In an age before coloured TV, when even Black and White sets were still a rarity, acquired mostly by middle class families with disposable income, we lived in an isolated fishing community in County Dow. This community was just coming out of post war austerity. In a small town, which didn’t have a library, exposure to any form of literature was limited, however, my father had acquired two volumes of the Encyclopaedia Britannica which opened vistas to new experiences and were read avidly, even though much of the content was incomprehensible to children with limited social experience. I remember being fascinated by illustrations of Maori warriors, heavily tattooed in traditional battle dress and sporting those lethal spears used for hunting.

Primary education was provided for in a refurbished storeroom beneath the local parochial hall. Here we received a solid grounding in the three R’s, but our school teacher provided a wide extracurricular dimension, giving us an early opportunity to learning the native language, and the possibility to experience Shakespeare with all its dramatic raw emotional language. In particular, we committed to memory entire portions of Mark Anthony’s oration over the dead Caesar.
“O pardon me thy bleeding piece of earth, that I am meek and gentle with these butchers”.
More than a half century later I am still able to recite the entire soliloquy.
Perhaps early adventures into the gravity and profundity of language awakened an inner love affair with the power of words to; ignite, inspire, fuel, the senses and excite an appetite to engage with the written word, and in particular its poetic form. Some of the poetry I encountered in school is remembered for its visual power, but also for the weave of words that leave indelible marks in the memory bank. One such unforgettable poem is Cargoes by John Masefield.
Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir,
Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine,
With a cargo of ivory,
And apes and peacocks,
Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine.
Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus,
Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores,
With a cargo of diamonds,
Emeralds, amethysts,
Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores.
Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smokestack,
Butting through the Channel in the mad March days,
With a cargo of Tyne coal,
Road-rails, pig-lead,
Firewood, ironware, and cheap tin trays.
Poetry in which the exotic colluded with the ordinary to present a rich tapestry, and for me that unforgettable image of a ‘Dirty British Coaster’ loaded with essentials, just chugging along on those presumably ordinary routine commercial journeys. Easy to identify with that particular happening, when as a young boy I was intrigued with the monthly visit of the large boat with its cargo of Lancashire coal being offloaded onto lorries on the quayside.
Perhaps another defining influence during this time deserves recognition for its place and importance in shaping attitudes and imagination. Anew Mc Master with his travelling theatre company visited the home place and we were fortunate to have been taken by our primary school teacher to see his memorable productions.

In Newry Town Hall. We encountered, Shylock, from the Merchant of Venice and were captivated for all time with this intriguing plot, and the wager, a “pound of flesh”. These exceptional experiences in formative years left their mark, and perhaps laid a foundation for the imagination to take hold and deliver a continuous need to be imaginative when exploring or setting down the written word.