Where have all the swimmers gone?

People born too late to be children in the fifties often don't have a clue about how we passed the time. No TV — not down our way, anyhow — and no Walkmans, let alone iPods. No rollerblades or skateboards. No big concert gigs. And that was just for us young people.

But a situation where a traditional swimming area had been made inaccessible prompted some memories of my own swimming childhood in and around Kilcullen.

There wasn't a county swimming pool then, although some of us did have occasional access to the Army swimming pool at the Curragh military camp. That probably came later, because I could actually swim by then.

On the Liffey in the Kilcullen area, there were three main swimming spots. The bank just over the Jockey Stile on the opposite side of the river to what is now the Riverside Manor development; downstream of the bridge on the turn of the river just under Castlemartin House, now the home of Sir Anthony O'Reilly; and at the currently disputed spot at Carnalway Bridge.

The one closest to the village, on Ken Urquhart's land at the Jockey Stile, had two areas. The steep bank itself was popular with the bigger kids and the adults because it was deeper and faster, while the bit further up where the Mill Stream entered the Liffey had a pleasant high sitting area and access down to shallows which were great — and relatively safe — for toddlers.

On any decent day in the summer, and on the sunny evenings, both places would be quite crowded with swimmers, families, and people just generally walking around and passing the time of day. They weren't fenced off as they are now, though the Mill Stream part had to be accessed through an area of reeds, which was very soggy except where some paths had been trodden through it.

There were always cattle in the fields around, but they either didn't bother coming near the crowds, or when the odd heifer did make its way to the water edge for cooling or drinking, nobody else bothered them either.

It was an indication of the relationship between the landowner and the villagers that he not only accepted their right to use the river bank parts of his land, but he even went to the expense of installing a proper diving board at the deep end close to the Valley. The more adventurous of us could learn the pains of belly-flops as we tried to show off.

While swimming, we'd keep an ear out for the siren at Poulaphuca Dam up near Ballymore, which signalled the release of water from the reservoir to make electricity, usually twice a day. The 'flood' would begin maybe an hour or so later, and the benign river would become in relative terms a fast-flowing torrent, the shallow parts getting far too deep and dangerous for the youngsters.

For experienced swimmers, the 'flood' provided a chance to move really fast in the water, especially if we got in up close to the New Abbey end. It was important to get out before reaching the Valley, because it wasn't a park then, but fairly impenetrable scrubland with just a muddy, rocky path used by the occasional fisherman. There was a reputed 'hole' around the turn into the Valley proper which was supposed to have dangerous currents, and was to be avoided.

The stretch between the Valley, under the bridge and then on to where the river turned left beyond Kellyville wasn't swimmable, with too many rocks and remnants of the old weir. But by taking a route through Jim Byrne's land, now the Hillcrest development, we could access the next river turn under and opposite Castlemartin House, then still owned by the Blacker family. The land on 'our' side was Jim Byrne's, and there were pleasant banks for picnicking and generally lazing around.

That was where I nearly drowned once, as a small youngster. I'd just learned to float on my back during a recent trip to the seaside, and was happily repeating the exercise when some eejit roared from the bank that I was out of my depth.

Whatever about one's whole life flashing through the mind when drowning, I still have a most vivid memory of panicking and sinking, watching the water and bubbles swirling above me as I struggled to get up. Fortunately, one of the older boys who could swim properly pulled me out. Fortunately too I wasn't put off by the event and soon learned the rest of swimming skills myself.

Many years later, in the seventies, a small island in the river near that spot — and Castlemartin House brooding above it — became locations for my first paid-for published fiction short story, 'The Final Sin'. But that's a story in itself, for another time.

Getting to the Carnalway swimming spot required transport, either on our bikes or by family car. Though on occasion some of us did the walk along the river from the Jockey Stile through New Abbey Woods and on a fairly lengthy and winding route to get there.

It was very popular also as a picnic and swimming area with families from Newbridge and Naas, being a safe spot for toddlers as well as providing some decent swimming for us older ones and adults.

Across from the paddling area there was a curved trunk of overhanging tree. We could swim over and then jump or dive back in. The spot itself was then part of a very large open field, and the landowner of the time had no qualms about letting people use the area. And there was equally a respect for the land and the times when unharvested crops filled most of the field. The swimming/picnic area was left clear by the owner, and nobody ever damaged the crops, at least not in my memory.

Even on the hot days of recent years, I've not seen swimmers at the Jockey Stile or the Mill Stream sites. Maybe the fact that the bank is fenced off puts them off, or maybe people just don't swim in the river any more, given the availability of public and leisure centre pools. I presume that nobody goes down to the site below Castlemartin, as that land is now also owned by Sir Anthony O'Reilly.

But I was very interested to hear one of my cousins saying she was going for an evening swim to Carnalway, after work. That was just a couple of days before the recent blockade of the access stile.

I suppose, if the weather pattern permits, the new and temporary dock for the Canoe Club at Riverside Manor could make a good base to swim from in one of the most traditional areas. But maybe also we've got rather too comfortable, requiring our heated and chlorinated and weather-free pools, and have now too many other distractions by which to pass the summer afternoons?

It could also be that we're just not getting summers like I remember? Whichever, I suspect that such occasions as I've just written about will not be in the memories of a generation looking back in another fifty years.