It’s A Long Story
A poetic story by Paddy Lane, about where the Funshion River begins in the Galty Mountains and where it passes through on its way to entering the Blackwater near Moorepark.
Early to bed and early to rise, Landlady says time to appetize, Like king or queen, I’ll need to dine, One vast journey, set to take time,
Load up the boat, time to head off, For at the Galtys, be my next stop, Drive up steep hill, to the waterway, A river becomes my road this day,
Planting my vessel at water’s edge, Say some prayers, I make a pledge, A voyage I’ll steer to the very end, Negotiate every treacherous bend,
A sail and oars having by my side, Precious tools, they’ll be my guide, Sailing on with such momentum, To bottom of such sheer mountain,
Eyeing the beauty of Galty Wood, A must to see, for all who could. I wave goodbye, been a pleasure, To visit such a natural treasure,
Finally reaching the valley’s floor, “The Three Counties” next in store, Bidding adieu to dear Kilbehenny, Heading to town to spend a penny,
Starting this voyage, barely afloat, To traverse the water in a tiny boat, A trickling steam, now a rivers size, The waters a rising, to my surprise,
I try not to worry, follow my dream, Long ways to go, so it would seem, Arches I see, it’s the ‘White Bridge, Middle I choose, such a privilege,
Onwards I float, to the Demesne, Meet the Gradogue, tributary vein, I need to press on, only half way, Only so many hours in each day,
Flow gets faster, current stronger, Off to to Kildorrery, way out yonder, A flying visit’s all that I can pay, Speedy river takes me far away,
On to Rock Mills, just fleeting past, Choppy waters, not sure if I’ll last, I grab the oars and hold on tight, Dig in I say, just one more fight,
Bridges galore, finally the Harbour, Hard to imagine going any farther, Glanworth, I know you oh so well, If I stayed a day, the stories I’d tell,
Memories of friends ne’er I’ll forget, Paddle to Kilworth before sunset, The waters bank high, need to set, At Castle Hotel, good night’s rest,
Sadly a ruin, hope I don’t shiver, At this hostel, down by the river, Lay on some straw, drift to sleep, Hoping the nights not like a week,
Morning awaken, food but a wish, Head to the water to trap me a fish, Cooked and eaten on open fire, A flavour that one can only desire,
On final part, little more to excite, Using my sail journey’s end in sight, Into the Blackwater it has to go, Ends the story of Funcheon’s flow,
So that’s it now until another time, Till I find a story I can make rhythm, Hope you liked this silly rant,
Be back soon, if it’s what you want.