Big fish, little fish...

My earliest memory as a child is a blank orange wall. I was laying in a bunk on an overnight ferry to Dublin and it was my very first trip to Ireland. I can remember hearing the sound of the sea on the other side of the wall and holding on to my precious rag doll to protect me from the water crashing in on top of me.

Most of my holidays as a child were spent visiting family in Ireland. When other children were enjoying the sunshine on the Costa del Sol we were knee deep in mud, wrapped up warm in woolly jumpers, swathed in waterproofs and always clad in thermal vests. Looking back now I wouldn’t change it for the world.

My favourite times were spent in my uncle’s row boat on the lake fishing. We’d pack a lunch and make a day of it, even now the taste of a hot, sweet cup of tea from a thermos flask can take me back there in a flash. I can picture every angle of that landscape when I close my eyes as if I’m standing on the quay right now – the mountains in the distance my Dad would tell us legends about, the forest to the west hiding a castle, the gates near the boathouse where the headless horseman lurked. It felt magical to me, as if anything could happen – like catching a bigger fish than your brother!

Sometimes when something unexpected occurs, and a forgotten memory enters my head like red wellies splashing in puddles or the smell of a peat fire welcoming us back into the warm, I can get that little flutter in my belly that I used to get as a kid and it reminds me anything is possible.