Walking Photo Journal - Maurice of the Mountain - 100th Post

Maurice Collins

I was thinking about my 100th blog post, and to be honest, I couldn't decide what I would do for this momentous event!  So with no idea in my head, I went on my daily walk, and then I found the most brilliant inspiration. 

The man in the photograph is Maurice Collins, he is 94 and he walks the mountain everyday, sometimes 2-3 times.  He is a great man and apart from a little difficulty of hearing at times, and arthritis in the knee, he is probably healthier than myself.

It is great to talk to Maurice, because like the mountains he has been around for a very long time.  We spoke today about the bit of frost in the air, and the snow of 1947 when there were 40ft snowdrifts, we also spoke about the people, the new ones, those that have been here for only about 20 years!

Maurice got married at the age of 45.  His mother he says was a very good woman, and it didn't seem right to bring another woman into the house.  But when Maurice did get married, he was blessed with 5 children. 

As we walked down the mountain together, every now and then, he would throw a eye to his son's cattle, or wave to the odd mountain driver. 

I asked him what his secret was, was it healthy living?  He lived a hard life, he told me, but usually had enough to get by.  Times could be tough, but you just had to get on with it.  He misses being able to drive his car, but he misses driving his horse and cart more, despite often getting soaked through, often 3 or 4 times a day, hence the arthritis. 

Maurice remembers a time when Fridays was the day that folk, including his mother and father would travel into town, Camden Street, and sell eggs or buy seeds from Bolands.  They would make a day of it, he told me. 

The only time Maurice left Ireland, was when he went to London for his honeymoon.  He has a sister in America, a member of the Sisters of Mercy I think.  When he talks about London and America, you just know that he has no call to worry about either, his world is his life on the mountain, and there isn't an ounce of regret that this is the case. 

I enjoy talking to Maurice, he has a good outlook on life, and a gentleman for sure.  He loves everything about the mountain, and takes life as it comes with an appreciation that tomorrow is promised to no one.

We left each other at the corner of Piperstown Lane, both going our separate ways for a cup of tea to bring warmth back after the chill of the mountain air. 

I am sure I will write about Maurice again, he is just one of those folk that always brings something new to the conversation, but for now, thanks Maurice for my 100th post!

Walking/Photo Journal - Derelict Cottage Piperstown



Derelict Cottage -  Piperstown


One of the first things that struck me about living in the Dublin Mountains was the sense that so much about these surroundings were here long before any of us were born, and will remain long after we are all gone.  But there are elements that are not so safe, and one of those is the numerous derelict buildings that still remain from times past. 

When we came upon our own piece of derelict structure eleven years ago, we felt a connection not just to the land, but to the house itself.  It was in a very sorry state, most of our friends thought us mad, and indeed over the seven years that it took us to get approval for refurbishing the cottage, we did at times agree with them.

Anyhow like all good stories, it had a happy ending, but there were stories about the house, that went beyond the known historical tales attached to it, like the bold Robert Emmet and the Kearney's, both already written into country and local history.  No there was another story to be told, one that we heard much later.

The first time I got a hint of it, we had steel scaffolding up through the belly of the cottage and the daughter of a neighbour, (she was probably about eleven at the time) told me how she used to look up at our house from her Granddad's (Maurice Collins) place, and dream about one day living here, fixing the house up, for it was indeed a house that when you looked up at it from the lower levels of the valley, looked like something out of a childhood fairytale.  Later still, others too came and visited, and each recounted their own tales of the cottage, whether it was playing in it as a child, or revisiting it in later years, and each time they spoke, there was something special from memory in the house for each of them.

Maybe it was because of the history of the place that locals were drawn to it, they too sensing something that went beyond their own years on earth, but somehow our little cottage became part of what this beautiful part of Dublin represents, not just the landscape, but the people and the houses that they once called 'home'.

When I am out walking and I look at the derelict cottages, I think of the people that used to live in them, the ones that are no longer here, and the ones living, that remember these old buildings as part of their family history, for they are as important an element of this place as the hedgerow and the forests, and if we are not careful, we could lose them and their stories for good.