Each lighter was drawn by horse
and each horse was given a name.

At the third lock, they’d lie up.
Allow their horses rest—

for it took two days to reach
Lough Neagh from Belfast City.

Witness say the lightermen were kind:
ran their blackened fingers
through the manes of their companions;

took turns to walk the towing path
step for step;
would whisper, not much further now.

Listen to the history of our waterways.
A language shared by weary men and horses—

their stories inscribed by hoof and foot
along the towpaths of the Lagan.

When I was young
you were simply
a smudge on the map
I skipped past,

a mere echo from
distant Dromara hills
as I chased far flung
Famous Five storylines.

You were melody
calling to me
as I constructed tenuous huts
trussed to chestnut trees.

You were the source
from which jewelled trout
were plucked out,
or so I was told.

You were the one
from which kingfishers
picked sticklebacks;
a subterranean treasure chest.

You were the mirage
on a child’s horizon,
the Crayola backdrop
to a never-ending expedition.

You are the destination
sought out as a saviour;
the sanctuary of a come-of-age
never-too-late explorer.

A cold winters day on the lagan,
The smell of rotted wood and greasy cogs,
As the lock gates were checked like a military inspection,
Whilst nature provided the sound track,
Birds whistling, leaves crunching and winds blowing,
The water slapping as it fought against the mucky river banks,
At night he Nestled in the reeds,
Out of his vermin preys sight,
His steely blue eye aimed down the barrel of his gun,
Taking a deep breath and a tight hold,
Flashbacks racing in his head of his army years,
The moonlight reflecting off the weapons metalwork,
He got the rats in his line of sight,
As he took his shot to rid the lagan of these pests,
He was the lock keeper in the 70's,
Killing rats is the only good memory of my Dad,
My natural waterway breaks the bank and trickles down my cheek.

I remember after school, or instead of school,
running down the towpath,
damp cow parsley brushing my legs.
Hope thudding in my chest.
Would the lighter still be there?

The wee dog barked his welcome and
the lighterman*handed me an apple.
Shining red against his hand.
Big hands with nails edged in black.
His eyes shone from his weather -beaten face,
I smelt sweat and heat and coal.

He kept me going, teasing me,
His great, roaring laughs,
echoing over the river.
Sometimes I got my own back,
He repeated what I said and
laughed some more.

Then, too soon, always too soon,
we reached the lock.
I said cheerio and
Jumped onto the bank.

With a mock salute, they receded.
Silence closed over the water.

I fished till the sun set,
My head full of it all.
I dreamt of a life
on the river.
With a dog,
and a boat
of my own.

*barges in Ireland were called ‘lighters’ and the men who operated them were known as ‘lightermen’.

Time for my precious trip to ‘The River’
Amazing how the circumstances change
Compare each one with the other
You realise where you prefer to be.

At home, children doing what they’re told
Field beside ‘The River’, they enjoy their freedom
Parents relax on the grass, deep breath of fresh air
Fond of that little time of release.

Lunchtime at home, jam sandwich, yuck!
Picnic by ‘The River’, jam sandwich, Mm mm.....
Kitchen table, try not to make a mess
Blanket on the field, open tinfoil with excitement.

House, all alone, wall facing another
Surrounded by loneliness again
Settled on a bench, enjoying my isolation,
Nature, freshness, views and trickles of water.

Indoors, sight of a spider, you squeal
On bench, taking in the beauty
Patterns on the spider while climbing its creation
The detail in its web, exquisite.

Straight face, worry what has to be done next
Dandering by ‘The River’, not a care in the world
Smiles all around, pleasing, enjoyable, satisfying
Clear mind, taking in current happenings.

Change of surroundings can help so much
For so many people, in so many ways
Mine is my river, peace, pleasure, relaxation
Something to look forward to..........

The Shimna river in the county of Down
From the mountains of Mourne through Newcastle town
I followed the water to the Irish Sea
With a man who meant the world to me

A sparkling waterfall and the white foam below
The thundering sound of rumble and flow
Tiny hands gripping a treasured shiny stone
His strong warm arms carrying me home

At Tipperary Woods where the river gets lazy
Lush green grass and the sunshine hazy
Collecting frogspawn or aging a tree
A love of nature he instilled in me
Stepping stones at Tullymore where the river is clear and deep
Castle Park, a rowing boat, a bridge and a salmon leap
My daughters now making these memories with me
My Father is with us from mountain to sea

The trodden path along the Lagan meanders like the branches of a well formed contorted willow. I have retreated to this much needed infusion of Nature offered by the Lagan, to escape from the haunting silence that this Coronavirus has brought to my home, my village, my country.

I need to see God’s hand at work, a gentle nudge to reassure me that He is in control and that He cares for me. I need to see His Creation at work, albeit for a temporary respite.

I have come early, social distancing foremost in my mind. I have left my safe haven, tired of the routine that Lockdown brings and searching for an escape from the clutches of depression that are wrangling their way into my thoughts.

A flash of vibrant cyan blue feathers with orange plumage fleets past and demands my attention. I take a moment to watch the kingfisher weave swiftly to a well-hidden nest under the aged bridge, transporting a small fish from the bounty of the Lagan to feed its hungry brood. It brings a welcome blast of colour to the dull mist of the morning.

The Silver Birch trees with their papery silver white bark silhouette the morning sky and ageing Alder Trees with fading yellow catkins adorn my pathway. A Tree sparrow timidly vacates one of the skillfully erected nesting boxes.

I retreat down the river bank and disturb the quietness of the morning as I stumble into the Crack Willow releasing the sharp echo into the cool air, disturbing a moorhen hiding with her young amongst the sedges and rushes at the water’s edge. Her distinctive call reflects a timid nature, as she gathers her young back into safe seclusion of the reed fringe with tall bullrushes popping their kofta like heads above the strappy leaves below.

Standing still, I absorb the beauty of this magnificent Lagan, transported by the invigorating air. I listen to the busy activity of nature’s creatures at work. I see a small cluster of Yellow Iris starting to burst forth. What a welcome splash of colour these will be in a few months time when their embellished heraldic fleur-de-lys like flowers break forth.

I take interest in a cluster of shaggy ink caps adorning the base of a dying tree stump. Life and death in symmetry.

As I stare into the cool depths of the river, a flash of azure blue and black manoeuvres swiftly onto a decaying tree branch floating on the water surface. Breakfast time for the damselfly.

I close my eyes and utter a thankful prayer. What a comfort to feast in God’s Garden where I am alive and free to smell, see, feel and enjoy some rare benefits of this forced isolation.

My mind is calmed, my emotions eased.

I am reassured. Life on the Lagan will continue. This Pandemic will pass. Order will be restored.

It doesn't matter what park my partner and I take our guide dogs too, if there's a river, my girl Debbie is sure to be in it.

Listening to the sounds of water flowing, birds tweeting and feeling the sunshine on my face is wonderful but hearing the sound of my girl in the water having fun is therapeutic to me. Why? Because she's having fun. She's off duty being a dog. Running, playing, and enjoying herself.

When we let Debbie and Morris off for their free run, they wear bells on their collars so we can hear where they are. It's funny hearing the sound of their bells as they race passed us as we walk through the park. The pitch changes and goes slightly lower, this is the Doppler effect.

We've stopped walking and where we are, It’s calm, and peaceful. We can hear ducks quack as they move through the water, but Debbie decides to change all that. She spots the water and in she goes. My partner's guide dog Morris goes in, but only gets his feet and tummy wet. Debbie is a swimmer and so she has to submerge herself completely in the water, which must be cold.

We hear her jump in and she splashes around, paddling and having fun. If I can get close enough, I can actually hear her snuffle and snort as she swims. Her face is in the water, I can hear her making little bubbles, she's really giving herself a good work out there. It's so cute. She has such a sweet, gentle, but cheeky wee character, I can't help but smile and laugh at her as I hear her paws rhythmically splashing in the water. Her bells sound strange as the pitch drops a semi tone lower in the water.

When she finally gets out of the water, I'm quick to retreat as she's about to give herself a big shake and no doubt, I'm likely to get wet. She's all pleased with herself because she's been in the water and comes to me for some praise. Rubbing her wet body on my trousers and nuzzling my hand with a wet, but warm nose because she's been puffing and panting a lot. ' Please mum, fuss me because I've been so good, and you need to get wet too.' Well, what can I do? I can't resist, she is a good girl, so I give her some love and fuss letting her know how special she is.

Both Debbie and Morris are our eyes yes, but they're our companions, our babies, but they are dogs and they need to have fun, free time and we love to be there and enjoy it with them.

At the turn of the century my mother lived on a farm near St Patrick's church at Drumbeg in the county of Down. Here the serene waters of the Lagan flowed past and it was along these banks she and her five sisters would walk. One late afternoon when out walking, the chill of winter was just being hinted at. She had walked much further than she intended, but to a country girl, the darkness held no fear. In that smokiness of dusk prior to Hallowe'en she could see ahead of her the Old Drum Bridge, long disused and overgrown with thickets and brambles but with what appeared to be the tall, pale figure of a man. In the mist rising from the river, it was with difficulty that she could make out the figure, but being unafraid, she called out to it as she knew most of the people in the area. As she grew closer she had the impression that it was the figure of a man beckoning and trying to speak.

Among the swirls of mist the figure grew fainter and a voice, too faint to be made out, faded.

More puzzled than afraid, she went back to the farm where she told her sisters. And so the following day all the sisters set out. Sure enough the figure appeared and then faded as before. Mystified they went up onto the Drum Bridge.

It was chance that an elderly aunt in her twilight years was visiting them and remembered a tale from her youth when she had lived locally, of a resident by the name of James Haddock, whose widow had remarried after his death. The new husband had attempted to alter the will by replacing James Haddock's son's name with his own son named as beneficiary.

She then continued by saying that after this fraudulent event, the apparition of James Haddock appeared in a distressed state to a friend of his, Francis Taverner, on the Drum Bridge demanding justice for his son. This happened several times until the Bishop of the Diocese, who heard of this, arranged for a hearing in the court at Carrickfergus, where a ghostly hand appeared with the voice of James Haddock demanding justice for his son.

She maintained that it is recorded in the annals of the County Court that the ghostly request was granted and his son's inheritance was justly restored.

This story is further enhanced by the fact that since that time, James Haddock's gravestone lies flat at St Patrick's Church, and still does. Any attempts to put the headstone back upright are doomed as it falls flat within a few days.

My mother added that it became common knowledge and indeed remains so up until today that it is not advisable to walk on the headstone as those who have done so usually incur the wrath of James Haddock who still professes to feel that injustice has not yet been righted.

My friend Sharon’s Dad had a grocers’ shop in Lambeg. As she was really spoiled, we could easily score food for our summer picnics by the river. The Lagan was our playground and refuge from organised family outings. Any chance we got, our gang of five girls would clamber on our bikes, raid the shop and freewheel down the hill to the river.

We imagined we were fugitives, outlaws and had to fend for ourselves as we couldn’t go back into town on account of what we’d done. An old Primus stove, some paraffin and an iron frying pan served as our kitchen. While the others poked about the river bank with sticks, Sharon and I would put the pan on. Lard went in first, then sausages, frozen chips and finally, beans. The whole mess was washed down with Coca Cola. It looked horrible but tasted of freedom and adventure.

No-one could see us, tucked away in a grassy hollow behind the bridge at Ballyskeagh. Above us loomed the deserted lock keeper’s cottage, its vacant windows and blackened door giving it the appearance of a scream after a nasty surprise. Sad, gloomy and abandoned, this lonely sentinel of the river was surrounded by bracken and brambles. Rumour had it that the last lock keeper had hung himself and that his ghost walked the bare, creaking boards, cursing his lonely life by the canal and all who entered his crumbling tomb.

The house had a forlorn aspect, perched like an afterthought on top of a hillock above the water. We fancied we saw shadows flitting across the top floor window, in the very bedroom where the noose still dangled according to Sharon – the only one of us to have been inside. We draw lots with lengths of reeds to decide who would be first to take the steep walk up the overgrown path. The rules were that you had to knock three times on the peeling once-black front door and the others would count to 20 before you could escape. Anyone who chickened out before 20 had to do it again. And none of us wanted to do that.

Always, afterwards, we screamed and giggled and on the cycle home, teased each other as to who was the biggest scaredy cat. We didn’t know it then but the river and the canal fed our imaginations and nourished our 10 year old hunger for independence and adventure. Yet, as it was on our own doorstep, it was a safe place to explore wilderness and wildness, a haven where we could be in a world of our own making.

These days, as I cycle or walk by the canal, whenever I pass the old lock keeper’s house, I reflect and smile. A part of me remembers and I connect with my younger self, the girl who trembled before a peeling door and learned how to be fearless.