A river stocked with molecules...

My river was one that passed through a small town of about 3,000 people, a small town in Ireland, with no particular claim to fame: just the way I liked it. I knew I was going to escape when the time came, because it was too small to hold me, and I had bigger plans ahead. But as a place to grow up and pass through the trials and tribulations of boyhood and young manhood, it was fine. And thank God, yes, a river did run through it. I always saw the river as existing primarily in the stretch on which I fished it, but it did press on further into town, stamping itself onto the town’s identity. To get onto the hill which was the bottom of the town’s main street, one crossed a short old stone bridge, the hissing and whispering waters beneath the feet. I always felt that the East and West sides of the river had entirely different personalities, and the bridge kept the two separate. “Ne’er the twain shall meet!” I would say to myself as I crossed over.

We lived on the Eastern section of the river, and for me this was where the mystery, and darkness, and depth, and lively personality of the river resided. In general this section of the river was narrower, more hidden by trees and countryside, dotted with more mini-waterfalls pouring into deep pools topped by creamy, foamy heads, gushing with wonderful sounds. I definitely felt that the fish would be on the East side, rather than the wider, shallower West side, which was more populated by people from the town, and the houses and schools that resided near it. The West side was public territory, but the East side was mine. This is how I saw it. Well, okay, maybe mine and a few other likeminded souls, but the East was where I lived, and I was sure it was where the best fish lived too.

We lived a little bit out of the town, quite literally on the edge of town itself in those days, and coming down the hill of the housing estate to the main road, one would reluctantly take a right to go to school or the town, or take a glorious left to be in the country almost immediately, and walk a wide atmospheric tree-lined leaf-covered conduit to peace and quiet. It was about twenty minutes or so, along the Castlewellan Road, to a small junction, where I would turn right, onto the Ballydown road and down the steep hill that led to the river.

This stretch of road was always unique for me, it did not feel like part of the same world I had walked from: it was a retreat into earlier times. Memories hung in the air of the town’s prior standing as a major flax and linen powerhouse, with more than 20 bleach greens housed on the river’s banks. The silent hill was dotted with lonely stone buildings and the inevitable broken windows, what looked like old weaving warehouses, most of which had locked gates, their former courtyards overgrown with grasses and weeds. A smelly chicken house, which along with a farm plant business on the left hand side halfway down, seemed to be the last signs of an older world, before I was born. 

It was both charming and sad at the same time. I always wondered what life had been like there before, and what happened to the owners, workers, and their lives. But I was too young to dwell on such matters, and the river and its sounds and smells and sights were always calling me. The sun usually shone brightly on the deserted old stone buildings, shining some warmth onto their cold, forgotten interiors. A bit further on down, one came to a little row of tiny houses on the left hand side, houses that seemed so small I could not imagine entire families living in them. They actually jutted out onto the road itself, making it narrower along their length. It looked like some had been deserted, while some seemed to still contain life, reasonable curtains in the windows. This was more at river level, and you could see watermarks on the pebble dashed outer walls, implying these houses were partly under water if the river flooded. The trees covered this stretch of road heavily, so the sunlight did not make it through at all, making the houses seem even colder and less welcoming. Damp leaves were always under the feet on the cold tarmac. In all of my years descending and ascending that hill, not once did I ever see anyone entering or leaving that small row of houses. 

Of course, my imagination ran wild, and I saw them potentially as “safe” houses of some elite passionate fishermen’s club, where they could hide from the wife, and be near the river with a healthy supply of cold ale, and the luxury of a bathroom for emergencies. This is how I usually saw it in early mornings, with the day ahead and the sunlight visible below them where the trees cleared. 

On the other hand, coming back up at twilight, their dark, dank exteriors and interiors, made me think of witches and devil worship. They could house some secret coven whose members used the darker forces of the river for their evil ways, and they could easily nab passing young boys for ritualistic sacrifice to the demons of the river. On nights when I was a little late and it was almost dark, I would move over to the left side, away from the houses, my fishing rod as my sword against the evil-doers, and I would walk faster, heart beating loudly. I could feel the eyes watching me, peering out with evil intent from behind the thin, worn curtains, but the key was to never look. If you looked in, and they suspected you knew they were there, further up the hill a black clad figure would jump out from thick bushes, and drag you off to their lair in the woods; dancing flames around a huge pentagram lined with black candles, and the High Ipsissimus at the altar, cow’s blood and an unholy sword at the ready. I would recognise some of the faces of course, local school teachers and businessmen, and naturally, Father McCracken from Sunday chapel. 

Like all Catholic schoolboys at that time, we were indoctrinated with the fear of God, and what he would do to us if we sinned. In my case, I always saw the chapel as a scary place, especially when empty, and the fire and brimstone screamed out of his mouth on Sunday mornings, made me even more afraid of the holy dark side of Father McCracken. This was as much a servant of the Devil himself as of any God: threatening, scaring, moralizing, judging, promising eternity in Hell’s darker chambers for those boys who did not show up on any given Sunday. 

[Excerpted from Kevin Mc's new book, THE MOLECULES, which is currently available on the EU website, and also out on Kindle in the very near future.]