The Village People.
  (Page 03) 

This is a very young-looking Geoff “Bulligan” Power, taken years before he ever got into fishing or politics — both jobs tend to age people rapidly. Geoff was a fisherman for many years in his youth. At one time, he was a member of the lifeboat crew and received an RNLI citation for bravery.

In later years, he became foreman of the South and East Coast Fishermen’s Co-Op, where he showed a remarkable ability to pick out the best men in the village to work for him. I had the pleasure of working with Geoff for eight long, freezing winters. The quay in Dunmore can be one of the coldest places on earth at times; luckily, Bill’s wasn’t too far away.

Geoff was also elected as a county councillor on a number of occasions, a position to which he devoted a great deal of his spare time. He got a lot of things done in the village during his terms of office. It was Geoff who secured footpaths and lighting on the Killea Road — I think he knew I struggled to find my way home after dark and wanted to protect his workforce.

When Geoff passed away, the village lost one of its best men. May he rest in peace.

This is a photograph of Tom Doyle — a man for whom shipwrecks were an unfortunate acquaintance. Tom was never far from a well-earned pint of Guinness (always in moderation) and could spin a yarn from dawn to dusk for anyone willing to listen. If there are pubs in the hereafter, you can be sure Tom is holding court in one of them, entertaining the angels with his stories.

This is local fisherman Paddy ‘Napper’ Kelly with his wife Annie, out for a sail in the boat, most likely on a quiet Sunday afternoon. Life on the water came naturally to Paddy, and days like this—calm, unhurried, and close to home—were among his happiest. Annie, by his side, shared in those moments, enjoying the simple pleasure of being out in the fresh sea air. It was the kind of afternoon that might finish with a glass or two in Whites or Dowers, where the fishing stories flowed as freely as the pints. Paddy was well known for his easy charm and cheerful outlook, and many would say he lived a life as charmed as the waters he fished.

This photo, loaned to me by Peter Power, shows Con Barlow with Ann and Paddy Lee enjoying a lunchtime drink in The Butchers, probably sometime in the mid-1990s — back when you didn’t have to rob a bank to afford a middle-of-the-day tipple.

A picture of Noreen Bowe with Mandy Manahan, the dog from Manahan's Shop, photographed in 1978.

This is Noreen again, this one I'd say dates from the late 90s.

This is a picture of Michael “Mickey” Whitty, dressed for a formal occasion and looking every bit the part. Mickey was originally a Passage East man, and before settling in Dunmore East in the 1980s, he had spent time living in England.

He was a skilled painter and decorator, and over the years he put colour on many houses around the village. There are men whose work is seen and admired long after they have gone home for the evening, and Mickey was one of those. A freshly painted house, a clean line around a window, a door brought back to life — that was his trade, and he was good at it.

At the time, I had a bit of a flair with a paint brush myself, or at least I liked to think I had. Mickey gave me plenty of tips, and some of them have stayed with me to this day. Even now, whenever I’m painting, I still find myself using small bits of advice that came from him. That is often the way with practical people: they pass on what they know without making a big performance of it, and years later you realise how useful it was.

Mickey became part of Dunmore East life and made it his home. Like many who came to the village from elsewhere, he added something of himself to the place. He was another good man who found himself in Dunmore East and left his own mark on it.

The background of this photo has been slightly altered, as I felt this setting suited Mickey’s style more than the original. He is respectfully remembered for his good humour, and for the bit of colour in his character, which is only right for a painter.

A photo of one of the great Dunmore postmen, and all-round handyman, Paddy ‘Duffin’ Fitzgerald. There wouldn’t have been many things that Paddy couldn’t turn his hand to.

Gerry O’Regan’s hurling career began with all the promise of a boy destined for greatness.

From a very early age, Gerry showed the kind of natural ability that made people stop, stare, and quietly wonder whether they were witnessing the beginning of something special. His first great sporting triumph came in 1963, when he was awarded the prestigious title of Senior Infant Hurler of the Year in the famed Mothers of Mercy League, a fiercely contested competition run under the watchful eyes of the local nuns.

For a young Gerry, the future seemed bright. The hurl sat comfortably in his hand. The sliotar obeyed him. Destiny, it appeared, was calling.

But every great sporting story has its villain. In Gerry’s case, that figure was Mother Regina.

According to local legend, Mother Regina took a particular dislike to the young prodigy. Some say she was jealous of his gifts. Others suggest she had once harboured ambitions of becoming a hurler herself before choosing the religious life. Whatever the reason, Gerry’s talent appears to have stirred something deep within her.

The turning point came on a fateful day at the convent. Having somehow escaped from an upstairs toilet in which Mother Regina had locked him, Gerry returned to discover an even greater injustice: his beloved hurl and sliotar had been confiscated.

They were hidden, so the story goes, in the nuns’ ball room, never to be seen again. And with that, Gerry O’Regan’s hurling career came to a premature and tragic end.

Waterford, too, was left to wonder what might have been. Had Gerry’s hurl and sliotar not disappeared behind convent walls, could the Déise have swept all before them in the 1970s? Could All-Ireland glory have arrived decades earlier? Could Croke Park have echoed to the name of O’Regan?

We will never know.

All that remains is the legend: a young hurler of rare promise, a jealous nun, a locked toilet, a hidden hurl, and one of the great unanswered questions in Waterford sporting history. 

This photo features Tommy “Twink” Ivory, with local girl, Avril Horgan. The photo was taken at the entrance of the Shamrock Factory in Coxtown, probably in the early 1970s. 

The girls didn’t have matching hats, but were in fact sharing Dick Ballantyne’s head gear as a photo prop. Dick Ballantyne was the boss man at the factory. I’m not sure if Twink worked there, I seem to remember him working for John Molloy when he had the Ship. 

This is Twink Ivory's son Michael, I'm not sure where the photo was taken, maybe at the Tramore Races.

This is Twink Ivory's daughter Betty, who now lives in England. Her married name is Beth Campbell.

This photograph shows the wedding day of Michael and Peg Power, who were married on the 10th of October, 1958.

A photo taken at the wedding reception of Diana and Paddy O’Regan, in the Ocean Hotel. 

The position of the men named in the photo might be hard to follow, but I’m assured that all those named are present. This picture belongs to Michael Quilty, who kindly sent it to me. It was taken on the 4th of November, 1940, during the threshing at Flynn’s of Fornaught.

Back Rows, Left To Right: Joe O’Toole, Johnny Beamish, No. 3 & 4 Unknown, Paddy Boland, Jimmy Brien, Paddy Regan, Jimmy Delahunty, Robert Power, Martin Burke and Mickey Dalton.

Front Row: Maurice ’Mock’ Morrissey, No 2 Unknown, Richie ‘Vesty’ Power, Stephen Mulally, Richie Power, Joe Power, Ca Regan, Dick Quilty, Micky Flynn. 

Here we see a group heading for a wedding, in the picture are: Katie Power, Paddy Griffin, Bertie MacNamara, Peter Power, John Roche and Tom Mulalley. The child is unknown, but is probably Paddy Griffin’s son or daughter. I would say that a great day was had by all. 

Ca Regan and Dave Forsey attempt to attract customers into the 'Olde Dunmore Inn' back in 1990.

This picture features Margaret Sheehan and Nellie Dunne sitting outside the Strand with two unidentified children. I’d say it dates from the 1960s, or possibly the 1950s. 

A picture of John Roche that was originally uploaded by William Power. John is seen here heading towards the lookout wall to cast an eye on the horizon. You never knew from one day to the next what might be coming ashore in those days. 

This is a photo sent to me by Paul Collins, featuring the players and trainers of the Gaultier Under-14 and Under-12 hurling teams. It was taken in 1969 at a presentation in the Fisherman’s Hall in Dunmore East.

Paul has a “five-star” memory and was able to recall all of the names without consulting any documentation. Anyone over 60 who can do that deserves to be presented with a GAA “Full Faculties” award.

In the photo are:

Adults: Sgt. Michael Flynn, John “Rocky” Power, Mickie O’Toole, Bill Brien, John Collins, Paddy Power, and Maurice Power.

Players, back row: Paul Townley, Paul Power, Liam Caulfield, Pat O’Toole, Pat Power RIP, Roy Murphy, and Gerry Flood.

Second row from back: Colm Power, Kieran Flynn, Paul Collins, Peter O’Sullivan, John Crossan, Joe O’Toole, and Nick O’Toole RIP.

Front row: Johnny Quilty, Neil Collins, Eugene Power, Richard Quann, David Flynn, Gerry Whitty, and Eamonn Power.

This is a sharpened and slightly expanded version of a photograph of Ca Regan, originally shared by Joanne Carroll on the ‘I Am Dunmore East’ Facebook page in 2020.

Ca Regan is remembered by many people in Dunmore East as one of those local characters whose presence could brighten even an ordinary working day. He was closely associated with the Anchor Bar, which stood across the road from his home. Former customers recall that very little happened there without Ca being involved.

Ca was known as a hardworking man who turned his hand to many different jobs. He worked on local farms and also spent some time working in the Strand. Those who worked alongside him remembered his skill with a scythe and his ability to cut grass in the traditional way. He was also particularly good at getting a fire lighting—an important talent in the days before central heating and instant warmth.

Alongside his hard work, Ca was renowned for his humour and mischief. There was rarely a dull moment when he was around. Peter O’Neill recalled that, when Ca worked at the chicken farm owned by his father, Paddy O’Neill, he had to check his boots each day before putting them on, as Ca might have hidden an egg inside.

Niall Lawlor remembers Ca telling him stories about chickens running around after their heads had been cut off.

The comments shared following the original posting of this photograph repeatedly describe Ca as a great man, a funny man and a wonderful character. They show the affection in which he was held by former employers, workmates, neighbours and friends.

Ca Regan belonged to a generation of local men whose humour, practical skills and distinctive personalities became part of the life and folklore of the village. Long after his working days ended, the stories about him continued to be told with laughter and affection.

Photo 123 - Buddy Goes To Town

This photo is said to date from the 1950s and shows Buddy “Fancy” Power on Barronstrand Street in Waterford. It was likely taken on a Saturday afternoon, seeing as he was so well dressed. He probably came into town on the 2:30 p.m. bus and may or may not have returned home on the 6:00 p.m. one.

In the photo, he is standing near Egan’s, so he may have gone in for an ale shandy. After a hard week’s work, he deserved a drink.

Katie McGrath was born on October 28th, 1899 and spent almost her entire life in the family home at the very end of Glenville Terrace in Dunmore East. It was there that she grew up, watched generations come and go, and remained until her death in 1992 at the remarkable age of 93.

Katies near neighbours were people like Neddy Farrell, Jimmy Cullinane and his wife Cissy, Ca Regan, Peter Roche and his wife Mary. Her brother Mossie and his wife Peggy were only a short distance away in Rose Cottage, opposite the Anchor Bar. She also had a sister, Anastasia, who left Dunmore and made her home in Dublin.

For most of us who grew up in the Lower Village, people like Katie were part of the landscape and everyday life. Their houses were landmarks, their names were known to everyone, and you rarely stopped to think that one day both they and the world they belonged to would be gone.

Katie’s life stretched across an extraordinary period of change. Born before the beginning of the twentieth century, she lived through two world wars, the struggle for Irish independence and all the changes that transformed Dunmore East from the village of her childhood into the place we know today. Yet through it all, Glenville Terrace remained her home. By the time she passed away, she had spent nearly a century as part of the life and memory of Dunmore East.

Born in 1883 in Lower Dunmore, Peter Roche was one of the more colourful and legendary figures in the village’s history.

As an adventurous young man, Peter set off from the quiet fishing harbour of Dunmore East in search of fortune, travelling across the globe to the rugged Canadian wilderness during the Klondike Gold Rush. His intrepid journey to the Yukon earned him the enduring nickname “Klondike Pete.”

After his time in North America, Peter returned home to Dunmore East. He became well known for his involvement with the local lifesaving “apparatus” operated by the Coast Guard, taking part in drills and rescue work along the village’s treacherous coastline. He also did a bit of fishing.

Both Peter and his wife, Mary, were familiar faces to me during my childhood years in the Lower Village. Peter always seemed to be walking up or down the road past where we lived. His house was as far up the road as I was allowed to cycle on my bike. My mother always warned me not to go past Peter Roche’s house. It kind of marked the end of the Lower Village, if I passed it, I would have been entering the wilds of Killea. There was also a hill beyond Peter’s house, and coming down it I would have achieved great speed. So, to me as a child, the world more or less ended at Peter Roche’s house.

This photo of Mary and Peter Roche is a composite of two images uploaded to Facebook by Jean Maskell. I think it accurately captures the notion that, although Peter roamed the world in an attempt to make his fortune, it was in his golden years, back home in Dunmore East, that he found his true wealth and happiness with his wife, Mary.

This is another photograph of Mary Roche, taken in the garden of her home in Dunmore East with the two family dogs, Dusty and Cinders.

Mary was born Mary Savage in Ballinaslaney, near Oylegate in Co. Wexford, before eventually moving to Dunmore East. It was a move she never regretted. In fact, Mary often remarked that coming to Dunmore, the place she truly thought of as home, was the best decision she ever made.

This is a colourised photo dating from the mid-1950s and features Mikey Caulfield of Coolum. It was taken at Ballymacaw Cove during the construction of the bridge leading out to the rock. An uncle of David Carroll’s, who was from Dublin, was the engineer on the project. Many thanks to David for supplying the photograph.

The Bird Man Of The Back Strand

“This colourised photo is of Eddie Don with his dog and gun, engaged in a spot of birdwatching. The article below was written by him and was published in the Munster Express of March 8th, 1974, it relates some of Eddie’s adventures on the Back Strand.”

THE BACK STRAND IS FULL OF SURPRISES

How many readers have ever seen an avocet? Indeed, how many have even heard of this handsome wading bird? For many years they have been an extreme rarity in these islands, although there is a record of two pairs breeding in Ireland during the spring of 1938, and today there is a small breeding colony in Norfolk, England.

The one and only avocet I ever saw was on the Back Strand. I was cockling at the time, but I had my binoculars with me when I saw this black-and-white bird some 300 yards away. It stood too tall for a gull of any species, so I immediately glassed it and, sure enough, there was the tell-tale, graceful, upcurving bill. As soon as I got home, I looked up the avocet in James Fisher’s Bird Recognition, and there was no doubt as to the identity of the bird I had observed.

One afternoon, back in February 1960, the late Dr. Peter O’Sullivan, who was Medical Officer for this area, and I were taking a jar in Lawlor’s, now known as The Strand Inn, Dunmore East. Apart from being M.O., he was a keen ornithologist and was noted for going bass fishing in Dunmore Bay early in the morning dressed in pyjamas and a dressing gown.

Well, as I said, we were having a post-prandial drink when the telephone went with a message for him that there was a most peculiar-looking bird in the haggard at Corbally House. This was before it became a hotel.

“We’d best go and have a look,” said Dr. Peter, and so we drove over and parked in the yard. We were taken into the cow-byre and observed the bird through a window. It was running back and forth, stopping every now and then to feed. A medium-sized bird, it had a large crest and a slightly down-curved bill.

“Know what it is?” asked the doctor.

“Yes,” I answered. “A hoopoe. I’ve seen pictures of them, but I never saw one in the flesh before.”

“Seen dozens of ’em down round the Med.,” said the doctor, who, before settling down as the local M.O., had done years as a ship’s surgeon on the P&O Sydney run. “But I never saw one in this country.”

We reported the sighting to Miss Roche, Curator of the Natural History Museum, Kildare Street, Dublin, who told us there had been an influx of hoopoes some 15 years previously, when there had been reports of these curious-looking birds from the Woodstown area.

Fisher’s book does not record the hen harrier as having been sighted in these parts, although he records it as breeding in West Cork, Kerry, Clare, Limerick and Galway. I have, however, frequently seen them in this district, particularly quartering The Marsh, which abuts the Back Strand and is surrounded by a sea-wall on three sides. Since these large hawks are so prevalent, I feel sure they must breed in the area.

Cross the creek at Clohernagh and walk in a southerly direction past the blackthorns, which yield sloes in the autumn. After 500 yards, on your right, is a hillock. Climb it and you will find the ruins of an ancient chapel.

This is part of The Marsh, which belongs to Mr. Frank O’Sullivan of Knockboy. In the ruins is a rough-hewn font, and inside what was the doorway is a ledge where candles were placed to light the way for worshippers when Mass was regularly said there during the Penal Days.

With the coming of Catholic Emancipation in 1829, I presume the old chapel fell into disuse and gradually disintegrated. The late Mr. James O’Sullivan, Frank’s father, told me that there was a place of worship on this site before St. Patrick’s arrival in this country.

A few yards to the south of the chapel, one comes to a small cliff overlooking The Strand and The Marsh. This cliff is gradually eroding into what must have been the graveyard, and it is not uncommon to come across skulls, pelvises, rib-cages, fibulae, tibias, etc., on the beach below.

Standing there on the cliff, one looks along 800 yards — I’ve paced it — of sea-wall enclosing The Marsh. Inside the bank is a long fleet of brackish water, with a sluice-pond immediately beneath one. 

Trout — brown and white — and flounders have been caught in this pond, which drains the surrounding area through a hinged gate. This allows water to escape through a sluice in the sea-wall when the tide is out and, by the same token, shuts itself when the tide comes in.

One day, when I was out wildfowling, I came up the bank off the Strand — the tide was out — some 700 yards from the sluice-pond, when I spotted a bird swimming there. It dived and, moments later, reappeared on the surface. I put the binoculars on it and saw that it was a duck of some sort, but not one I could put a name to.

I went back down the sea-wall, coming up again at the sluice. That duck just didn’t take a blind bit of notice of me, so I went down to the edge of the pond and it still didn’t seem to care. I reckoned it was wounded and sent old Dean in after it. Every time he got close to it, that duck dived, and once it said “squawk”.

Now, I don’t shoot rarities, and I don’t like people who do, but I was sure this bird was wounded. So, when it next surfaced about ten yards from the dog, I shot it and he brought it in.

Dr. Peter and I went to work on that duck with our “birdie” books, but neither of us could identify the species, so we shoved it into a biscuit tin, punched a few holes to allow for ventilation and sent it to Miss Roche. It turned out to be a female long-tailed duck — it’s the drake who has the long tail — and was the only one reported from this end of the country, though they turn up in County Antrim from time to time.

If you want to see it, go to the Natural History Museum, where it is on display, stuffed. Personally, I do not think that bird was wounded, as it was in very good condition. I just surmised that it had never seen a dog or a human being before.

Fisher makes no mention of the goldeneye duck in this area, but I was flighting wigeon on the Strand one night under the moon when I brought off a right and left. Imagine my surprise when I picked up a cock wigeon and a drake goldeneye, since the former is a surface-feeding duck and the latter a diving one — theirs was a strange companionship.

That Back Strand is full of surprises.