My Dad had a boat on the river Suck. He had made it himself. To us it was our yacht! We cruised down the river with no life jackets, no worries, Dad as carefree as his children. We sang to our hearts’ content as our boat moved on leaving behind her all kinds of ripples. My Mother watched from the shore with four toddlers, probably scared out of her wits.
As we rowed, the bulrushes seemed to sway and dance to our singing. The water hens were oblivious to our intrusion of their space. The wild ducks ducked and fished and the Kingfisher took our breath away. Dad named each species, told us about their way of life, the food they ate, exciting our young minds even further as we watched in anticipation for the next surprise.
The fascination with water, the river and its life were magic to my young mind. The myriads of fish gave me and my siblings food for thought. How blessed we were to have enquiring minds and blessed too with parents who sowed the seeds of questioning within us.
Many evenings during the fishing season I accompanied my brothers on their fishing trips. My mother boiled oats and held back some dough from her unbaked bread to feed the fish. These ingredients were thrown into the area of the river we called the “grain hole.” Every evening the fish were waiting in shoals for their treat. Pike, Perch, Roach and other varieties of fish took the bait.
Water, water, water, how I loved it. Once again it was our river and to us children it was not a tributary of the Shannon. The Shannon was a tributary of our river Suck.
With our home-made fishing rods, we sat until the sun set, beside a fire lit at the river’s edge to keep the midges at bay, while we listened to the ebb and flow of the river. The sound was accompanied with the most amazing orchestra of birdsong. I was walking on air. What glorious and wonderful days. Seventy plus years on, the memories return, the mystique as strong as ever as I become a child one again. I surely did walk on water, once!
Agnes Curley rsm
Western Province
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