A collection of the weird and wonderful musings of an offbeat maverick writer.
Explore the macabre, the eerie depths, the downright mad, and best of all, the mischief loitering with intent inside.
Explore the macabre, the eerie depths, the downright mad, and best of all, the mischief loitering with intent inside.
Thought for today:
'If we do not plant knowledge when young, it will give us no shade when we are old.' – Lord Chesterfield
I left my native Co. Down many years ago, but still travel back from time to time.
I have been published in numerous short story collections, dabbled in poetry, and on occasion, even engaged in serious political dissemination.
I aim to provide writing which is different from the rest, and something either dark, or reflective, and sometimes amusing, to leave the reader with a unique memory to savour.
Get in touch, using the form to the bottom left if you want to add a comment, or read some of my other stories by clicking on the downloads at the top. Stephen.
A mile or so outside my native town of Comber, you can find a secluded little gem
called Island Hill.
Every time I travel back to N.I., I always try to get a window seat on the left of the
aircraft, so I can observe the myriad island network of Strangford Lough,
overseen by its looming sentinel guardian, Scrabo Tower.
With a strong undercurrent, the tide is prone to submerging the causeway over to
Rough Island, as I and many others have found to our cost on numerous
occasions.
The walk across the causeway is breathtaking, not just because of the strong coastal
wind which greets you like a firm handshake once you venture onto the path, but
also, the panoramic view of the lough, taking in Ards, Greyabbey and even as
far down the cost to Kircubbin is unequalled anywhere else.
As a boy, I remember being regaled with stories of 'the Birdman', a colourful
character who could imitate almost any bird on the island, having spent years in
its vicinity.
Other memories include men flipping flatfish, or skate, out of the little channels at
low tide, and a vast array of strangely clad cockle pickers, digging on the
flats and wielding large buckets unsteadily back to their cars.
Rough Island is approximately five mins walk from the Island Hill picnic area, and a
stroll around its perimeter another ten.
Having lived abroad for over a decade and travelled extensively, there is still nothing
I have seen which can rival this natural landscape.
Home is where the heart is; and never a truer word spoken.