The Harbour Master and the Harbour Boy

Pt. 01 - Prologue

I was born on Tuesday, May 13th, 1947, in a nursing home somewhere near Baggot Street in Dublin. A few days later, I was brought to St. Andrew's Church on Westland Row to be baptised. That made me a 'Dub' - and a real genuine one, as there had been several generations of Dubliners on both sides of my family before that. I still feel that I have 'dual citizenship', having spent the first twenty-two years of my life in Dunmore East, County Waterford, the most beautiful coastal village in Ireland. This was a privilege. My allegiance and affinity to Dunmore and the Barony of Gaultier remain as strong as ever, and part of Waterford will never leave me. This always comes to the fore when any sporting or other clash of interests arises between Dublin and Waterford, and I find myself always on the side of the Decies.

May 13th, 1947 remains a date to remember and has become etched in my mind in recent years, particularly with the need for passwords and numbers to access computers. I have always used 130547 for this purpose.

I now know that I am a little younger than David Bowie (born David Robert Jones on January 8th, 1947) and Elton John (born Reginald Kenneth Dwight on March 25th, 1947). I have always been quite happy with my name and have seen no reason to change it!

I'm not entirely sure what else happened on May 13th, but I did later discover that David Hughes, a stalwart of the Lancashire County Cricket side for more than two decades, was born on the same day in Newton-le-Willows, near St. Helens in Lancashire. I followed his career assiduously after that.

My parents were Desmond and Freda Carroll. Both came from Dún Laoghaire, County Dublin, and were married in St. Michael's Church, Dún Laoghaire, in September 1937. As you can see, a full ten years elapsed before I was born, and I'm sure it must have been an anxious time at moments, wondering if they would ever be blessed with children. I was their only child.

My father had spent his early career as a cadet and then an officer in the Merchant Navy, sailing mainly from Liverpool with the Elder Dempster Line to West and South Africa, later becoming Captain Desmond Carroll. He was proud of his qualification, and in Dunmore he was always respectfully referred to as 'Captain' or 'The Captain', which pleased him. He preferred to be called Desmond rather than Des. He came from a large family that had been a household name in coal importing in Dublin around the time he was born on Leap Year's Day, 1904.

My mother's real name was Winifred, but she was never called that - only Freda. Her maiden name was Phillips. She had just one brother, my Uncle Louis Phillips, and was born in 1908. Her mother died when she was still a teenager, and she then devoted much of her time to caring for her father, never entering the workforce. She once told me she had ambitions to attend Trinity College, like her older brother (who qualified as a civil engineer), but it was not to be.

This now seems a shame, as she was a highly intelligent woman, and I firmly believe she could have achieved great success in any career or profession. Headmistress of a posh girls' school would have suited her nicely! When not managing the daily household chores at 'Daytona' in Crosthwaite Park, Dún Laoghaire, she became deeply involved in hockey - first as a player, then as an umpire and administrator, eventually becoming President of the Leinster Ladies' Branch of the Irish Hockey Union.

During the Second World War - or The Emergency, as it was euphemistically known in Ireland - my father joined the Maritime Inscription, the name for the Irish Navy at the time.

From the time my mother and father married in 1937, their home was at 13 Trimleston Avenue in Booterstown, best described as being about halfway between Dublin City and Dún Laoghaire along the coastline. Trimleston Avenue was situated where Merrion Road, leading from the city, became Rock Road which continued as far as Blackrock.

It was a very convenient location as the train station was close by, giving my father easy access to either Dublin or Dún Laoghaire. He was then sailing from these two home ports, first with the Palgrave Murphy Shipping Company and later as an officer with the Irish Lights Commissioners based in Dún Laoghaire.

At that time, Booterstown—called Ballybothyr in the fifteenth century (from the Irish Baile an Bhothair, meaning "town of the road")—was beginning to develop as a suburb. St. Helen's Road had been built a few years earlier, and now Trimleston was being developed, with further expansion reaching toward the Stillorgan Road after the war. Before this, Booterstown mainly consisted of large estates, with the only other housing on or near Booterstown Avenue—a long road running from Rock Road (near the Punch Bowl Public House) up to Mount Merrion.

St. Helen's House dominated Booterstown's landscape, serving as a Christian Brothers' provincial residence and novitiate from 1925 until their departure in 1988. The building has since been converted into the luxurious Radisson SAS St. Helen's Hotel. Another notable feature of Booterstown was its connection to Kevin O'Higgins, the Irish Minister for Justice, who was assassinated at the junction of Cross Avenue and Booterstown Avenue on July 10th, 1927, while walking to Sunday Mass.

In 1941, my parents moved to Cobh, County Cork, as my father was stationed at Haulbowline, the Irish naval headquarters. Haulbowline, an island in Cork Harbour, was then accessible only by ferry from Cobh. The town—previously called Queenstown—had been one of the Treaty Ports returned to Irish control in 1938, ending a long British naval presence in the area.

With the British Navy's departure, Cobh suffered economically, leaving many houses available for Irish naval personnel in the following years. Cobh (or Queenstown) remains famous as the last port of call for the ill-fated Titanic in 1912 and as the birthplace of Jack Doyle, the "Gorgeous Gael"—a renowned boxer and singer with a notorious reputation in the 1930s—who was born there in 1913.

My parents rented a house in Rushbrooke, a short distance from Cobh, near where the Verolme Dockyard would later be established. The location was convenient to the Cork-Cobh railway line and within cycling distance of Cobh—essential at a time when cars were scarce during the war. Life in the naval service must have been stressful at times for both servicemen and their families. Yet, my parents seemed to enjoy a vibrant social life with fellow officers and their families.

My parents had a maid during their time in Cobh, which I've always found interesting. When I visited Cobh as a small boy, I saw the house they rented—a fine red-brick house with a garden stretching nearly to the water's edge. Other officer families lived nearby, and my parents formed lifelong friendships there. Close by was the famous Rushbrooke Lawn Tennis Club, where many happy afternoons were spent, along with card games and socializing at the Commodore Hotel and other pubs in Cobh—sometimes even cycling as far as Carrigtwohill on Sunday afternoons.

My father's duties included securing Waterford Harbour by laying mines across the estuary where it narrowed near Duncannon (on the Wexford side) and Passage East (on the Waterford side), as ships sailed upriver to Waterford City or New Ross.

He was in command of one of the six MTBs (motor torpedo boats) at the disposal of the fledgling navy that was employed to protect our neutral ports against the might of Hitler and Churchill. Operating in Waterford Harbour would have meant that he often went ashore in Dunmore East and had become familiar with it during The Emergency years. Duncannon had a fort dating back to 1588 when it was built in expectation of the Spanish Armada. During The Emergency it was taken over by the Irish Army and would have been the most strategic point in the defence of Waterford Harbour and the Port of Waterford. I have seen a photograph of MTB1 leaving the harbour at Dunmore during that time, but I am not sure if my father was on board that vessel.

When The Emergency ended, my father left the naval service. Younger officers were offered new roles in the service which was to become a permanent part of the Irish armed forces. However, my father was overage and was not eligible to remain. At that time, my mother was pregnant. I always recall as a young boy my mother constantly asking me to pray for "Dr. So-and-so" from Cobh. I simply cannot recall his name now, but he must have been a special person to her. He must have been her gynaecologist and very important to all of us.

Doctor Raymond Cross was the gynaecologist who looked after my mother back in Dublin, and he was always being prayed for too—though not with the same intensity as the Cork doctor! It cannot have been easy for my mother, as we were told that 1947 was one of the worst winters ever. By the time I was born, my parents were back living at Trimleston Avenue in Booterstown. My father was out of work for that period. He told me in later life that he did not wish to return to sea now that he had a family to take care of.

He was appointed Harbour Master of Dunmore East in the autumn of 1947, which meant yet another house move—but one I am sure he never regretted, as both my mother and father spent their most fulfilling and happiest years in Dunmore East from 1947 until my father passed away in 1969.

Being appointed Harbour Master at Dunmore East meant taking up the residence provided at Harbour Lodge beside the pier. Therefore, my parents never sold their house in Dublin during all the time they were away, and I now happily live with my own family at 13 Trimleston Avenue.

Pt. 02 - Harbour Boy

My father took up his duties some time before my mother joined him. Mother and baby may not have been well enough to travel until some time later. A very good friend of my mother called Nora Huet, who had played hockey with her for many years and who remained very involved in Leinster and Irish ladies' hockey circles for many years, drove us to Dunmore. Nora came from a well-known family in the Dublin motor trade, so she probably had a very good car at her disposal. Jack Lynch was on hand to help unload the luggage and asked my mother, "What's in the basket?" It was me in a Moses basket on the back seat. This was not the Jack Lynch who became Taoiseach, but another Jack Lynch who was the foreman of the men working at the harbour under my father's supervision.

Jack was to play a huge role in all our lives over the coming years. He was truly one of nature's gentlemen—very loyal and always dedicated to my father. I am sure he would have had the fires lit when the car arrived from Dublin, as there was no central heating.

Dunmore East is located on the County Waterford coastline where the estuary of Waterford Harbour forms and leads up the River Suir to where it joins the River Barrow at the Barrow Bridge opposite Cheekpoint, a small fishing village on the Waterford side of the river. Between Dunmore East and Cheekpoint is Passage East, another small, picturesque fishing village with the beautiful Woodstown Strand close by.

On the Wexford side of the river there were also three fishing villages: Duncannon, Arthurstown, and Ballyhack. It was possible to cross the River Suir from Passage to Ballyhack on a small ferry as a foot passenger. The car ferry did not arrive until many years later.

People living in Dunmore East tended to drop the 'East' and refer to the village simply as Dunmore. The village itself divided into two parts: 'The Dock' where the harbour and pier were located, and 'Lower Dunmore' on the way to the Catholic Church at Killea. A beautiful park running down to the cliffs separated the two areas. On the opposite side of the park was St. Andrew's Church of Ireland and several large houses including the Haven Hotel, which had originally been called Villa Marina. It had originally been the home of the Malcolmson family. Stretching entirely around Dunmore as a backdrop were woods which give the entire village a beautiful panoramic view, particularly from the sea. The wood and park had been left in trust to the people of Dunmore for their enjoyment. Reaching Dunmore by sea had the advantage of seeing all the beautiful small coves and beaches stretching around the bay, many of them with colonies of noisy seabirds called kittiwakes. For different reasons, these all became favourite places of mine, and I retain fond memories of all of them.

Our house was a particularly cold one. It was partly a one-storey cottage dating probably from 1814 when Alexander Nimmo, a famous Scottish engineer, commenced work on the new harbour at Dunmore to accommodate the packet station for ships which carried the Royal Mail between England and Ireland. Records tell us that the work consisted mainly of a massive pier or quay with an elegant lighthouse at the end. Nimmo's original estimate had been £20,000, but at the time of his death in 1832 £93,000 had been spent, and the final cost was £108,000. By then (1837) the harbour had started to silt up, and the arrival of steam meant that the winding river could be negotiated easily, so the packet station was transferred to Waterford.

Some additional bedrooms had been added to the house by the time we arrived there in 1947. Photographs taken around the turn of the 20th century show only the old part. It was a very damp house because of its age. In winter my parents overcame this and kept the house as cosy as possible by keeping coal fires burning all day and having plenty of paraffin heaters in the hallways and bedrooms, which we always called The Aladdin—a trade name for this type of heater. They could be a bit smelly and difficult to maintain but were effective nevertheless.

Our house stood at the head of the pier, and from my bedroom window I could see the lighthouse at its end, all the boats in the harbour, and far across the bay to Laweesh Rock—a headland of distinctive red sandstone rock bordering Councillor's Strand. To the left lay 'The Island', part of the harbour's natural formation where kittiwakes nested on the cliffs each summer. It was a truly magnificent view; I could spend hours gazing out as the scene constantly changed. No two days were ever alike—always a new vessel entering the harbour while another departed or shifted berths, the comings and goings creating an endless maritime ballet.

My father's predecessor had been called Major Wilfred Lloyd, and he had retired after a long time in the position. He had a son called Llewellyn who, I suspected, had slept in my bedroom long before it was mine. A compass had been carved into part of the wooden window frame, and we always credited Llewellyn with this. From a very early age I therefore knew where north, south, east and west were located, and knew that if the wind was blowing from the north, it was coming from the direction of Councillor's Strand—this was the wind that was feared as the harbour was unsheltered from this direction.

A south-easterly wind or breeze came across from the Hook Head lighthouse located at the other side of the Waterford Harbour estuary at the end of the long Hook Peninsula. The pier gave shelter to the boats from this direction. Winds, tides, weather forecasts and conditions would form an integral daily part of our lives over the coming years.

There were two distinct groups who used the harbour, pier, and all the facilities provided. First were the fishermen, who made their livelihood and provided for their families through fishing. Then there was a more diverse group who used the harbour for pleasure in rowing boats, sailing dinghies, yachts, and motorboats. In addition, visiting yachts came to Dunmore East every summer, and this was a significant feature in our daily lives. Occasionally there might have been some tension between the two groups. In truth, there was far more that united than divided them, as all shared a great love for Dunmore, its beautiful harbour, and the sea itself. They all maintained the deepest respect for the sea and its power. Everyone understood that the sea was a mighty force that could claim lives at any moment. This was a lesson my parents repeatedly emphasized throughout my childhood.

If asked to briefly summarize my father's core responsibilities, it would be accurate to say his primary duty was ensuring all harbour users were properly accommodated. It was crucial that fishermen had adequate landing facilities, space to store ropes and nets, and areas to mend their nets and lobster pots. Those using the harbour for pleasure required simple access and safe, secure moorings for their boats. By and large, my father—drawing on his lifelong maritime skills and knowledge—successfully fulfilled these requirements and was well respected and liked by everyone. While fishermen used the facilities year-round, all sailing and boating activities ceased by September. Each season brought its own character to the harbour, with spring and autumn offering their own unique events and changes. There was never a dull moment!

In addition to these duties, my father was responsible for record-keeping and submitting weekly and monthly reports to the Office of Public Works (O.P.W.) in St. Stephen's Green, Dublin, his official employers. In Dunmore, everyone referred to the O.P.W. as the Board of Works. The O.P.W. also managed the harbours at Howth and Dún Laoghaire, along with Dunmore East. Together with Donaghadee in County Down, these four had been designated royal harbours, and since partition, the O.P.W. had administered those in the South. Other ports and harbours around Ireland were managed by harbour commissioners or local authorities.

As soon as I could walk, I would accompany my father on his daily patrols up and down the pier. Near our house, a set of steps led to the top of the pier wall at its starting point near Shannoon, a small cliff-top mountain where the Pilot Station stood. Several times each day, my father would take his telescope, and we would scan across the mouth of Waterford Harbour toward Hook Head Lighthouse, three miles distant on the Wexford coast at the tip of the Hook Peninsula. Sometimes we would spot an unfamiliar vessel making its way toward Dunmore's sanctuary, prompting us to speculate about its origin and purpose.

With his telescope, my father would identify all ships leaving Waterford Harbour or bound for Waterford or New Ross on the River Barrow. He could recognize many by distinctive features like their funnel markings. In the evenings, we would watch the Dunmore fishermen returning home. The number of seagulls and other seabirds swarming overhead always indicated whether they'd had a successful and profitable day's fishing—few or no birds usually meant few or no fish!

From the heights of Coxtown or Killea Church, both about a mile from Dunmore but at opposite ends of the village, there was a breath-taking view across the mouth of Waterford Harbour to the entire Hook Peninsula. On clear days, the two Saltee Islands could be seen off the Wexford coast. At night, the Hook's light flashed rhythmically across the harbour entrance. Sometimes in the distance, we could see the twinkling light of the Coningbeg Lightship anchored near the islands. The Hook Lighthouse is not only Ireland's oldest but one of the oldest in the world.

The massive tower was first constructed in the twelfth century, making it about 800 years old. Legend holds that a monk named Dubhán had maintained a beacon at the site as far back as the fifth century.

While the Hook was only three miles across from Dunmore by sea, it was over forty miles away by car, as the nearest bridge crossing the Barrow was at New Ross—fifteen miles beyond Waterford City—requiring drivers to continue through Campile and along the entire length of the Hook Peninsula to reach their destination.

The Hook has given its name to the famous English expression "By Hook or by Crook." Cromwell reportedly declared he would take Waterford City by either 'Hook or by Crooke,' meaning from the Hook in County Wexford or from Crooke in County Waterford. Crooke is located near Passage East.

Our lighthouse in Dunmore appeared small and insignificant compared to the majestic Hook Lighthouse, yet both played vital roles in maritime safety. My father promised we would visit the Hook someday, a promise fulfilled several years later.

About a mile from the Hook Lighthouse stood Loftus Hall, clearly visible through the telescope—a gaunt, imposing mansion near the bleak shoreline that looked frightening even from a distance. At that time, an order of nuns occupied the building. Local legend claimed the devil had once appeared at Loftus Hall, a story that captured my childhood imagination.

I regarded my father as the most important person in the harbour, which gave me a certain cockiness as I accompanied him on his duties. I likely considered myself his second-in-command. My mother later told me I would announce to people, "My father is the Harbour Master, and I am the Harbour Boy." I certainly lacked no self-confidence in those early years! In my youthful mind, I truly believed the harbour was mine. Who needed siblings when you had an entire harbour to yourself?

The porch of our house served as a hub of harbour activity. Visitors constantly sought information and advice from my father, particularly about weather conditions. He diligently listened to the BBC shipping forecast daily and relayed this crucial information to seafarers. A chronometer (a ship's precision clock) visible through the porch window kept accurate time, wound daily with a large brass key.

This chronometer, which remains in my possession, originally served aboard the steamship Mary Monica, built in Port Glasgow in 1879 for my grandfather's company, J.J. Carroll of 38 City Quay, Dublin. The vessel transported coal from Ayr, Scotland, to Dublin. An oil painting in my home depicts the Mary Monica battling a storm in the Bay of Biscay, with a faded inscription suggesting the year 1884.

A barometer hung nearby, its readings carefully monitored as a weather predictor—a falling barometer always signalled approaching bad weather. These forecasting methods predated satellite technology by decades. Another clock, manually set by my father each day, displayed the times of high water—critical information for all harbour users.

The small inner harbour, called the Dock Strand, dried completely at low tide. Boats would move there for hull cleaning, painting, repairs, or to remove fouled ropes and nets from propellers (a frequent occurrence). Knowing tide times and how long before refloating was essential. Tide calculations also proved vital for sailors departing Dunmore East bound for the Wexford coast toward Arklow or Dún Laoghaire.

As far as I can recall, the skipper needed to plan his voyage to be somewhere near Tuskar Rock off Rosslare when the tide turned to derive maximum benefit from the tidal flow and assist their passage. My father would have advised many seafarers at Dunmore with this crucial information.

Three workmen were employed full-time by the O.P.W. to maintain the harbour and surrounding area: Jack Lynch, Johnny Dunne, and Maurice Mahoney. During periods when additional projects were underway, temporary workers would be hired to assist Jack, Johnny, and Maurice. I spent countless hours accompanying them as they performed their duties, eager to be involved in everything. Whitewashing constituted one of their most significant tasks. Numerous areas required annual whitewashing, and everyone agreed the harbour always appeared well-kept and tidy. The slipways and sets of steps leading down from the pier—essential for accessing small boats—demanded regular cleaning as accumulated seaweed made them dangerously slippery. Much of their work centered around the section of the harbour known as The Island, connected to the end of Island Lane by a stone archway that required considerable whitewashing each summer.

At low tide, one could walk to The Island across the rocks from the Dock Strand, but when the tide came in, the only access was through the village via Post Office Lane or Island Lane. Near The Island stood a manmade structure in the harbour mouth called The Stone Churn. I suspect it may have served some purpose for naval vessels or other craft in earlier times, but by then it seemed obsolete, serving mainly as a perch for gulls and other seabirds. The Churn formed another part of the annual whitewashing routine, requiring use of the old grey harbour punt for access. In Dunmore, all rowing boats—from the smallest dinghy to sturdier vessels—were referred to as punts.

Jack Lynch, the foreman, was the same man who had been present when I arrived as a baby from Dublin. He lived with his family in Leperstown, about two miles outside Dunmore on the Waterford road, commuting daily on a small motorcycle. A wonderfully capable man, Jack could turn his hand to any task. I even remember him shoeing a horse brought to the forge that formed part of the workshops and outhouses where the men were based on the pier.

The forge fascinated me—the smoky atmosphere, sparks flying in all directions, and the constant hammering as metal objects were repaired or modified. The bellows used to maintain the fire proved particularly exciting, and I was occasionally allowed to operate it. The process concluded with the heated metal being plunged into a bucket of water, producing a dramatic sizzling sound as it cooled.

Jack had been born in India—his father presumably stationed there with the British Army. Somehow his birth certificate had been lost, leaving Jack uncertain of his exact birthdate; the document likely remained in some archive in Calcutta or Bombay. This created a minor issue regarding his retirement date, though my father believed Jack might have retired earlier than necessary. However, considering his many years of loyal and dedicated service to the harbour, my father felt he deserved this concession. Jack always treated me kindly, even giving me my first train set as a Christmas present.

Johnny Dunne lived with his wife on the Coxtown road near the entrance to the woods. A former IRA member during the War of Independence or Civil War, my mother told me he had hidden in the Comeragh Mountains to evade capture. From Coxtown's heights, one could see the majestic Comeragh Mountains in the distance. Despite their beauty, the Comeraghs struck me as an inhospitable place to seek refuge. Economic pressures in the 1920s forced Johnny to emigrate, as happened to many young men who had risked their lives for the new Irish state.

Johnny spent time in the Isle of Man working in the fishing industry, where he learned the skills of kippering herrings—knowledge he would put to good use again during the 1950s after returning to Dunmore.

Johnny had a son named John who worked primarily as a driver for Roger Shipsey and married Lily, a post office employee. John was deeply involved in the G.A.A., dedicating much time and effort to his beloved Gaultier Gaelic Football Team. Johnny's daughter Nancy married Tom Murray, a builder originally from Cappoquin in West Waterford. Johnny also had another son, Richie, who lived in Waterford City.

I remember my mother asking me to pray for Richie's wife when she fell ill. When she died as a young mother, leaving Richie with small children, the entire community mourned. Years later, I discovered the writings of Seán Dunne, described as a Cork poet but who was actually from Waterford City—Richie's son and Johnny's grandson. Like his mother, Seán died young, but during his short life he wrote the remarkable memoir In My Father's House, chronicling his boyhood in Waterford City and visits to his grandparents in Dunmore East. Reading about Johnny and Dunmore in Seán's book filled me with profound nostalgia. The portrait of Johnny matched my memories exactly, moving me to tears. Seán Dunne died at thirty-nine in 1995—he had been just four when his mother passed away at thirty-four.

When Johnny retired (I can't recall the exact year), Patsy Fancy replaced him. His real name was Patsy Power, but like many in Dunmore, he went by a nickname—in his case, "Fancy." Paddy "Napper" Kelly, a fisherman and good friend of mine, once told me there were about thirteen distinct Power families in the area, each with their own identifying nicknames like Bulligan Powers, Butcher Powers, and Billy Powers. Patsy lived in Killea near the church but originally came from picturesque Portally Cove, halfway between Dunmore and Ballymacaw. He was brother to Connie Fancy of Portally and uncle to Buddy Fancy.

The third member of our permanent harbour crew was Maurice Mahoney, a quiet, dependable man who lived halfway along the winding road between Coxtown and Portally. His constant companion was Bob, a large black dog who trotted faithfully at his heels each morning. That dog became something of a harbour mascot - you'd see him darting about the quay all day, launching into hopeless chases after shrieking seagulls or giving spirited pursuit to any passing motorcar. Dr. O'Sullivan's ancient vehicle, by far the loudest contraption in the village, seemed to hold particular fascination for Bob - its sputtering arrival would send him into paroxysms of barking excitement.

Maurice had a son named John, several years my senior. John was exceptionally tall from childhood and would later play a significant role in my life through our shared passion for sports, especially soccer. Many a summer’s evening was spent kicking a battered leather football about until the fading light forced us home.

Maurice was later succeeded in his position by Tom Fitzgerald, Jack Lynch's son-in-law. We jokingly called him "Tom Pipe", due to his ever-present pipe that seemed almost an extension of his face, its sweet-smelling smoke trailing behind him like a ship's wake as he went about his duties. That tobacco smoke became as much a part of harbour life as the cry of the gulls or the salty tang in the air.

Another daily presence during my "assistant" harbour duties was Martin Glanville, the Dunmore lighthouse keeper. Punctual and meticulous, he arrived each day to inspect the pier. A bachelor living alone at Ballymabin (a mile from Lower Dunmore on the Waterford road), Martin dressed impeccably with a pocket watch on a chain. He carried himself with military bearing—some said he'd served in Birmingham's police force, which might explain his erect posture. Martin's great passion was horse racing; he spent hours discussing form with Jack Lynch, Johnny Dunne, and others on the pier. The highlight of Martin’s year was the Galway Races, which he attended annually and spent the week staying in a caravan. For some reason, we found this amusing. Perhaps we simply associated caravans with families taking seaside holidays armed with buckets and spades.

I constantly pestered Martin to take me up the lighthouse, and he always obliged. The lower section was cold, damp, and dark as you approached the spiral stone staircase leading to the lantern room at the top. Martin would instruct me to count the steps, but climbing the spiral proved confusing—I would miss some steps, count others twice, and never arrived at the same number twice. At the summit, we could step onto the surrounding balcony for a panoramic view of everything happening below. To this day, I couldn't tell you exactly how many steps the Dunmore lighthouse contains!

Ernie Dixon, the customs officer assigned to Dunmore, lived in Passage East and visited weekly—probably every Thursday—on his motorcycle. He would check in with my father before retreating to his small wooden office near our house. Though I investigated every corner of the harbour, I never once saw inside that mysterious office. Ernie's visits always disappointed me—I longed for him to catch smugglers or recover stolen boats, though this never seemed to happen. Unless, of course, he was secretly detaining criminals in that wooden hut.

Pt. 03 - Learning to Row a Boat

As soon as I was old enough, I began accompanying my father in rowing boats, expanding my harbour patrols from land to sea. My cockiness and sense of self-importance knew no bounds.

My father wasn't just a boat owner—he was an accomplished boat builder. His exceptional woodworking skills likely developed during his early years at sea as a cadet and officer, learning from ship's carpenters. Each winter, he would construct a wooden rowing boat in the pier workshop adjacent to Jack, Johnny, and Maurice's forge and shed. The well-equipped workshop lacked electricity, so work concluded by mid-afternoon as daylight faded. All drilling and sawing was done manually without power tools. My father possessed an encyclopaedic knowledge of wood, with particular expertise in mahogany—a passion cultivated during his time in West Africa with Elder Dempster ships in the 1920s.

Every small rowing boat he built was named after a wood species and bore a mahogany nameplate at the stern. The Acer and the Ilex—two carvel-built boats about ten feet long—featured double-layered plywood hulls with smooth finishes, unlike traditional clinker-built boats. Construction required copper nails and screws, and my job often involved holding a heavy riveting hammer inside the boat's frame while my father worked from outside. I frequently earned scolding’s for improper positioning or insufficient pressure. Trips to Graves' Yard in Waterford for timber were major events, while the plywood—supplied by Dublin's Noyeks (a name that always stuck in my memory)—required soaking in hot water to become pliable for hull shaping. My father sold several of these boats as yacht tenders or pleasure craft. On one memorable occasion, he acquired and completed an unfinished large clinker rowing boat and an IDRA 14-foot sailing dinghy from Baltimore, County Cork. The rowing boat, longer than his usual builds, was christened Dika.

To supplement his income, my father rented out his small rowing dinghies—or "punts" as we called them—each summer to visitors. These were the holidaymakers who came to Dunmore every year. Some families staying for the entire month of July or August would rent a boat for the whole period, though more commonly they were hired by the hour for half a crown.

Near our house by the Dock Strand stood a small jetty with steps that provided easy access to boats regardless of the tide. This was where we moored our rowing boats using rope devices called frails. The system consisted of a pulley block mounted on the jetty and another submerged underwater, secured by an anchor or heavy weight, with a continuous rope running between them. Each boat had a short bow rope called a painter that was tied to the frail using two half hitches—no ordinary knot would do. By pulling the frail rope, we could safely move boats away from or back to the jetty as needed.

Our boats all bore a distinctive creamy custard colour with brown gunwales and brown paint on the bottoms extending just above the waterline. This unique colouring allowed my father to monitor their locations around the harbour and nearby coves using his telescope or binoculars. He constantly worried that careless users might damage the boats by dragging them onto rocky shores.

Each September, we hauled the boats out of the water at the Dock Strand and stored them near the Lifeboat House for winter. Come spring, they would be repainted and refitted before being launched for another summer season.

I often accompanied my father on rows around the harbour. I preferred high tide when we could pass through the Island's arch to circle Goosey Rock in Stony Cove or visit nearby Badgers Cove. At low tide, you could walk across the stony beach to Goosey Rock, though swimmers favoured it at high tide as a diving platform. High water also let us approach close to the kittiwakes nesting near the Dock Strand and Island. Each summer, we'd watch the scrawny chicks hatch while the adults cried their distinctive "kittiwake, kittiwake..." alarm if we ventured too near. These birds arrived suddenly each spring—one day the harbour would be quiet, the next alive with their calls. By September, they'd depart as abruptly, bound for the Canary Islands according to my father. The kittiwakes made Dunmore special, being one of few Irish nesting sites, and attracted many photographers.

Badgers Cove became my favourite destination. While most accessed it via a slippery cliff path from the Park, I preferred going by boat. The small sandy cove featured a cave that vanished at high tide. I remained convinced a badger lived there, though we never saw it or even paw prints in the sand at low tide. It was an idyllic spot when the water rose.

My father favoured low tide more than I did. The receding water prevented passage through the Island's arch—a great disappointment to me—and left the harbour looking less attractive with exposed seaweed. During these times, he would intently study the muddy bottom, searching for abandoned anchors hidden beneath.

These might have been anchors whose moorings had broken during winter storms or bad weather. My father developed something of an obsession for salvaging old anchors from the harbour bottom. Using a grappling iron to snag either the anchor or its chain, he, Jack Lynch, and Johnny Dunne would spend hours at low tide—what my mother called "dragging and hauling"—attempting to lift the anchor into the harbour boat, which wasn't really designed for such heavy work. This operation might continue for days until they either recovered the anchor or abandoned the attempt.

Mike Murphy, an old retired fisherman, spent much of his time pottering around the Dock Strand. He helped tend small boats and chatted with fishermen who had grounded their vessels there for painting or repairs. Mike was father to fisherman Davy "Muck" Murphy, who lived beside the Fisherman's Hall. Mike himself resided in the Western Quarry, a small cluster of houses past the convent, just before the road climbs toward Coxtown. Another seafarer, Jack Whittle (father of Mick and Stephen), also lived in the Quarry near the Flat Rocks, one of my favourite spots. During summer walks to or from the Flat Rocks, my mother and I would often stop to chat with Jack as he sat outside his cottage meticulously crafting lobster pots. The only other person I remember making pots was Jimmy Sweeney in Ballymacaw, who similarly worked outside his front door in summer.

When I was five, while playing in one of our boats at the Dock Strand, Mike Murphy would push the boat out and pull me back with a rope. Eventually tiring of this game, he once pushed me out without retrieving the rope. Left with no choice, I took up the oars and rowed myself back—a skill that came naturally after observing my father's technique. Being able to row at such a young age was unusual, but then I was "The Harbour Boy." In later years, my mother would tell everyone, "Mike Murphy taught David how to row." It took me seven more years to learn to swim and eleven to ride a bicycle!

Approaching my seventh birthday, my father promised me my own boat. He'd found an old yacht dinghy long out of use, its clinker-built bow planks badly split or missing. Most considered it beyond repair, but my father rebuilt the bow section with a new forward stem, shortening the planks to create a rounded prow. Though slightly ugly and shorter than originally built, the boat—dubbed the Turmoil after an impressive tugboat we'd seen in Cork Harbour—became seaworthy again after possibly decades of neglect.

Throughout my childhood, two vessels dominated harbour activity: the lifeboat and the pilot boat. Dunmore took great pride in its lifeboat service and the courageous crews who ventured out in all weathers to save lives. Our lifeboat, the RNLI Annie Blanche Smith (Royal National Lifeboat Institution), served the community regardless of political boundaries—saving lives knew no nationality.

Dick Murphy, the lifeboat engineer, lived opposite the Ocean Hotel in a former coastguard house. His wife taught at Corballymore National School near Ballymacaw, and they had two children, Liam and Helen, a few years my senior. Dick, uncle to my childhood best friends Nicholas and John Murphy, was famous for his tall tales.

Every morning, Dick would visit the lifeboat to check the engine and perform any necessary maintenance, ensuring it was always ready to launch at a moment's notice. He used a rowing boat kept at the slipway near the Island, but rather than rowing with two oars, he would scull with a single oar at the stern. After mastering conventional rowing and acquiring my own boat, I soon learned to scull just like Dick—he became my role model.

My mother disapproved of sculling since it required standing in the boat, preferring the stability of traditional rowing while seated. Despite her concerns, I never once slipped or fell overboard—I seemed to have a good guardian angel. In those days, life jackets for small boat users were uncommon, and the available models resembled relics from the Titanic: heavy, cumbersome, and almost inviting ridicule for anyone wearing them. I'm heartened that safety standards have improved dramatically since then.

Dick maintained the lifeboat engines in immaculate condition. He permitted me to observe his work, and I still recall the distinctive smell and gleaming cleanliness of all the components—a stark contrast to the oily, greasy engines and bilge-water stench of fishing boats.

A distress rocket would signal when the lifeboat was being launched, creating great excitement throughout the village. Crowds would quickly gather at the lookout wall opposite Mrs. Burke's shop to watch the proceedings and learn which vessel or sailors were in distress. Even when some crew members were away fishing, the lifeboat always launched with remarkable speed after the rocket's firing. When Dunmore's lifeboat was equipped with a two-way radio system, my father proudly served as the shore contact.

The shore radio equipment was housed in the pilot station on Shanoon. During rescues and practice trips, we could listen to communications between Dick on the lifeboat and my father by tuning our home radio to the trawler band. Successful rescues brought tremendous relief, though some operations became prolonged, requiring coordination with lifeboats from Kilmore Quay and Rosslare.

Unlike the dramatic lifeboat launches, the pilot boat operated with quiet efficiency. Employed by Waterford Harbour Commissioners, the pilots' mandatory duty was to guide commercial vessels through the harbour’s navigational channels to Waterford City or New Ross. Regular ships like the beloved Fishguard-to-Waterford steamer The Great Western were exempt from taking pilots.

The pilots worked from a lookout building on Shanoon beside Black Knob, which offered excellent views of all harbour traffic. Pilots disembarking from downriver ships would return at Dunmore. Pakie Glody served as pilot boat skipper while his brother John worked as one of the pilots. Pakie, who lived opposite Johnny Dunne on the Coxtown road, was father to Maurice and Kathleen Glody. John resided in Queen's Terrace with his children Patrick, Brendan, and Frances—who later gained fame as Ireland's first female qualified skipper. Other pilots came from Passage East and Cheekpoint, villages with strong maritime traditions.

In my earliest years, the old pilot boat remained permanently moored in the bay, requiring pilots to row out to ships. This changed in 1951 when the Commissioners acquired the specially built Betty Breen from Tyrells in Arklow. Its arrival caused great excitement, with dignitaries gathered on the quay to welcome this significant improvement to Dunmore's pilotage service.

In bad weather, the pilots' job became particularly dangerous and hazardous as they clambered aboard moving ships using small rope ladders, often in complete darkness. Looking back, I don't believe these pilots received the full recognition they deserved for their service and dedication. Adding to their difficulties, upon reaching Waterford they frequently faced the indignity of having to walk back to Passage East or Dunmore, relying on the kindness of passing motorists who might recognize their uniforms and offer them a lift.

Being the 'Harbour Boy' meant there was an enormous amount to learn about different types of boats, nautical terminology, sails, knots, seabirds, Morse code, navigation charts, constellations, and countless other maritime matters. My father proved an excellent teacher, thoroughly enjoying sharing his knowledge with me. On clear nights, he would bring out the telescope and point out all the important stars. I'll always remember that Vega—one of the brightest stars—shared its name with a fishing boat operating out of Helvick near Dungarvan. The North Star was easy to identify by following a line from The Plough constellation. Llewelyn Lloyd's compass carving on my window frame had been perfectly accurate in marking true North.

The person who influenced me most during this time, imparting vast knowledge about boats and harbour life, was Geoff Bulligan Power from Coxtown. As the youngest boy in his family, Geoff was often sent down to the harbour with lunch or messages for his father Jack Bulligan, a skilled builder frequently employed on harbour projects. Though several years my senior, Geoff welcomed my company and patiently taught me everything worth knowing about harbour life. He always carried a penknife—whether for crafting objects, gutting mackerel for lobster pot bait, or even (I suspect) tending to injured seagulls. His ability to skip stones across Dock Harbour's surface was legendary, with stones bouncing six or seven times before sinking—a skill I never mastered, as my attempts typically resulted in immediate splashes.

Geoff introduced me to gillameen fishing—the local name for the small fish swimming near the landing steps opposite our house (distinguished from the 'lighthouse steps' at the pier's end). His technique involved bending a sewing pin into a hook, attaching it to light string with a weight, and using small fish pieces as bait. While my father called them "pinkeen" (a Dublin term), in Dunmore they were always "gillameen." Despite numerous attempts, I never caught one—lacking either the patience or skill required. Geoff and other boys regularly caught them, usually feeding them to our cats. I preferred shrimping with nets in the harbour seaweed at low tide—a far more successful and satisfying activity.

One memorable afternoon, Geoff and his younger sister Rita took me to the Flat Rocks—a magnificent natural playground. Considering today's expensive family trips to Disney World or Alton Towers, we enjoyed an equally wonderful recreational facility right on our doorstep at absolutely no cost. I lost count of how many trouser bottoms I wore out sliding down the grassy bank near Red Head, much to my mother's frequent displeasure.

Then there were the great big rocky pools ideal for paddling, climbing, throwing stones, or playing with toy boats. Geoff and Rita had a whole armada of toy boats that they had made themselves from old pieces of wood or even broken fish boxes. I had a plastic toy boat, which I was very proud of, but it was the simple handmade ones that won all the races across the pools on that occasion.  It demonstrated what fun could be derived from simple things that cost nothing to make.

Pt. 04 - Harbour Lodge

Harbour Lodge, our house was at the hub of much activity in and around the life of the harbour. All callers to our porch were always warmly welcomed.  Both my parents enjoyed meeting people and liked to answer all their inquiries whether it was simply business or pleasure. 

Summer and winter in Dunmore were very different – in summer, harbour activity revolved around visiting yachts, sailing and other small boats.  In winter all small craft activity ceased and the focus of attention moved back to fishing and fishermen. From around 1957 Dunmore became a major fishing port.

The railing beside our porch was an ideal meeting place for yachts-people to gather. During the summer, these visitors would call for a chat, seeking out the weather forecast or information as to where they could get water, dry clothes, buy their groceries or have a pint in the village. This request invariably had the response; ‘Call to the Butchers’. People always had a difficulty getting their head around the fact that the main pub in Dunmore also was the local Butcher’s shop and hence the pub was always referred to as ‘the Butchers’ or Bill the Butchers’ or as I think my father usually said ‘Bills’.

Going to ‘Bills’ meant going for a drink and in my case, this meant Coca Cola a taste for which I developed an addiction from an early age.  Bill Power was the owner of Powers but as he had suffered a stroke, the pub was run by his wife Katie and her son Billy and Andy Taylor looked after the butcher’s shop. In those early days, Peter, the other Power boy was mainly involved with farming.    

Growing up in Dunmore, I cannot ever remember a time when my Aunt Maisy did not live with us.  She was my father’s eldest sister and had never got married.  Her proper name was Mary Geraldine but had always been known simply as Maisy.  To me she seemed always to be very old.  I was always curious as to why she had come to live with us and all sort of conspiracy theories going through my head for many years.  Had she a massive row with her sister Vera in Dublin, where she lived previously and simply walked out or had she come on a holiday to Dunmore and liked it so much decided not to go back to Dublin?

 I never found out the real story but that never really mattered as Aunt Maisy became part of our house and assisted my mother to bring me up. 

Aunt Maisy led a simple and austere life. She went to mass in the convent chapel every morning at 8 a.m. all year round. This meant walking up from the harbour to the nearby convent in all sorts of bad weather.  

Jack Lynch passed by her on his way to work one morning in a very bad storm and told my mother later that it was a miracle she had not been blown away completely. I am sure that her prayers stood to her on that occasion.

 At around 11a.m. each morning she went up to the village to do the ‘messages. Messages meant calling to Power’s for the meat and other groceries. The groceries were on shelves in the pub which had a separate entrance from the butcher’s shop. I am certain that Maisy would not have been too happy about having to go into a pub to buy our food!

For dinner and tea, Maisy assisted my mother to cook. Our meal in the middle the day was always called dinner.  Lunch was never a word that entered my vocabulary until many years later.

 Afternoons might be spent baking or making jam or some other activity in the kitchen.  After tea, Maisy went to her room and said her rosary or read religious books and magazines such as The Far East, which was very popular at the time.

The other abiding memory that I have of Harbour Lodge is that of the local G.P., Doctor Peter O’Sullivan who visited our house most mornings.  I was not able to say, ‘Doctor Peter’ so I called him ‘Doc Petey’ and this name stuck in our family for a long time as our name to call him. Doctor O’Sullivan was a big, big man and was probably a little older than my father. He came from Cork City and spoke with a rather posh Cork accent or Montenotte accent as my parents called it. As they had lived in Cork for several years, they were familiar with all the different Cork accents.  

Doctor Peter was a bachelor and he lived in the Strand Hotel in Lower Dunmore.  I was once in his room and I can remember it being full of medical journals and fishing rods and gear scattered everywhere! Everyone said that he was a great doctor and was held in very high esteem by the entire village.  He probably did not achieve his full potential in his role in Dunmore, but I am sure he had a fulfilling life as he greatly enjoyed angling, music and the social life around the Strand Hotel and visiting Bill’s with my father for their large bottles. Legend had it that he once fell fast asleep during a piano recital given by some famous visiting pianist in Waterford.

 In an earlier life, Doctor Peter had been a ship’s doctor and spent a lot of time in India. Here he developed a passionate interest in cricket, and he would talk at length about the sport. Little did I know at the time that this would influence me as a small boy and go on to shape a sporting obsession of my own for the rest of my life.

Apart from maybe one morning each week, when Doctor Peter had to visit a dispensary at Rossduff, about halfway to Waterford City, he called to our house mid-morning.  This fact was well known throughout the village and in a time long before mobile phones, people would come to our house looking for the Doctor at that time.

 Apart from catching up on the gossip, he spent his time in our dining-room reading the Irish Times and Irish Independent from cover to cover and filling in the crosswords.  My own lifelong interest in crosswords probably started from this early observation.

 My mother also had a great interest in completing crosswords and I don’t think she was best pleased at times that Doctor Peter had got to fill the clues in before her! My mother always said that crosswords kept your mind active and by doing them in would prevent loss of memory.

This piece of advice, I have always remembered. On Sundays, my mother would attempt to complete the more challenging crossword in the Sunday Times in conjunction with Doctor Peter. My father would be involved also, and he would be looking at dictionaries and Roget’s Thesaurus, which was a great source for solving clues. Fairly heated disagreements between my mother and the Doctor would often arise over the completion of the last few clues. Even today, there always seems to be one clue that is impossible to solve. Occasionally the crossword was completed, even if all parties did not agree on the final few clues. Once or twice, the crosswords were sent by post to enter a competition to win a book token.

Doctor Peter drove an old green Volkswagen car. He parked it overnight in the car park of the Strand Hotel, which of course was just beside the sea. Particularly in winter, the sea would lash over the seawall and as a result the salt water would have a very corrosive effect on the body work of the car. The overall result was a very rusty car. Rusty cars were very common in those days but the Doctor’s one was probably the ugliest and loudest one in the village. You could always hear him coming or going through the village. 

I remember on one occasion when being given a lift home with my father from Powers at lunch time, looking down on the floor of the car and seeing the road through a large hole! 

Life in the 1950s was leisurely. It is amusing looking back on how easy-going things were. When the Doctor had read the papers, he would drive up to Powers with my father for a drink.

Nowadays, drinking during the day or in working hours is somewhat frowned upon, but at the time it was, just as smoking was, a very acceptable part of village life. So many people, such as the fishermen worked irregular and unusual hours that drinking in the middle of the day was a normal everyday occurrence.  

During summer holidays, my mother would sometimes send me up to Powers to tell my father his dinner was ready. I always enjoyed these errands because I'd be allowed to listen to the adults' conversations, hearing tales about exotic places like India and Africa, while sipping my favourite Coca-Cola as I waited for my father to finish his bottle.

Besides the doctor, my father's company often included retired gentlemen like Hugh Nevins and Ken Vaughan, occasionally joined by Hubert Strangman—grandfather to Nicholas and John Murphy. They typically gathered in a small snug between the grocery bar and butcher's stall. My father preferred his Guinness stout in large pint bottles, never on draught.

Powers had two suppliers of bottled Guinness in those days—Egan's and Madigan's from Waterford City—when local agents still bottled and distributed the stout before centralization closed smaller breweries. My father knew both proprietors well: Jack Egan was a prominent Dunmore yachtsman, and Dick Madigan a close friend. Each bottler's name appeared on their labels, and my father would only drink Madigan's—if served an Egan's by mistake, it had to be exchanged. Having always disliked Guinness's taste, I never understood this fuss.

Hugh Nevins and Ken Vaughan represented Dunmore's retired colonial contingent. Ken, who had lived in Nigeria, retired with his wife to a former coastguard's house in Ballymacaw, about three miles away. He'd drive to Dunmore for newspapers and stop at Powers before returning home. My father particularly enjoyed Ken's company due to their shared Nigerian experiences. I remember visiting Ken's Ballymacaw home near the cove several times—it fascinated me with its garden windmill generating electricity and walls adorned with West African spears, shields, and artifacts.

Apart from the doctor, our daily visitors included Mikey O'Toole, our milkman. Dunmore had two milk suppliers: Mikey and Tom Dunphy (whose deliveries Willie O'Regan made by horse-drawn cart). Mikey used a van with milk churns, scooping milk into our jugs—I didn't see bottled milk until visiting Waterford or Dublin. His dairy farm stood half a mile from Killea Church, and he always brought village gossip with him. His frequent use of "bloody" ("bloody cold weather," etc.) would prompt Auntie Maisie to tut disapprovingly, leaving Mikey baffled.

Before the war when cricket flourished in Dunmore, Mikey had been a leading player. When I developed an interest in cricket, he gifted me an old green coaching book that I treasured until misplacing it years later. Interestingly, when Charlie Boland revived village cricket in the 1980s, Mikey's son Pat became one of its stars.

Summer evenings often found my mother sitting on the porch, knitting or sewing while watching the comings and goings of the harbour. Passers-by—visitors and day-trippers from Waterford strolling to the lighthouse—would wave or pause for a chat. My mother, who could "talk for Ireland," thrived on these exchanges, which might start as brief greetings but often stretched long into the evening.

These were the pre-television years, when conversation was the evening’s entertainment. Instead of Coronation Street or The Riordans, Dunmore had its own live show—a constant flow of stories, gossip, and laughter. They were idyllic days in an idyllic village. What times those were.

Enduring Memories

Looking back on my life, I can say with complete certainty that my years growing up in Dunmore East were among the most joyful and formative of my existence. The harbour with its ever-changing tides, the salty tang of the sea air, the cry of the gulls—these were the constants of a childhood filled with wonder. The people who shaped those days—my father with his patient wisdom, Geoff with his endless tricks and knowledge, Mikey with his colourful language, and all the other characters who populated our little maritime world—remain as vivid in my memory as if I'd seen them yesterday.

Even now, when I wake at dawn, there are mornings when I fancy I can still hear the familiar "kittiwake, kittiwake" alarm call echoing across the water, or catch the whisper of wind rushing down the river. These sensory memories transport me instantly back to sun-drenched piers and starry nights spent learning the constellations. What sweeter way could there be to begin a day than with such happy recollections?

Dunmore gave me more than just a childhood—it gave me an entire universe of experience compressed into one small, perfect harbour village. The lessons I learned there, the friendships I made, and the love I developed for the sea and its ways have stayed with me through all the years and miles since. Though time moves on and places change, the Dunmore of my boyhood remains forever bright in my heart—a treasure no tide can ever wash away.

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