The Rutter Family Photo Album

This photograph shows my father, Ernie, likely taken around Christmas 1922, when he was about six months old. At that moment, he might well have thought he was the “Prince of Preston,” it was long before Dunmore, the quay, Bill’s, the war, or the Shannon ever entered his head. Little did he know of the joys of life that awaited him across the Irish Sea.

This colourised photograph shows my father as a young child with my great-grandmother, most likely taken during a family summer holiday in Blackpool. Ernie looks to be about three years old here, which would place the picture around 1925. He’s proudly wearing his very first sou’wester style hat, a fitting choice for a seaside outing. Perched on the cliff top, where he could gaze out across the water, he is experiencing for the first time a scene that would become so familiar throughout his life—looking out to sea, a pastime and perspective that shaped much of who he was.

During the 1920s, seaside towns along the north-west coast of England—most famously Blackpool—became the destination of choice for thousands of holidaymakers taking part in what were known as Wakes Weeks. These were eagerly anticipated annual holidays when whole towns in Lancashire effectively closed down for a fortnight. Mills, factories, and workshops would fall silent as workers and their families’ boarded trains bound for the coast, transforming bustling industrial centres into almost deserted places.

Preston was no exception. When its Wakes Week arrived, the town centre grew quiet, shop shutters were pulled down, and streets emptied as residents took their long-awaited break. For many families, this trip was the highlight of the year, made possible through careful saving. Workers often paid into holiday clubs week by week, putting aside a small sum throughout the year so that when summer came, they could afford the cost of accommodation, train fares, and a little spending money. Once the great day of departure arrived, families relocated to the seaside—often for a full week, sometimes even two—filling boarding houses and promenades with laughter, music, and the hum of holiday excitement.

The system was so well organised that each Lancashire town was allocated its own Wakes Week between June and September, ensuring that railways and resorts were never overwhelmed all at once. The result was a rhythm of migration to the coast, with seaside resorts like Blackpool enjoying a steady stream of visitors all summer long.

It was during one such holiday in or around 1925 that this photograph of Ernie was taken. Like countless children enjoying the freedom of the seaside, he turned his attention to the sands. But Ernie went a step further—he entered a sandcastle building competition and, to his delight, came away with his very first medal. Along with the medal came a small cash prize, a moment of triumph that left a lasting impression.

Proud of his achievement, Ernie pinned the medal to his jacket lapel and wore it for many years afterwards. As time went on and more medals followed, the lapel eventually grew crowded, but that first award always held a special place. Looking at the scale and design of his prize-winning sandcastle, one might well imagine that Ernie had the makings of a future builder. His creation was solid, ambitious, and detailed—early proof, perhaps, that he could have forged a career in construction had life not taken him down a different path.

After several summers of triumphing in local sandcastle-building competitions, young Ernie had saved enough prize money to buy himself two treasured possessions: his very first bicycle and a stylishly oversized hat. From then on, he became a familiar sight pedalling proudly through the streets of Preston, the boy with the big hat and even bigger grin.

Two decades later, Ernie’s cycling took him further afield—making the journey from Dunmore to Waterford to attend the lively dances at the Olympia Ballroom. There, swept along by the infectious rhythm of the 1940s big band sound, he discovered a new passion. He fancied himself a fine dancer, moving with the same confidence he once showed when carving castles in the sand.

Looking back, it all seemed connected: had he not built that first sandcastle, he might never have bought the bike, and without the bike he might never have learned those dance steps. Life has a way of unfolding like that—one small victory leading to the next adventure, until, before you know it, you’re freewheeling downhill with the music playing. 

This is Ernie when aged around 12, by this time the family had moved to Ireland and he had developed a fishing habit. I don't know the names of the other two boys.

This picture was taken during the innocent years before the war came to Dunmore, in the mid 1930's I'd say, on the Flat Rocks.

This photograph shows my grandfather, William Rutter, taken in England in the years before the First World War. At the time, the world was still holding its breath — unaware of the storm that was about to break across Europe. William, like so many young men at the time, could not have imagined what lay ahead when this picture was taken. His stance and steady gaze speak of youth and optimism, untouched by the horrors that history was soon to deliver.

When war erupted in July 1914, the British Army called upon millions of men from every walk of life — farmhands, dock workers, tradesmen, and clerks — to take up arms in a conflict the likes of which had never been seen before. William answered that call, serving through years that would reshape not only nations but also families and communities forever.

His brother, Arthur Rutter, was among the countless young men who never returned. One of millions lost in muddy fields far from home, Arthur’s name stands as a quiet reminder of the human cost behind the headlines and the medals. For William, the war would leave its mark in memories too heavy to share, as it did for so many who survived.

The photograph captures him in that moment before everything changed — before the trenches, before the loss, before the world grew older and sadder. It is a glimpse into a time of innocence, when a young man posed for a picture, unaware that history was already turning its page.

This is my granduncle, Arthur, my grandfather’s brother. The photograph was taken in February 1914, in the green countryside of Lancashire — a world still at peace, though not for much longer. He stands smartly dressed, cigarette in hand, the picture of a young man with his life ahead of him. Yet there’s something in his expression — a faint unease, a quiet apprehension — that seems to sense what was to come.

Before the year was out, Arthur would leave this peaceful country setting for the green fields of France. Like so many of his countrymen, he never returned. Both he and my grandfather received medals for their service — symbols of courage, endurance, and sacrifice. My grandfather lived to see his; Arthur did not.

Today, his medal, his war plaque, and this single photograph are all that remain — the sum of a life that ended too soon, one story among many from a generation lost to war. Yet in this image, captured on the eve of destruction, he is frozen forever in a quiet English lane, young, uncertain, but very much alive.

This is my grandmother, Nelly Rutter, photographed in 1910. Her maiden name was Nelly Burns and she came from Cheekpoint. She spent most of her married life in the first thatched house on the dock road, beside where Paddy O’Toole used to live. The only recollection I have of her is that she was always very cross, and I have been told that she once stuck a nappy pin in me by mistake when I was a baby. Sometimes I think I can still feel the pain. She died around 1973.

This is a photo of Ernie and his mother, on the left of the picture. I think the guy on right, who bears a resemblance to the singer Lyle Lovett, is one of the Burkes, from Gertie’s shop. It’s probably his mother that’s with him. The photograph would have been taken in the 1930’s in Ernie’s parents back garden.

This photo dates from 1940, by which time Ernie was starting to burst out of his suit jacket and was ready to put on a uniform. His mother is somewhat tearful in this picture, not knowing what the future held in store. At least he wasn’t going overseas to fight, the war in Dunmore was based on the Shanoon and Ernie promised to come home every day for his dinner. Still and all, they were uncertain times, the likes of which no Irish generation has encountered since.

This is a photo of my father, Ernie, with Davy O'Rourke at the back. I don’t recognise the other soldier. They may all look very solemn in this picture, but the 1940’s were serious times. During the summer of '42, the only barrier that stood between Dunmore East and the marauding hoard from Europe, was the Shanoon gun post and a handful of dedicated men. The group pictured here were known as the ‘Enhanced Interrogation Unit’. They were stationed on the Shanoon throughout the war years and their service contributed hugely to the security of the village and the state. Using the ‘Dangle and Dip from the Cliff’ method, they managed to extract important sensitive information from many a would-be foreign invader. These men lived through desperate times, and they weren’t shy to implement desperate measures whenever the situation called for it.

This photo of my father, Ernie — seen on the right-hand side of the picture with one of his wartime comrades — was taken during the turbulent Second World War years in Dunmore East, when they were posted on the Shanoon, overlooking the sea.

The year was sometime during the early 1940s, in the middle of what Irish people remember as The Emergency — Ireland’s experience of World War II. Though officially neutral, Ireland was far from untouched. Submarine sightings, aircraft overhead, strange lights at sea — these weren’t stories from distant lands. They were part of daily life in coastal villages like Dunmore.

Ernie was a member of Ireland’s army during a time of national crisis, and while Ireland hadn’t been invaded when this photo was taken, nobody could say it wouldn’t be. The winds that carried war across Europe could easily have turned toward our shores. And in coastal outposts like Dunmore East, the sense of vulnerability was real.

The Shanoon became a lookout, a line of defence, a place where soldiers stood guard against a threat that might never come. That’s where Ernie was posted, along with a group of fellow soldiers. They manned a gun post, kept their eyes on the sea, and their ears alert for anything out of place. It was a lonely kind of service — not one of medals or glory, but of watchfulness. They weren’t chasing headlines. They were simply making sure they were ready for whatever came their way.

They trained daily in rifle handling, signalling, and first aid. They dug positions, ran drills, and learned the basics of military defence — all the while knowing they’d be the first line of response if war arrived at their doorstep.

In times of crisis, history doesn’t just hinge on the big names and major battles. It also rests on the shoulders of people like Ernie and his comrades — men who stood watch so that others could sleep, who trained for a fight they hoped would never come, and who would have answered the call without hesitation if it did.

Almost every day, there were reports of U-boats spotted off the coast and of the Luftwaffe bombing creameries. Blackout curtains were hung throughout Dunmore. Supplies grew scarce. On some nights, the sound of engines in the dark sky sparked fears that Ireland's neutrality might soon be shattered.

My father didn’t ever talk much about those days in later years. Many of his generation didn’t. But the few things he did share stayed with me — stories of long, cold hours and of drills in rough weather. The feeling of responsibility when you’re handed a rifle and told, “You’re the last line of defence.”

So this photo isn’t just a snapshot of two soldiers from long ago. It’s a reminder that history isn’t always made by those who charge forward. Sometimes, it’s shaped by those who hold the line — quietly, firmly, and without fanfare.

This colourised photograph captures my father, Ernie, and his mother in 1942, during one of his brief visits home from the army. At first glance, you might think the picture was taken somewhere deep in the tropics — the overgrown foliage behind them gives it that wild, almost jungle-like atmosphere. In truth, it was taken much closer to home, in their own back garden in Dunmore East.

During the 1940s, people often allowed their gardens to grow freely; it provided a degree of camouflage in case of an aerial attack. It gave them a sense of security when sitting outside, knowing they weren’t visible from above.

It was also a quiet form of rebellion against the many cutbacks and the strict rationing imposed by wartime life. With so much beyond their control, a tangle of shrubs and ivy became a small but comforting reminder of freedom — a patch of nature that didn’t have to conform to rules or shortages.

These are the soldiers who manned Dunmore's lookout post, keeping watch as World War II rumbled on, shielding our village from the shadow of Hitler's invading forces. The photo captures my father, Ernie, on the left, with Davy O'Rourke beside him in the center. The other two men are unknown to me, but together, they were part of a brave company that held their ground on the Shanoon.

In the background, the actual big gun can be seen—silent now but once alive with the thunderous echoes of artillery. So many shells were fired from this very spot during 1941 that the Ministry of Defence reportedly considered establishing a munitions plant in Dunmore East. Local voices soon made themselves heard, however, and plans for a factory were swapped for a shamrock plant, lending a curious twist to the village’s wartime role.

My father, Ernie, shared many tales from those long nights on duty. They used to brew tea from leaves that kept them warm and alert, and when supplies ran low, those same tea leaves found a second life as smokes—perhaps to keep the nerves steady as much as the senses sharp. Ernie’s stories stand as a reminder of how ordinary men transformed into heroes, using every bit of resourcefulness to stand watch over a place they loved.

This is a photo of the children who attended Bellelake school in the early 1940's. It's the earliest photo I have of my mother, Margaret Rutter nee Hearne. She is in the second row from the back and third from the left. Her brother John Hearne is on her left and her sister Josie is directly in front of her. The sixth girl from the left in the second row from the front is Teresa Sullivan, and the boy seventh from the left in the back row is Willie Sullivan from Folloon. John Keefe is the boy fifth from the left in the second row from the back. I don't know the identities of the other children, but they would have all been local.

My mother and her siblings used to walk to school from Kilmacomb every day, in their bare feet from April to October, excluding summer holidays. They didn't even have a mobile phone to amuse them on the journey, instead they used to race from telegraph pole to pole and occasionally shove one another into the nettles to take the sting out of the long walk. I couldn't see the average modern child putting up with that today.

After the war ended and the village was deemed safe, Ernie shifted his focus to his social life. He immediately took the opportunity to meet his future wife and wasted no time in tying the knot with her on July 9, 1951. The wedding reception was held in Ernie's parents' backyard, which was a trendy practice at the time. In the picture, Tommy and Mary Hearne can be seen on the left, while Nelly and Willie Rutter stand on the right-hand side. 

I'd imagine that this photo was probably taken on the same day as the previous one, unless they partied for more than one day. The only difference in the line-up in this one is my aunt Josie on the far right. I notice that Ernie has a Woodbine in his hand, but there doesn't seem to be any smoke coming from it. He may have just received his first order of married life, "don't be smoking when the photo is being taken".

Ernie’s father, who was the local barber, clearly had a finer hand with a pair of scissors than with a lawnmower; if his haircutting skills had matched his gardening abilities, he’d have gone out of business in no time!

Those pictured include:
Front row (from left): Paddy Hearne and Tommy Hearne.
Second row (from left): Believed to be Davy O’Rourke, Nellie Rutter, and Mary Hearne.
Third row (from left): Unidentified, Mrs. Paddy O’Toole, Josie Hearne, Mrs. Curran, May Walsh, and Mickey Hearne.
Back row (from left): John Hearne, William Rutter, Margaret Rutter, Ernie Rutter, Tommy Hearne Snr., and another unidentified man.

It’s a good depiction of family life in 1950s rural Waterford — a day filled with smiles, laughter, and a few patches of long grass that no one seemed to mind.

Ernie's marriage had brought a change in his mother Nellie's routine. With her son settled and thinking of starting a family of his own, Nellie found that she had a lot more leisure time. She decided to take advantage of it by indulging in her love of long walks around the village.

Nellie would lace up her boots and set out in the mornings, with no particular destination in mind. She enjoyed the fresh air, the beautiful scenery, and the opportunity to stretch her legs. One of her favourite accessories on these walks was a black beret. She had always been partial to hats, and the beret was a stylish addition to her already elegant attire. It was also a practical choice, keeping her head warm on chillier days.

As she walked, Nellie would greet fellow villagers, many of whom had known her for years. They would stop and chat, exchanging news and gossip, and sometimes even joining her for a portion of her walk. Nellie's walks became a daily ritual, a way for her to stay active and connected with her community. And her black beret became something of a trademark, a symbol of her independence and her love of life.

As the seasons changed and the years passed, Nellie's walks remained a constant in her life. And even though Ernie had moved on to start his own family, his mother's daily routine continued, with her trusty black beret always on her head.

Here she is thinking, "I wish I had a grandson".

While looking through old photos, I came across this picture of my grandmother surrounded by two women I don’t recognize. I asked my mother who they were, but she had no idea either. We speculated that they might have been women my grandmother met while out on her daily walks.

My grandmother loved to walk, rain or shine. She would set out early in the morning and come back just in time for lunch. I remember her always wearing her favourite hat and carrying a sturdy cane. She was always friendly and outgoing, and I'm sure she made many friends during her daily excursions.

My grandmother was a woman who enjoyed taking bus journeys, especially after Ernie got married. She loved the adventure of traveling to new places and seeing different sights, but she was always happiest when she was returning home. For her, the journey itself was just as important as the destination. She relished the chance to chat with other passengers, observe the passing scenery, and indulge in a good book usually borrowed from Gertie’s library. But no matter how much she enjoyed her travels, there was always a palpable sense of relief and contentment when she finally arrived back at her own doorstep. Perhaps it was the familiarity of home that brought her such joy, or the comfort of being surrounded by her own possessions and memories. Whatever the reason, my grandmother's love of bus journeys was always tempered by her deep attachment to the place she called home. And in the end, it was this attachment that brought her the greatest happiness of all.

When my grandmother was away on her trips, my grandfather's routine would change dramatically. He would spend hours out in the garden, tending to the plants and flowers, and playing with the cat. It was a peaceful and relaxing time for him, away from the hustle and bustle of the barbers shop. He loved nothing more than being surrounded by nature, and he found solace in the tranquillity of the garden. With his hands in the soil, he would forget about the stresses of the day and lose himself in the beauty of the plants. The cat was his constant companion during these moments of solitude. They would play together, chase each other around the garden, and bask in the warmth of the sun. For my grandfather, it was a simple pleasure that brought him immense joy.

When I think back on my grandfather, I always remember him with a smile on his face. When he wasn't busy playing with his beloved cat or cutting hair at his small barber shop, he would often take a table out onto the street and play the three card trick with passing tourists.

Despite the fact that my grandfather never made a fortune from this game, it was enough to keep his cat fed and happy. I remember watching him one day with my mother as he deftly moved the cards around, tempting unsuspecting tourists to try their luck. His hands were quick and precise, and his smile was infectious.

Although the game was just a small part of my grandfather's life, it was a symbol of his resourcefulness and determination to provide for his family in any way he could. 

In 1954, Nellie and Willie embarked on a pilgrimage to a grotto where they prayed fervently to the Virgin Mary, asking for the blessing of a grandson from their son Ernie. Their hopes and dreams for a new addition to the family were realized the following year with the birth of my sister Audrey, but their prayers were not yet fully answered. It would take six more years before their wish was fully granted with the arrival of a baby boy in 1961.