all who were fortunate enough to attend.

"The all-important results will be listed under the next photo” 

The Dunmore East Regatta of 1961 drew one of the largest crowds ever seen in the village. Blessed with fine weather, lively competition and a festive atmosphere, the day proved to be the most successful regatta held in Dunmore up to that time.

Events on the water, music on shore and a strong sense of community combined to make it a memorable occasion for all who attended.

Below are the full results from the day:

Sailing and Rowing Events:

Dinghy Race (Perpetual Challenge Cup, donated by the Ocean Hotel)

Winners: Mr. John Gibbon and Miss Jane Gibbon, Dunmore.

Yacht Race (Haven Hotel Trophy, organised by Waterford Harbour Sailing Club)

Winner: Mr. Redmond Colfer, New Ross, sailing his 18’ Medmaid.

Model Yacht Race:

1. The Asgard — Master Thos. McGrath, Dunmore

2. The Endeavour — same owner

Open Pair-oared Boats:

1. Peter Power and Liam Fitzgerald, Dunmore

2. Francis Tritschler and Michael Kennedy

Single-oared Boats (Under 16):

1. David Carroll, Dunmore

2. John Murphy, Dunmore

Pair-oared Boats (Killea and Carbally only):

1. Liam Fitzgerald and Peter Power

2. John Martin and Tim Burke

Open Rowing Race (Lady and Gentleman):

1. Liam Fitzgerald and Angela Galgey

2. Peter Power and Helen Murphy

Powerboat Events:

Outboard Motor-Boat Race

1. Mr. A. Cullen, Dublin

2. Mr. John Aylward, Waterford

Speedboat Race

1. Rev. Neil, Wexford

2. Mr. G. Murphy, New Ross

3. Mr. N. Greated, Wexford

Pillow Fight:

Winner: Master Pat Murphy, Waterford

Swimming Events:

Men’s Swimming Race, 100 yards Handicap:

1. A. Guinness

2. D. Berg

50 yards Swimming Race, Boys Under 16:

1. C. Hatton

2. Conor Molloy, Tramore

Girls Under 16 Swimming Race:

1. M. Tyrell

2. Irene Hamilton, Waterford

Ladies’ Swimming Race, 75 yards Handicap:

1. Laura Kenny, Tramore

2. G. Collins

Swimming Race, Boys and Girls Under 12:

1. Miss G. Teesdale (under 10 years)

2. Master Bill Moss, Kilkenny

Novelty and Fancy Dress Events:

Children’s Jink Race

1. D. Carroll and T. Murphy

2. T. Teesdale and M. Buggy

Fancy Dress Boats

1. Dr. Russell and family, Glasshouse, Co. Kilkenny (Goldilocks and the Three Bears)

2. Mr. G. O’Neill, Miss A. Nugent and Miss Z. Ballantine (Neptune and Subjects)

Best-dressed Crew

1. Mr. O. Norwood and family, Dunmore (Mad Hatter’s Tea Party)

2. Master N. Murphy and companions, Dunmore (Mexicans)

Most Original Entry

Master D. Carroll and Master T. Murphy, Dunmore, dressed as the crew of the Asgard.

Duck Hunt:

Prizes were shared by Mr. Owen McBride, Waterford, and Messrs. J. Burke, M. Galgey, P. Power and L. Fitzgerald.

A special tribute was paid to all who took part in the fancy dress boats, for the obvious effort and imagination that went into their displays.

Here we see a fine bunch of lads photographed at Killea Boys National School in 1975 — a snapshot of a time when fashion statements were made with knitwear and a well-shaped fringe. Quite a few of the boys were clearly dedicated followers of style, proudly sporting the famous “pudding bowl” haircut that was all the rage back then. It was a look that required commitment — and possibly a steady hand with the Christmas bowl.

They were a trendy-looking group overall, dressed in patterned jumpers, neat collars, and all whose feet were in view were wearing shoes, each one doing his best to look suitably serious for the camera. School photographs were important occasions, after all.

The boys in the front row had been thoughtfully provided with boards to lie on for the photoshoot — a marked improvement on earlier times. When I had a similar photograph taken, two of us were told to lie directly on the wet ground. Progress, as they say, comes in small but meaningful steps.

This particular photograph made its way into the Evening Herald in 1975, and I suppose they perfectly typified Irish schoolboys of the era — tidy, resilient, slightly windswept, and blissfully unaware that one day their hairstyles would provide great amusement for future generations.

"I only have some of the boys names at the moment, if I get more I will add them. Here are the ones I have."

Eamonn Gavin, , Michael Taylor, Kerry Nicholson. Sean Cullinane, Michael Cummins, Jessie Power, Rory O’Neill, Seamus Mason, Shane Lavin, and Scoby Quann.

This is the full Power family — Katie, Billy Jnr., Helen, Peter and Bill Snr. — posing for what appears to be a formal family photograph. It may have been taken in Frank Snap’s studio in Waterford, or perhaps at Annie Brophy’s, both well known at the time for marking important family occasions with a carefully arranged portrait such as this.

This photograph depicts the herring season in full swing on the quay in Dunmore East, most likely during the early 1970s. At the heart of the scene stands the South and East Coast Fishermen’s Co-op, one of the most advanced fish-processing plants anywhere in the world at the time. Herrings were salted and barrelled there by a workforce second to none, working at a pace dictated entirely by the catches coming ashore.

By the time I started working there, the old wooden barrels had been replaced with plastic ones. They came in all shapes and sizes, and the lids were forever getting mixed up, rarely creating a proper seal. The co-op also had freezing facilities for mackerel, which were transported by lorry from Killybegs. Each fish had to be placed into slots on a moving conveyor belt feeding the gutting machine. It was manageable work for a few hours, but after sixteen hours standing at the line, the strain began to tell. I remember later sitting at the counter in Bill’s, still seeing glasses sliding past me — a lingering illusion brought on by staring at the conveyor belt all day.

Sprats were frozen there as well, usually arriving from Union Hall around 4:00 p.m. on Friday evenings, just as workers were preparing to enjoy the weekend. The catch was loaded into plate freezers and had to be removed every four hours, often meaning an entire night without sleep. It wasn’t popular work, but it was done all the same — all part of the job and the season.

Before anyone went home each day, every inch of the shed had to be spotless. Not so much as a single fish scale on the floor was tolerated. I don’t know if the co-op ever received an award for cleanliness, but it certainly deserved one.

For frost or snow to be present on the pier, the weather would have needed to be extremely cold, as the salt air usually melts it quickly. The scene in this photo must have been captured on one of the coldest days of 1967. 

Men can be seen topping up barrels of herring at the bottom of the photo. This had to be done because the fish contracted after being salted, and what had been a full barrel when first packed often ended up only two-thirds full the following day. Fish would then be taken from one such barrel and used to top up the others.

On a cold day like the one seen here, the men’s hands would have been numb from the cold and from the near-frozen brine surrounding the fish. Rolling a cigarette with frozen, wet hands was no easy task. It’s easy to see why many young men today prefer working in call centres — the fishing industry was a livelihood for only the toughest of men.

Outside the Butcher Power’s in the late 1950s, a cheerful gathering pauses for the camera, their pose suggesting a celebration may well have been underway. From the left are Andy Taylor, Lily Maher, an unidentified Irish Air Corps officer, Katie Power, Helen Power, along with Air Corps members Tom Guy, John Swords and Tom Desmond. Apparently when not flying, the airmen were known to help the Powers with the saving of hay. Judging by the smiles, the visiting airmen may still have been a little light-headed — whether from high altitude flying, the Power's grass, or from being in Bill’s, any one of these reasons could have caused the effect.

On January 14, 1975, the M.V. Michael came ashore for an extended stay in Tramore. She became a tourist attraction that year, with thousands visiting the seaside resort to view her. The Munster Express covered her arrival, read on for the full story.

VESSEL GROUNDED ON TRAMORE STRAND

An able and alert navigation officer aboard a Waterford-bound container ship from Rotterdam was responsible, in large measure, for the successful rescue of seven crewmen and their captain from a German-owned coaster, which later drifted onto Tramore Strand.

The rescue, which took place early last Tuesday morning, was a tribute to the bravery of the skipper and crew of the Dunmore Lifeboat, and to the efficient management of radio communications in Tramore, Dunmore and Shannon.

Of supreme importance to the rescue operation was the Bell Lines Venture, an 1,100-ton vessel plying regularly between Waterford and Rotterdam for Bell Lines, who have a terminal on the north side of the River Suir. The Bell Venture picked up the distress signal as she headed for Waterford Harbour from Land’s End. Her navigation officer then plotted the course of the stricken ship, the M.V. Michael, registered under a flag of convenience at Famagusta, Cyprus, and owned by Alex Shipping, Hamburg, West Germany.

The Michael’s fuel injectors failed in the diesel engine and, although the engineer had a spare set, he could not fit them in the Force 11 storm, with winds of 50 m.p.h. gusting to 60 m.p.h.

The captain of the Michael sent out a distress signal when she was south of Mine Head, Co. Waterford. The signal was picked up simultaneously by the Bell Venture and the Marine Rescue Coordination Centre at Shannon. Shannon immediately set in motion the fixed communications system used for this type of emergency. The system operated from Shannon to Tramore Garda Station and Dunmore Pilot Station, issuing instructions.

DUNMORE LIFEBOAT PUTS TO SEA

The Dunmore Lifeboat received a call at 10.10 and put to sea at 10.20, skippered by Stephen Whittle and crewed by John Todd, John Curlin, John Walsh, Brendan Glody, Sean Kearns and Jofie Murphy.

Under instructions from Shannon via Tramore, they knew the exact position of the Michael through the navigation officer aboard the Bell Venture, which remained in the area throughout.

The Bell Venture’s navigation officer plotted the drift of the Michael from the moment she got into distress on the ship’s radar screen and communicated the vessel’s drift to the Coningbeg Lightship, which relayed the information to Shannon.

Throughout the rescue operation, the Bell Venture kept shore authorities fully informed of the stricken vessel’s position.

The Michael carried a cargo of 600 tons of coal from a Polish port bound for Letterkenny, Co. Donegal.

After making its way through mountainous seas, the Dunmore Lifeboat located the Michael shortly after 1 a.m. at the entrance to Tramore Bay. At 1.35 a.m., the Bell Venture signalled its willingness to assist but later discovered through radio conversations that the water depth was too shallow, placing the vessel in considerable danger.

Meanwhile, the Michael, driven before the wind from Mine Head past Helvick Head towards the Tramore coastline, was listing seriously to port, preventing the lifeboat from coming alongside.

Lifeboat skipper Stephen Whittle decided it was now or never as searchlights played on the vessel. If the crew did not abandon ship, they would likely be victims of her destruction on the rocks between Brownstown Head and Dunmore.

It was decided that the crew should launch a liferaft. After donning lifejackets, the seven crewmen boarded the raft one by one. The liferaft remained tied to the stricken vessel until it was discovered there was no knife to cut the line, leaving the survivors in danger of being dragged under should the ship sink.

Eventually, Captain Sulliman found an old pair of scissors and the rope was cut strand by strand until they were free to drift. The Dunmore Lifeboat then came alongside, took them aboard, and radioed that the rescue operation had been completed at 2.30 a.m. They proceeded to Dunmore with all crew safe and well.

The rescue was completed approximately 2½ to 3 miles from Great Newtown Head at the entrance to Tramore Bay.

The crew comprised two Turks, two Greeks, one Englishman (the cook), and two Germans. They were accommodated at the Ocean Hotel by Mr Stanley Power, Secretary of the Dunmore Lifeboat, who said the entire crew was suffering from severe exposure and fatigue.

LIFEBOATMAN’S STATEMENT

Mr John Todd said afterwards:

“We came up against the casualty, which was drifting at three knots towards land about three miles away. This made the rescue more dangerous, as we were running into low water and eventually Stephen Whittle got a message to the German skipper to abandon ship as we could not get alongside her.

An inflatable liferaft for ten men was thrown over and the men had difficulty boarding it because it had a roof. When they did, they faced the problem of getting clear. They were unable to cut the lifeline, having forgotten to bring a knife, and there was a real danger they might be sucked under if the vessel went down.

By a stroke of luck, the skipper found an old pair of scissors in his pocket and managed to cut through the inch-and-a-half rope, which was also taped. They drifted down to us and we hauled them aboard and brought them back to Dunmore East.”

ACTIVITY IN TRAMORE

Tramore Garda Station was a hive of activity during the four-hour rescue operation. Gardai were brought from Waterford to assist, while many officers patrolled the cliffs watching for the vessel. Around 50 volunteers from local organisations awaited instructions at the station.

Mr Gerard Stubbs, Tramore Coastline-Saving Superintendent, was notified at approximately 11.00 and summoned members of the Tramore Coast Life-Saving Service for a possible breeches-buoy rescue — Mr Paddy Murphy, Thomas Power and Willie Power.

Members of the Tramore Inshore Lifeboat also stood ready. Some travelled to Newtown during the rescue but visibility was extremely poor due to darkness and enormous seas.

The following morning the Michael was discovered on Tramore Strand, lying high and dry by 11.00 a.m. It is believed she first struck the beach at about 5 a.m. She measured approximately 162 ft in length, with a net tonnage of 430 tons and gross tonnage of 1,030 tons. While grounded, the vessel officially became the responsibility of the Receiver of Wrecks, and a round-the-clock Garda watch was maintained.

"On May 26th 1975, a report in the Irish Press stated that the Michael had been successfully re-floated, however, this report turned out to be somewhat premature.”

SHIP REFLOATED AT TRAMORE

Local Men’s Victory:

Hundreds of holidaymakers gathered in sunshine on Tramore Strand yesterday to watch two local men successfully refloat the Cypriot coaster Michael, which had been driven aground in a 75 m.p.h. gale on January 14.

The two men — Robert Hayden of Sallypark and Michael Fardy of Tramore — carried out what is being hailed locally as an outstanding feat in the shipping history of Waterford Port.

The 800-ton coaster had been firmly wedged in deep sand, and local tourism bodies had appealed to the original shipping agents, Clyde Shipping Ltd., to remove what they considered an eyesore.

Arrangements were made to unload the vessel’s 600 tons of Polish coal, which was transported by truck and sold locally in Tramore. Difficulties surrounding refloating led the agents to obtain permission from the German owners to sell the vessel.

Mr Hayden, a terminal manager at the Bell Line container shipping centre at Waterford Port, and Mr Fardy, a radio officer in Waterford, purchased the ship and attempted the refloating operation.

Although neither had previous merchant seamanship experience, they employed former Irish Shipping Ltd. marine engineer Mr Dave Walsh to carry out essential repairs.

More than 8,000 gallons of bilge oil were safely removed without pollution, and concrete was pumped into damaged sections of the hull to seal cracks.

After further repairs and excavation of a channel behind the vessel, the Michael began to move on recent high tides and was successfully refloated yesterday.

The new owners planned to sail her around the Waterford coast and up the harbour estuary to berth above Suir Bridge in Waterford City for final repairs and restoration to seaworthiness.

EPILOGUE

The Ship That Wouldn’t Quite Leave:

Unfortunately, the refloating of the Michael was not the success first reported in the Irish Press. Though freed for a time from the grip of the sand, she never truly left Tramore Strand. Instead, the ship began a slow and reluctant departure, remaining on the beach for years afterwards and quietly becoming part of the landscape — and the memories of those who walked it.

Piece by piece, salvage crews cut her away. Steel plates vanished and sections were hauled off, yet what remained stood stubbornly against wind and sea. The Michael refused to disappear all at once. Through the late 1970s and into the early 1980s she lingered — a rusting hulk on the sand, attracting curious visitors long after the excitement of her arrival had faded.

More than once people believed she was finally gone, only for winter storms to strip the beach bare and reveal her again. Twisted ribs and torn plating emerged from the sand like the bones of some great sea creature. Children climbed across her remains, balancing along iron frames that still, in their imagination, looked very much like a ship. For many growing up in Tramore, the wreck was simply always there — part playground, part mystery, and part reminder of what the sea could do.

By the mid-1980s the Michael had collapsed significantly, her structure flattened by Atlantic storms and weakened by years of salt and corrosion. Tramore’s ever-shifting strand slowly claimed what salvage crews had left behind. There was no final ceremony, no last towing away, and no recorded moment when she officially departed. The sea itself completed the task.

By the late 1980s — sometime between 1987 and 1989 — the last substantial sections disappeared from view, swallowed by moving sands and time. What remained lay buried beneath the beach or scattered offshore, carried away by the same tides that had first brought her there.

And yet, the Michael has never entirely gone. After heavy storms, fragments of metal still occasionally appear, briefly revealed before the sand closes again — small reminders that beneath the smooth strand lies the memory of a ship that quietly became part of Tramore’s story.

For a generation she was a landmark, a meeting place, an adventure. Long after the newspapers stopped writing about her, the Michael faded slowly from sight, until one day the beach looked empty again, as though she had never been there at all.

Except, of course, parts of her still are.

I’m not entirely sure of the age of this photo; the 1920s is only a guess. The original image was either very faded or overexposed when taken, so a clear view of the woman’s face was not visible. The face seen here has been generated using Photoshop. The rest of the photo, however, is an accurate depiction of the Power home at the time it was taken. 

This is another view of the quay, which I’d say probably dates from the late 1970s or perhaps the early 1980s. It was most likely taken during the herring season, judging by the line of trawlers packed tightly into the dock. They’re moored so closely together that it brings to mind the old legend that you could walk from one side of the quay to the other across the decks of the boats without ever touching land. It was certainly one of the busiest times of the year in the village — engines humming, crews unloading, and the harbour alive with work from dawn to dusk.

This is a photo taken on Peter Power’s First Holy Communion day. Also in the picture are his sister, Helen, Andy Taylor and Peter's father, Bill Power Snr., on the right. 

The photo was taken in the Powers’ front garden, beside the butcher’s shop and pub. I know that when I made my Communion, the nuns laid on a big breakfast for all the children, consisting of a rasher, a sausage, and an egg with a slice of bread. It made learning all the prayers worthwhile. I’m not sure if this was the practice in Peter’s time, but he was probably fed up eating rashers and sausages anyway, coming from a butcher’s background.

This photograph shows Bill and Catherine Power standing in the doorway of the village butcher’s shop. I’d say it was taken sometime in the 1950s, when the butcher’s shop was one of those places that seemed to sit at the very centre of life in Dunmore. It was part business, part meeting place, part news office, and part theatre, depending on who happened to be inside the door.

I can still remember being brought in there by my mother when I was a child. Andy Taylor worked behind the counter, and he always seemed to have a smile ready, along with a slice of luncheon sausage for me if I was lucky. To my young mind, that made him a man of almost magical generosity. My mother told me he had lost the tip of a finger to the slicer he used every day, which gave the machine a terrible importance in my imagination. Afterwards, when we got home, I’d eye the packet of luncheon with great caution, half expecting to find some unfortunate extra bit among the slices. Thankfully, the shop maintained a better standard than my imagination did.

I also remember a weighing scale in the shop, the kind where, for a penny, you could discover your true measure in life. Mine, as far as I can recall, was always three stone. Either I was the most consistent child in Ireland, or the machine had settled on that figure years before and saw no reason to change it for anyone. There was also a dog about the place, a contented creature who looked as though he had done very well out of the butchering trade. He had the comfortable, well-kept look of an animal who had no need to chase anything, as it was all likely to come to him in due course.

I can still picture young Billy Power in a blood-stained apron, lifting joints of meat onto hooks with a steady hand, as if he had been born knowing how to do it. To a child, it was a fascinating place — the smell of the meat, the sound of the cleaver, the brown paper parcels, the dog, the talk, the comings and goings. It was ordinary village life, of course, but when you were young it felt like the whole world.

Later on, the Butchers Bar would provide its own share of stories and entertainment in my life, and no shortage of memories either. But in those earlier years, it was the butcher’s shop that held my attention. That was where the colour was, where the characters were, and where a simple trip in with your mother could feel like an outing worth remembering.

This photograph was taken on Stoney Cove in 1939. Among those pictured, from the left, are Tony Coffey, Cormac Kennedy, Master Walsh, Helen Murphy nee Walshe, Una Murphy, Miss Church, Katie Power, Peter and Billy Power, Una Coffey and possibly Master Coffee. I’m afraid I don’t have the full names of all those featured.

This is another photo of the harbour in Dunmore East that was once used as a postcard. I’m sure people around the world were amazed to see proof that such a place existed in reality, and not only in their dreams. 

The photograph was taken by Robert French, one of the great recorders of Ireland as it once was. Born in Dublin in 1841, he worked for the Lawrence photographic studio and went on to capture an extraordinary number of scenes all over the country. Towns, villages, quays, churches, country roads, big houses and little corners that might otherwise have slipped away unnoticed all found their way before his camera. By the time his working life was done, he had created a remarkable visual record of Ireland from the 1860s up to the years before the First World War.

He was not a studio man in the usual sense, arranging stiff portraits indoors, but a man of the road and the open air, turning his lens towards the real Ireland — the places people lived in, worked in, passed through, and sometimes took for granted. That is why his name appears so often beside old views of harbours like Dunmore East, where the everyday business of life and the beauty of the place met quite naturally.

At the time, these photographs were commercial images, sold to visitors and sent across the seas as keepsakes. Now they have become something far greater: little windows into a vanished Ireland. French left the Lawrence firm in 1914 and died three years later, but his work remains everywhere. And if you come across an old Lawrence postcard showing an Irish street, village or harbour, there is every chance that it was Robert French who stood there, steadying the camera, preserving the scene for the rest of us before it drifted away.

This is another regatta photo, this time dating, I’d say, from the late 1950s. It was originally a postcard, which suggests the scene was considered worth sending far beyond the village. Cars seem to have been plentiful at the time — obviously there was no great worry about petrol prices then. Some of them look as though they were nearly in the dock itself, I suppose people wanted to get very close to the action without having to walk anywhere.

It must have made for a lively scene, with the colourful boats, the crowds gathered along the quay, and cars packed in at every angle wherever a space could be found. There was probably very little talk then of traffic management, pedestrian zones, or preserving the visitor experience — if there was a space near the regatta, into it you went.

I’ve often thought that Dunmore would benefit greatly if all non-local cars had to park a couple of miles outside the village. It might be a small inconvenience at first, but people would soon get used to it and might even have a better overall experience of visiting the place. Perhaps donkeys could transport those too lazy to walk the last leg. It would provide local employment for whoever was put in charge of the asses, while also supplying fertiliser for the village gardens. To me, banning the motors seems like a no-brainer.

This photograph shows Pilot Edward Fitzgerald of Dunmore East, and it is one that was loaned to me by Peter Power some years ago. Edward, or Ned, as he was also known, and his wife, Kitty, lived beside George and Maizie Roche, near the Butcher Powers. This photo was taken from the Powers’ front garden. In his later years, Ned moved to Gregaridda, where his niece Tessie looked after him until he died. He was also an uncle of Paddy and Neddie “Duffin” Fitzgerald.

Edward Fitzgerald was one of the Dunmore East pilots who rendered voluntary assistance when the M.V. Cairngorm went aground off Creaden in 1939. That alone tells us something of the man. It speaks of courage, readiness, and a willingness to step forward when danger was at hand. In 1940, he was also elected as the Dunmore Pilot Station’s representative on the Waterford Pilots’ Committee, further proof of the regard in which he was held by his colleagues.

His name also appeared in the Waterford News and Star in February 1937 in connection with the arrival of the Kattegat, then a newly built grain ship. The vessel had come from Australia by way of Belfast, carrying 3,500 tons of wheat, and attracted considerable attention when she arrived in Waterford because of her unusual and modern design. Built in Copenhagen the previous year, the Kattegat was described as an all-steel motor vessel of 4,245 tons gross and 2,320 tons nett, fitted with Samson posts instead of the familiar mid-deck masts. These were placed along the sides of the ship, joined by crossbars, and were said to be of great advantage in handling cargo.

The newspaper reported that Edward Fitzgerald piloted the vessel from Belfast to Waterford, handing her over at Passage to Pilot Pat Rogers. The ship’s skipper, Capt. Gjurod, paid tribute to the work of the pilots and noted that the vessel had encountered much rain and fog on the passage. Praise of that kind was not lightly given, and it says a great deal about Fitzgerald’s ability in the wheelhouse.

Edward Fitzgerald was yet another Dunmore East man who excelled quietly at his work and was recognised for it, even if only now and again in the newspaper columns. Men like him carried a great deal of responsibility on their shoulders. They guided ships through difficult waters in poor weather, in fog, and in rain, often without any fuss being made about it afterwards. That was simply the job, and they got on with it. Still, it is good that names like his were written down from time to time, because they remind us that much of what kept a port moving safely depended on local men with skill, judgement, and nerve. Edward Fitzgerald was plainly one of those men, and this photograph preserves the face of someone Dunmore East had every reason to be proud of.