Stories grow out of kitchen tables and fireplaces.

At least, that’s what I learned when I was little.

My childhood was a tapestry of local tales, family trees and well-worn sayings. From the time I could sit up, I was brought around to houses to visit, to old relatives, to family friends and neighbours. I was sat at their kitchen tables, gave a glass of good old 7up and madeira queen cakes and listened.

By complete osmosis as a young child, I can now trace my family back to the Famine times. I can tell you who used to live in houses going back to the turn of the 20^th century. I can tell you of the absolute tangled web of relatives that is woven around our little Parish.

But the best part is the fact that I learned about stories first hand. I would sit enthralled by a story about some local I didn’t know that may well have been embellished many a time over the years, but was still enchanting to me.

I learned of heroes and corruption, I learned of love and loss, I learned that life is very bland when there are no stories to fill the silences.

It was only when I started secondary school and university that I realised that my experience was unique. That ‘normal’ teenagers didn’t know the nicknames for the grandfather of another classmate, that they didn’t think of funerals as social outings where someone was bound to have a tale to spin, that they didn’t have an insatiable thirst for the history and stories of their local areas.

And here I am now.

With a very niche view of rural life and the stories that mean so much to people.

I’ve listened to many a tale being spun, now I’m hoping to weave some of my own.