Winds of Change in Dunmore

For generations, Dunmore East was first and foremost a fishing port. Each year the herring season brought the promise of good money, and the quayside filled with life. Some men went to sea on the trawlers while other men and women worked ashore, salting, kippering, and packing the catch for market. The harbour rang with their voices, the smell of herring hung in the air, and alongside the bustle of fishing, sailing and pleasure craft added their own touch of colour to the scene. It was a picturesque harbour, alive with tradition and character.

By 1963, that world was changing. The government decided to modernise Dunmore, entrusting the Board of Works with a harbour development scheme that would sweep away much of the old order. For many, it meant progress and badly needed improvement; for others, it meant the loss of a way of life. The work provided alternative employment in the village—my own father, Ernie, among those who laboured on the project—but it also marked the moment when Dunmore’s historic harbour crossed a threshold, stepping from its herring past into a modern future. This history retraces that turning point, when the harbour’s story was rewritten in stone and concrete, and when Dunmore East set a new course that still shapes its identity today.

This photograph, taken in August 1963, captures Dunmore East on the brink of transformation. At the time, the Board of Works’ Harbour Development Scheme was about to begin—a project that would alter the harbour forever. The days of the fisherwomen, who once stood on this very spot gutting and salting herring, had long since faded into memory. By then, a modern Ice Plant, built in 1957 and visible on the right of the picture, already signalled the move towards a new era. It was fitting, for cool heads would be needed in facing what lay ahead.

Earlier that year, the village had weathered the worst snowstorm since the 1940s and had, at least for the time being, won its “fish war” with the Northern Irish boats. Yet bigger forces were at play. The winds of change blowing down the river from Passage East carried with them a decision that shifted the long-anticipated harbour development away from Passage and towards Dunmore. When those winds finally settled, the destiny of the village would be rewritten.

Back in 1963, Dunmore East stood on the cusp of major change. Long celebrated for its character and natural beauty, the little fishing village had been selected by the government for a new programme of harbour development. How that decision came about was a story of compromise, ambition, and the stubborn realities of geography.

Originally, the government’s Swedish harbour consultant, Mr. C. J. Bjuke, had recommended Passage East as the most suitable site for a major fishery harbour on the south-east coast. But when engineers examined the ground more closely, they found unfavourable subsoil conditions that made large-scale works impossible. Passage was ruled out, and attention turned instead to Dunmore.

Even here, the challenges were clear. The harbour, though picturesque, was small and exposed. Donagh O’Malley, then Parliamentary Secretary to the Minister for Finance, admitted candidly that the site was “less than ideal.” To create a fully sheltered deep-water harbour of refuge would have been prohibitively expensive. The government, therefore, chose a middle course—a compromise plan that would not completely transform the harbour, but would provide much-needed improvements for the fishing industry.

At the time, the fishing fleet faced serious difficulties. Berthing space was scarce, with boats often lying four to six abreast along the pier. Deck space too was so limited that the harbour became dangerously congested during busy times. The new scheme promised relief: more berthing, greater working areas, and—most significantly—the separation of two vital functions. The east pier and extended south quay would continue to handle landings, auctions, and sales, while a new west wharf would be reserved for berthing, repairs, fuelling, and provisioning.

Other elements of the plan included raising the storm wall on the east pier, dredging the harbour to ensure a minimum depth of twelve feet at low tide, and building a new breakwater stretching northwest from the pier to the “island” rocks, closing the gap and reducing the swell inside the harbour.

Not everyone was convinced. At a public meeting in July 1963, fishermen, merchants, local councillors, representatives of the RNLI, and even tourism interests gathered to hear the proposals. Some regretted that Dunmore would not be turned into a fully sheltered harbour of refuge, but most welcomed the promised improvements. Others worried that the village’s character—its natural beauty and charm—might be spoiled. The government pledged to preserve amenities as far as possible, with the Office of Public Works’ architects giving attention to sympathetic design.

Construction inevitably brought disruption. Dredging and building works clashed with the very summer months when yachting and tourism were at their height, and there was no escaping the inconvenience. Still, the government pressed ahead, emphasising that the long-term benefits would outweigh the short-term discomfort.

Even charges became a matter of controversy. Pleasure craft had never before been asked to pay for the use of Dunmore’s harbour, unlike other major ports. The Office of Public Works intended to change that, but in deference to local sensitivities, postponed the introduction of fees until the works were well advanced.

Looking back today, the 1963 harbour scheme marks a milestone in Dunmore’s story. It did not solve every problem, nor did it turn the village into the great deep-water refuge some had dreamed of. But it laid the foundations of the modern harbour we know now. Chosen almost by accident after Passage East was abandoned, Dunmore East was set on a new course—one that has ever since balanced fishing, tourism, and local identity in ways that still shape the life of the harbour today.

This 1963 photograph of the harbour shows a scene that looks calm and peaceful, but it was taken at a time when Dunmore East was facing storms of more than one kind. While the Board of Works prepared to launch the Harbour Development Scheme, the fishermen were already fighting for their livelihoods in what became known as the “fish war” with Six-County boats.

In January of that year, the Irish Press reported the simmering tensions on the quayside. To the visitor’s eye, all seemed well: trawlers landed glistening herring, buyers moved among the boxes, and lorries rolled away with their loads. Yet beneath the surface lay a bitter row over whether Northern boats should be allowed to fish inside the three-mile limit. For local crews—and for the men who came seasonally from Donegal, Castletownbere, Howth, and beyond—it was a matter of hard cash and, for many, survival.

The Northern boats had clear advantages. They were bigger, newer, faster, and, crucially, heavily subsidised by the British government, receiving grants for boatbuilding, daily allowances at sea, and even payments per box of fish landed. As skipper Alan Glanville, an Englishman settled in Dunmore, put it: “They are better equipped, they land catches quicker, and they can fish in worse weather. Struggling local men, trying to pay off the debt on their boats and make a living as well, cannot compete with them.”

Resentment was not directed at the Northern crews themselves—admired for their skill and stamina—but at the economic imbalance. Landing earlier, the Six-County boats filled the buyers’ quotas, secured top prices, and left the local fleet to sell later in the day at depressed rates, sometimes even having to dump fish. The impact was devastating. Only a few years earlier, 40 to 60 boats from the Twenty-Six Counties had worked the herring shoals out of Dunmore; by 1963, that number had collapsed to just sixteen. Boats bought with Bord Iascaigh Mhara loans were being repossessed and advertised for sale abroad.

Herring was the lifeblood of the fleet—“our bonanza,” as the men called it. A good season could land £100,000 worth of fish, but by the early 1960s much of that money was flowing north. In one season alone, of £81,000 worth of herring landed, some £50,000 went to Six-County boats. Prices rubbed salt in the wound: a cran that fetched £6 in Dunmore might sell abroad for as much as £24 in Germany, Holland, or Czechoslovakia.

The Fishermen’s Association eventually imposed its own ban, refusing Northern boats the use of Dunmore’s harbour. Prices rose sharply as a result, but the scars remained. The newspapers called it “the fish war,” but for the men involved it was no abstract headline—it was the fight for a fair chance. It exposed the vulnerability of small, locally owned boats against industrial-scale competitors, and it marked a gear shift for local fishermen: from then on, Dunmore’s herring fishery had to contend with increasing competition from larger boats—including fleets from outside Ireland fishing near, and sometimes within, Irish waters.

For the fishermen of 1963, though, the issue was painfully simple. They wanted what their fathers and grandfathers had enjoyed before them: the chance to make an honest living from the sea.

In the summer of 1963, the Board of Works’ harbour scheme was no longer an abstract plan but a reality on the ground. For Dunmore East—by then both a thriving summer resort and a working port—the changes promised new opportunities for the fishing fleet, but they also stirred unease. Many feared that the very qualities which made the village attractive to visitors and yachtsmen might be swept away.

One of the strongest voices was Jasper E. R. Joly, a travel agent who spent much of each year in the village. Recently elected chairman of a joint committee of the Waterford Harbour Sailing Club and the Dunmore East Small Craft Owners’ Association, Joly argued that the scheme made no proper provision for small boats. In the Irish Examiner he warned that Dunmore’s existing arrangements—yachts safely beached in the inner harbour and rowboats tied to “frails”—would be disrupted, and that tourism could collapse during construction. “For the next two years, while the scheme is in progress, Dunmore is finished as a tourist resort,” he declared. “There is a very real danger of it being wiped out completely. It could become a ghost town.”

The numbers gave weight to his concerns. Between residents and visitors, some 125 small boats used the harbour each year, and the sailing club was growing, particularly among younger members. In August alone, boating visitors were said to spend around £15,000 in the village—a huge figure at the time. To cast them aside, Joly warned, would be short-sighted. His committee pressed the Board of Works for a slipway on the west wharf, moorings for yachts, space for small boats, and a site for a clubhouse and dinghy park.

He was not alone. Writing from London, Mrs. R. Otway-Norwood reminded readers of the Irish Independent that Dunmore was already under pressure in the summer, with mooring space hard to find. She feared that the new scheme, which filled in part of the harbour for fishing berths and servicing facilities, would make matters worse. “There will be very great difficulty indeed in preserving anything like the former facilities for pleasure craft at Dunmore East, when the Harbour Scheme is completed,” she wrote.

Other critics went further. In a passionate letter to the Irish Times in 1962, the architect Niall Montgomery condemned the destruction of the historic harbour stores and pier wall, it read as follows:

Some may think it improper of me to raise an intellectual protest against the harbour development in Dunmore East, yet it would be far more disgraceful to remain silent — to allow irony or apathy to muffle the cry of anger that should be heard each time a part of Ireland is sacrificed for money.

The works now in progress at Dunmore threaten to destroy not only the unity and amenity of the harbour, but also the distinction of a place that is more than just the centrepiece of a small, graceful seaport. Dunmore’s harbour is one of Ireland’s most remarkable achievements of marine architecture — strong, elegant, and splendid in design.

At present, the lower pier wall, which once formed part of the harbour stores, is being cut away along its inner length so that the historic stores may be swept aside and replaced with something “modern” and “efficient.” By this same logic, one could also have justified burning the Custom House forty years ago — an outrage committed under the banner of another ideology.

The existing harbour at Dunmore East was reputedly designed and built early in the last century under the superintendence of Mr. Nimmo, an engineer of the Office of Public Works. They stand as one of the earliest and finest architectural achievements of that young Irish administration, driven as much by zeal as by responsibility.

The architecture of the stores was alive with brilliance, where sunlight played on details and shadows. In bold stonework and noble dignity, they were as much a part of the harbour’s character as the water itself, providing a fitting complement to the warmth and richness of the village street.

The lower pier wall, divided by plain but economical projections and linked by recessed panels, each faced with granite blocks, was both powerful and harmonious in scale. Seen in long perspective, the wall and the stores stood in relationship to the lighthouse — a clean, simple shaft — and to the village, the backdrop, the immense sea, and the very structure of the cove.

Now, that heritage has been destroyed. What is lost cannot be recreated. It cannot be simulated by modern work. No skill of man — whether guided by the wrong hand or the right — can ever restore it.

Looking back now, more than sixty years later, these voices remind us of the tension that ran through the village at the time. On one side lay the promise of jobs and a modern fishing harbour; on the other, the fear of losing Dunmore’s identity as a holiday resort and place of beauty. In the end, buildings such as the lifeboat house, boathouse, and slipway disappeared in the name of progress. What survived was a changed harbour—but also the memory of a community that wrestled with what progress should mean, and who it was truly for.

This photo dates from mid-July 1963. Visitors and locals alike are seen soaking up the summer sun at Stoney Cove, with many taking advantage of the high tide to enjoy a swim in the clear water. Children often favoured this cove over others, mainly because of its closeness to the Bay Cafe and Gertie’s, where ice cream was always within easy reach. On the transistor radios of the day, Cliff Richard’s hit 'Summer Holiday' or Gerry and the Pacemakers 'I Like It' would likely have been playing — tunes that perfectly suited the carefree mood of the strand. Yet, while holidaymakers enjoyed their summer holiday in Dunmore, plans for the harbour’s redevelopment were already afoot, and not everyone liked it.

At the end of July 1963, a meeting was held in Dunmore East to discuss the £250,000 harbour development scheme. Work, it was announced, would begin at the end of the month and was expected to take two to three years to complete. The meeting was attended by engineers from the Department of Fisheries and the Board of Works, together with representatives of local organisations.

The centrepiece of the scheme — a new West pier stretching from the Churn in the middle of the harbour to the Island and linking with the pier beside the lifeboat station — was the main topic of discussion.

Mr. S. Mallon, Chief Engineer with the Department of Fisheries, reminded the gathering that the groundwork had been laid by the Swedish harbour expert, Mr. Bjuke, whose survey the previous year had produced the first serious plan to develop Dunmore into a major fishing port. Since the scheme was extensive and would affect so many people, Mr. Mallon explained, the engineers wanted to outline the details.

Assistant Chief Engineer, Mr. H. Delapp, set out the main points. The scheme aimed to provide extra berthage and more space on shore. Mr. Bjuke had concluded in his report that to give Dunmore proper shelter would require a massive breakwater, but the plan now being advanced would instead focus on dredging, giving an additional 11 feet of water at low water springs.

Moving House:

Much of the new land space, Mr. Delapp explained, would come from building the West pier to the Island and linking it to the lifeboat house. The Island itself would be demolished, the ground levelled, and the area reclaimed. On the Stoney Cove side of the Island, a new slip would be built to provide further berthage.

The East pier would see only minor work – resurfacing of the pier wall and a rise of 18 inches. On the West side, however, extensive space would be opened up. The Harbour Master’s house and the auction hall would both be moved further back, and a new breakwater was planned at the lighthouse. The Island road, too, would be widened to allow better access for lorries.

Not all were convinced. Boat owner and skipper, Mr. Alan Glanville, warned that if a West pier were built from the Island it would mean the end of the Island itself and with it the traditional anchorage for small boats.

Mr. R. J. Farrell, solicitor representing the Dunmore East Development Association, raised the issue of tourism. Dunmore, he reminded the meeting, was a great attraction for visitors at a time when the Government was calling for more tourists every day. While the Association supported measures to strengthen fishing, they could not overlook the importance of the village’s appearance.

Tourist Value:

“A pier on the West side,” Farrell declared, “would destroy the look of Dunmore East. It will detract from the tourist value of the village. I suggest that the plans be revised.” He went further, warning that Ireland, once known as the Emerald Isle, was in danger of becoming a “concrete isle.”

Mallon, however, was firm in his response. From a fisheries point of view, he argued, land space was every bit as important as water space. Even with the additional quay, Dunmore would still be cramped for room. He doubted whether the claim that the new pier would spoil the harbour’s appearance carried much weight.

The debate then turned to the need for repair facilities. Mr. R. Murphy, Lifeboat Engineer, noted that the Crosshaven Dockyard Company was eager to establish a small dockyard in Dunmore and would soon apply for permission. But Mr. Mallon countered that Dunmore was primarily a herring port. Boats that arrived in October came fully prepared for the season, he said, and extended repair facilities were not strictly required here. Such services might be better provided in other centres.

Mr. Farrell disagreed. The Development Association wanted the facilities already available to be retained – not least the anchorage for small rowing boats and yachts.

Boats Laid Up:

Others added their voices. Trawler owner, Mr. J. McGrath, pointed out that vessels worth thousands of pounds used the harbour each winter, yet there was no slip in Dunmore to lift a net from a screw. If a trawler broke down, it had to be taken to Arklow or Crosshaven.

Mr. A. Wescott-Pitt, Secretary of the Dunmore East Lifeboat, said it was vital that trawlers could be repaired locally, and a slip should be included in the new development. He reminded the meeting that in August of the previous year 110 pleasure boats had been anchored in Dunmore, yet no proper facilities were available for them either.

Delapp responded that a site might be provided for private enterprise to develop a dockyard, though he doubted there was room within the harbour walls for a slip. Farrell pressed the point, saying it was unacceptable that trawlers had to go abroad to be “slipped” and repaired.

Lawrence Lett, Chairman of the South-East Coast Fishermen’s Association, added that four boats had been laid up in Dunmore for more than a week the year before for lack of facilities. Fish buyer, Mr. P. O’Toole, suggested a slip could be built on the Stoney Cove jetty, while Mr. Glanville noted that every fisherman had, at one time or another, cursed the absence of such a facility.

Delapp closed the discussion by confirming that work would indeed start at the end of the month. The first phase would focus on repairing the East pier, with winter work concentrated on cliff excavation at the West side. The scheme, he said, would take between two-and-a-half and three years to complete.

The Attendance:

The meeting was attended by an impressive list of officials and local representatives: Mr. Rr. Cross (Chief Engineer, Dept. of Fisheries); Mr. J. P. Regan (Engineer, Board of Works); Mr. J. Quinlan (Asst. County Engineer); Mr. F. A. White (Dept. of Fisheries Inspector); Mr. W. Friel (Waterford Harbour Engineer); Capt. C. H. Hazel (Lifeboat); Mr. S. Ormonde, T.D.; Mr. D. Drake (Fishery Inspector); Mr. George Roche (Dept. of Fisheries Inspector, Dunmore); Mr. R. Shipsey (Fish buyer, Dunmore); Rev. M. Power, C.C. Killea; Mr. N. Kervick (fish buyer); Mr. J. McGrath (fish buyer); Sir Brian Warren (fish buyer); Mr. W. Power(fish buyer); Mr. D. Brazil; (Waterford Harbour Sailing Club); Mr. A. Harris; (Waterford Harbour Sailing Club); Mr. R. Ballintine; (Dunmore East); and Capt. D. Carroll, Dunmore East Harbour Master.

The harbour discussions of 1963 highlighted the sharp contrast between progress and preservation in Dunmore East. While fishermen pressed for expanded facilities, others feared the loss of the village’s natural charm. The struggle between industry and tourism would continue to shape its future identity.

This photo from August 1963 brings me back to some of my earliest memories of Dunmore East. It shows the road leading off the quay, a place that in those days had a tired and weather-worn look, and was badly in need of a bit of a makeover. Beyond it, the convent school loomed large, casting its shadow over the harbour. Behind those walls, preparations for the new school year would have been underway when this picture was taken. For most children, September marked the end of summer freedom and the return to the long winter under the stern gaze of the nuns. Even before I started there myself in 1965, I remember the sense of dread that hung over the youth of the village at that time of year.

By the time I entered through those gates, little had changed. The days were long, the lessons strict, and the prayers—whether the normal daily ones or the epic sessions at the start of term—always seemed endless to me. I never much cared for them.

The monotony, however, was occasionally broken in spectacular fashion. Blasting work was underway on the quay to carve away parts of the Shanoon cliff face, and whenever a charge was about to go off, the schoolyard filled with a nervous excitement. We were ushered behind the wall, coats pulled over our heads in case of flying stones. It was frightening, but it was also the most thrilling part of an otherwise predictable school day.

Certain moments of my early schooldays stand out more vividly than others. The Foot and Mouth disease outbreak of 1967 is one. Disinfection stations were set up for everyone passing to and from the quay, and even the children on their way into school had to dip their shoes. Somehow my feet always got soaked, leaving me with damp socks and the sharp tang of disinfectant following me around all day.

The schoolyard itself had grassy banks that seemed to invite rolling and running down, though the nuns would never allow it. Punishment was swift for anyone who gave in to temptation. New prefab classrooms had been added behind the convent around this time—bright, airy, and a welcome contrast to the gloomy, old-fashioned rooms in the main building.

The quay, meanwhile, was alive with activity. Lorries trundled down past the school, loaded with enormous boulders, part of the constant reshaping of the harbour. Every so often, one would tumble off and be left behind in the village. One of those great stones still stands in the park today, a silent monument to those days of heavy machinery and harbour works.

Thankfully not all of my early memories are so serious. I think of Sunday walks with my mother and sisters, and the barrel that sat near the shed in the picture filled with rotten fish—bait, most likely. It became a grim kind of game for me. My sisters would laugh as I held my head over it, while they counted to see how long I could last. The smell was foul, unforgettable, but it gave my sisters a laugh at my expense.

Looking back now, the convent school wasn’t all bad, I suppose. We may have had to endure the prayers, the punishments for rolling down the bank or not having Irish homework done, and the disinfectant, but we also had the enjoyable daily drama of the blasting on the quay, the smell of the sea drifting up from the harbour, and the sight of lorries rumbling through the village. Those memories, ordinary and extraordinary, have stayed with me all these years— schooldays lived in the shadow of the convent, yet close enough to Dunmore East’s harbour to see, hear, and breathe in the sea air. 

In the quiet summer of 1963, before the Board of Works reshaped its edges, Dunmore East’s harbour seemed to linger in a timeless hush.

Two small yachts rested side by side, rocking gently on the calm water. Beyond them, a handful of trawlers—sturdy, weather-worn, and close-knit—huddled beneath the lighthouse as if sharing secrets. The quay held a stillness, not of emptiness, but of pause: the kind that falls between breaths and tides.

A light breeze must have stirred that day, just enough to ripple the surface and set the ropes tapping softly against their masts. The air would have carried the scent of salt and sun-dried fish scales. Beyond the lighthouse, the sea stretched out calm and endless, dissolving into a sky veiled with soft summer cloud—the kind that only a late August morning could bring.

It was a scene untouched by hurry, unspoiled by dredgers, concrete, or cranes. A final quiet glance at the old harbour, before the future arrived.

By the close of 1963, Dunmore East had endured a year unlike any other—one that tested the resilience of its people and etched new chapters into its maritime story. The harbour, long at the mercy of tides and tempests, found itself also caught in the crosscurrents of politics, international intrigue, and the winds of change.

The year had opened with fury. As December gave way to January, the county was paralysed by a blizzard remembered still as one of the harshest of the century. Roads were blocked, boats were frozen in their moorings, and the daily rhythm of life in Dunmore bent to the will of snow and storm. Families helped one another through those bleak days, their resolve as steady as the cliffs that hemmed the harbour.

Barely had the snow thawed when Dunmore was thrust into the glare of international headlines. The arrival of a Russian trawler, arrested off the Waterford coast, brought the Cold War to the village’s doorstep. Suddenly, the quiet fishing community found itself mentioned in the same breath as Moscow and Washington—a place where global tensions brushed against local waters.

There was trouble too closer to home. Northern fishermen, rivals in the pursuit of herring, clashed with locals over traditional grounds. Added to this came the shadow of European vessels fishing illegally, their presence a constant reminder of how precarious and contested these waters could be. To the men of Dunmore, each fishing voyage carried not only the hardship of the sea, but also the uncertainty of who might be met beyond the horizon.

Amidst all this, the harbour itself was changing. The long-discussed Board of Works development scheme was finally underway. Concrete, cranes, and blasting on the Shanoon heralded a new era. For some, it was progress—a chance to modernise and expand. For others, it was a threat to the harbour’s character, the end of the old ways. Either way, change was no longer a distant promise but a daily reality, echoing across the quay.

And yet, through it all, there remained one constant. Nimmo’s lighthouse, standing guard at the harbour’s edge since the 1820s, kept up its faithful flash. To fishermen returning weary from the sea, to families watching from the cliffs, and to all who called Dunmore home, it was more than stone and lantern. It was a reassurance—that however fierce the storm, however uncertain the times, there would always be a light to guide them safely back.

1963, with all its trials and transformations, left its mark. It was a year when Dunmore East looked both backwards and forwards, weathering storms both literal and metaphorical. A year when the old harbour met the new world. And through it all, the lighthouse shone on, a promise in the darkness.

This colourised photograph records an important but often overlooked moment in Dunmore East’s history — the demolition of the old sheds on the quay. This was probably one of the first jobs undertaken by the Board of Works during the harbour upgrade, but I could be wrong. The image shows Paddy Barry, together with several unidentified workmen, clearing the remains of the long-standing structures that had served the harbour for generations. It was likely taken around 1964, a period of great change as the new harbour developments got underway.

Remarkably, this appears to be the only surviving photograph of the demolition. For buildings that had stood for well over a century, their removal went almost undocumented — a reminder of how things can vanish with the blink of an eye. You’d think that someone might have taken out their phone and recorded the event. Today, it is through this single image that Paddy Barry’s name will forever be associated with the day the old sheds on Dunmore’s quay were finally brought down. 

A New Year Dawns in Dunmore – January 1965

The year 1965 began much as it always did in Dunmore East — with the last traces of Christmas spirit still hanging sweetly in the air. The scent of coal and wood fires, the faint echo of carol singers, and the laughter from recent dances lingered in the memory as the village eased itself into another year.

The Munster Express of January 1st, 1965, under its familiar heading Passage and Dunmore Jottings, offered a cheerful snapshot of local life as the festive season drew to a close.

There was news of Garda John Brendan Cullimore, recently appointed to duty in Dunmore East after completing his training at Templemore, Co. Tipperary. A native of Wexford, Garda Cullimore followed proudly in the footsteps of his father, Alderman John Cullimore, the only Fine Gael representative on Wexford Corporation, who had served as Mayor of Wexford in 1962.

Further along the coast, the Woodstown Harriers were enjoying good sport, with foxes proving plentiful during recent hunts. The festive season had also brought with it a series of lively holiday dances in Dunmore, all well attended and brimming with cheer.

Fishing, too, had resumed in earnest, with good catches reported despite a fierce gale that had swept in on the Tuesday night, forcing many boats to seek shelter in the harbour.

Among the more romantic notes of the week was the happy engagement announcement of Mr. Sean Fitzgerald of Leperstown and Miss Anne Boland of Dunmore East, a union warmly received in both communities.

Meanwhile, the much-loved Gaultier Concert Party was preparing to “take the boards” once more, promising an evening of laughter and music to brighten the dark January nights. Schools were due to reopen shortly, bringing an end to the Christmas holidays, while throughout the district the familiar voices of carol singers had been heard only days earlier — a final reminder of the holy season now passed.

Although Santa was faced with bitter cold weather for Christmas, the evidence of his visit was everywhere to be seen. The numerous cowboys, complete with six shooters, were predominant throughout the district.

It was, in all, a hopeful and wholesome beginning to the New Year.

A Warning from Belfast — Dunmore East’s Harbour at a Crossroads, 1965:

With Christmas decorations all put away it was back to work for most, the long-anticipated harbour development at Dunmore East was in full swing. The echo of dynamite from the Shanoon cliff face had become part of the village’s daily soundtrack — a deep, rolling boom that reminded everyone that progress came at a deafening price. The massive works, begun with great optimism, were reshaping the very landscape of the harbour.

But as the dust rose from the blasting, so too did the cost. What had started as a £250,000 project had, by early 1965, climbed to £350,000 — a significant sum for the time. The overruns, combined with unrest among fishermen, drew the attention of government officials in Dublin. And before long, Dunmore East found itself in the middle of a political storm.

Tensions on the Tide:

In March 1965, George Colley, Parliamentary Secretary to the Minister for Lands and Fisheries, voiced his frustration publicly. During a visit to Belfast for talks on fishery co-operation with Captain W. J. Long, the Northern Ireland Parliamentary Secretary to the Minister of Agriculture, Colley issued a stark warning: unless relations between southern and northern fishermen improved, the government could withdraw funding for the harbour altogether.

The Evening Echo of March 9th, 1965, captured his comments in dramatic terms:

“WARNING was given in Belfast yesterday by Mr George Colley, Parliamentary Secretary to the Minister for Lands and Fisheries, that the Government might end its £350,000 scheme for Dunmore East if the ban on Northern Ireland fishermen there was not dropped.”

Colley explained that Dublin’s position was clear — Northern Ireland fishermen were entitled to fish off Dunmore East under existing agreements. However, many had refrained from doing so out of a desire to avoid conflict with local boats.

“We are spending about £350,000 on Dunmore East,” he said. “We are not prepared to continue on that line unless we see a future for Dunmore East, and we see no future as a result of restrictive practices.”

Colley added that while only a small number of men were involved in the protest against Northern fishermen, the issue had grown to symbolise wider discontent among fishing communities. “We are fairly hopeful that we are coming to the end of that situation,” he said, “but many fishermen around the coast object strongly to what has been happening at Dunmore East.”

A Fisherman’s Response:

Back home, Colley’s comments sparked immediate reaction. Mr Michael Doran, of Howth and Wexford, a member of the South-East Coast Fishermen’s Association, defended the Dunmore fishermen. He reminded reporters that they had been landing their catches successfully at the port long before any government scheme arrived.

Any decision to lift the ban on Northern boats, he said, would depend on the market for herring in the coming season. If demand was high, and with new fishing limits expected to reduce the haul of foreign trawlers, then Irish-caught fish could fetch better prices — perhaps opening the door to compromise.

But for now, it remained a matter of speculation. “Nothing definite could be stated at this stage,” he cautioned.

As for the Dunmore fishermen themselves, they were out fishing late into the evening — unavailable for comment. It was a telling detail: while politicians traded words, the men who made their living from the sea continued their work regardless, their small boats gliding beneath the rising cliffs of the Shanoon, indifferent to the debates in Belfast and Dublin.

The Politics of Progress:

Colley’s warning marked a rare moment when Dunmore found itself at the centre of national policy and cross-border tension. It reflected the complexities of 1960s Ireland: the effort to modernise the fishing industry, the lingering sensitivities of partition, and the growing belief that local enterprise could no longer stand apart from government planning.

Enterprise in Dunmore East – The Birth of a New Association (1965)

However, it wasn’t all conflict and controversy in 1965. Amidst the political wrangling over fishing rights and harbour works, there were also signs of enterprise and optimism along the quayside. Dunmore East, ever resilient, was determined to take charge of its own future.

In October of that year, The Munster Express carried a story that reflected a more hopeful side of village life — one of initiative, cooperation, and local pride. The headline read:

DUNMORE EAST ENTERPRISE – LOCAL FISH BUYERS FORM ASSOCIATION:

A new organisation had been established — the Dunmore East Sales Association — formed by four fish buyers determined to revitalise the herring trade and bring prosperity back to the harbour. It was a bold step at a time when landings had declined and confidence among fishermen had faltered.

The founding members were John Baldwin of Passage East, Roger Shipsey of Dunmore East, Nicholas Kervick of Waterford, and Paddy O’Toole of Dunmore East. Their aim was straightforward yet ambitious: to encourage trawlers from both the Republic and further afield — the so-called “ringers” — to fish off the South-East coast and land their catches in Dunmore during the four-month herring season, due to begin within a fortnight.

This initiative promised not only to stimulate the local economy but also to reaffirm Dunmore’s importance as a working fishing port. The Association’s efforts were already bearing fruit — ten trawlers from Castletownbere and Bantry in County Cork had committed to fish out of Dunmore that winter, with more expected to arrive from Galway. Many of these boats were members of the National Trawlermen’s Association, bringing with them valuable experience and a shared interest in rebuilding the herring trade.

“We Expect 60 or 70 Boats to Operate”

Speaking to reporters, a spokesman for the new group explained how the association would operate. One member would serve as auctioneer on the quay, while the remaining three would act as buyers. In recent years, fish landings at Dunmore had been sold through both independent and State-appointed auctioneers, but the new model promised greater efficiency and collaboration.

“During the past few years,” he said, “the landings of herring at Dunmore have dropped considerably, and the number of boats fishing out of the port has dropped also. We hope that we will be able to improve the situation this year, and we expect about sixty or seventy boats to operate.”

It was a rallying cry for renewal. For the fishermen of Dunmore East, who had weathered political uncertainty and economic strain, such words carried the weight of hope.

A Sea Alive with Herring:

The timing of the initiative could hardly have been better. Reports from the Waterford and Cork coasts spoke of vast shoals of herring just offshore. Around forty Dutch trawlers were said to be fishing off Mine Head and Ballycotton, landing exceptional catches of prime fish. Two vessels returning to Holland had netted an impressive 1,100 cran of herring off the west Waterford coast in just three days.

Skippers described a sea alive with silver — shoals so dense that in some places they swam barely three miles from shore. The Dutch boats were running what one reporter called a “shuttle service” between Ireland and Holland, carrying full cargoes across the North Sea.

A Turning Tide:

For the fishermen of Dunmore East, such reports offered reassurance that the sea still held its bounty. The new Sales Association represented not just a commercial venture but a rekindling of community spirit — proof that local initiative could still make a difference even in the face of national uncertainty.

Mid-November 1965 brought one of the fiercest easterly storms ever remembered along the Waterford coast. In Dunmore East, the newly developing harbour—still under construction as part of a £250,000 improvement scheme—took the full force of the tempest. Mountainous seas tore into the works, smashing timber casings to matchwood and washing away steel moulds that had been set in place for the new quay.

Throughout that night and well into the following day, waves pounded the harbour relentlessly. By high tide, the quay was completely awash, the sea spilling over the concrete and roaring through the works area. A spokesman for the Board of Works told the News & Star that large quantities of construction timber and steel had been lost, and it would take several days of “mopping-up” before the full extent of the damage could even be assessed.

At the height of the storm, the Howth trawler Unity, skippered by Harvey Sloan, made a desperate dash from Dunmore East to Waterford in search of shelter. It took the crew several hours to battle their way against the easterly gale and mountainous seas before they reached the calmer waters of the Suir Estuary— Harvey Sloan’s seamanship and that of his crew, along with the Unity’s endurance, were all tested on that day.

But the havoc wasn’t confined to Dunmore. Across Waterford city and county, the storm unleashed chaos. The torrential rain and gale-force winds halted unloading work on vessels in Waterford Port, including the Greenfield with fertilizer, the Werner Meyburg from Newport, and the Willen Barendsz from Hamburg.

In the city itself, rooftops were stripped of aerials, trees were uprooted, and flooding brought traffic to a standstill. The worst of it came on the Dunmore Road at Lower Newtown, where the Park was submerged under at least two feet of water. Even the sturdy telephone kiosks weren’t spared, their doors twisted or torn away by the gale.

Further inland, the River Suir overflowed its banks from Clonmel to Carrick-on-Suir, inundating roads and fields and forcing motorists to abandon their cars. Houses in Carrick were flooded as the swollen river burst over its banks, and several routes between Waterford and Clonmel became impassable.

The storm of November 1965 came at a time of great transition for Dunmore East. The harbour development—meant to secure its future as a working port and haven for fishing boats—was only partially complete. Nature, however, seemed determined to test that ambition, reminding everyone who lived and worked by the sea that progress along the coast was always built at the mercy of the elements.

In the years that followed, the harbour works would continue and eventually be completed, but those who lived through that night in ’65 would not soon forget the roar of the wind, the thunder of the surf, and the sight of the new quay vanishing beneath a storm tide that seemed to come from nowhere.