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4th March 2026 — The Day the Wind Practised Speaking.

04 Mar
4th March 2026 — The Day the Wind Practised Speaking.

4th March 2026 — The Day the Wind Practised Speaking.

*********************
The morning in Ballykillduff began in a most unremarkable fashion.
Clouds sat politely above the village like sheep that had climbed the wrong hill.
The air smelled faintly of rain.
Mrs Murphy opened her shop door at exactly nine o’clock and immediately noticed something peculiar.
The wind was trying words.
Not full words, mind you — that would have been far too advanced for a Wednesday morning — but syllables.
At first it only whispered things like:
“Ba…”
“Lli…”
“Kil…”
By half past nine it had progressed to:
“Bal…ly…kill…”
And by ten o’clock the wind was confidently circling the village square announcing:
“Bally…kill…duff!”
Old Seamus at the bench beside the fountain looked up and nodded.
“Good,” he said. “It’s practising.”
The First Witness
Alice, who had arrived earlier than usual that morning, stood beside the cream-and-green telephone box (which, as everyone knows, is where unusual things tend to gather).
She listened carefully.
“Is the wind learning Irish?” she asked.
Seamus shrugged.
“It tries every spring.”
Developments by Midday
By lunchtime the wind had grown ambitious.
It began testing longer phrases:
“Dia… duit…”
A dog barked politely in response.
Then the wind attempted something very complicated indeed:
“Dia duit, Ballykillduff!”
Half the bunting outside the Giddy Goat pub applauded.
The Village Reacts
Reactions were mixed.
• Mrs Murphy said the wind had excellent pronunciation.
• Father O’Rourke said it might be a sign of cultural revival.
• Jimmy McGroggan tried to build a Wind-Translation Machine, but it translated everything as “sausages.”
Alice simply listened.
Late Afternoon
Toward evening the wind slowed slightly, as if tired from its lessons.
It drifted across the square one last time and said, rather proudly:
“Dia duit… Ballykillduff.”
Then it went quiet again.
The Only Question Remaining
Alice looked up at the clouds.
“Do you think it will remember tomorrow?” she asked.
Seamus considered this carefully.
“Oh yes,” he said.
“The wind always remembers.”
He paused.
“It’s the village that sometimes forgets.”
 
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Posted by on March 4, 2026 in ballykillduff, carlow, carlow story

 

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The Fête That Was Never Announced

04 Mar
The Fête That Was Never Announced

 

Under the White Bunting

No one tied the bunting there.
It simply leaned from post to post
As though the wind had practised.

No chalkboard named the hour.
No bell rehearsed the call.
And yet by noon
The quarry field remembered us.

Tables stood
With lace that smelt of careful years,
Cakes waited
Under domes of patient glass,
Jam jars caught the light
Like small, obedient suns.

The tombola drum
Turned with its wooden sigh —
Hope in a circle.

Children ran before the rules,
Dogs disobeyed with confidence,
Tea was poured
As if it always had been.

And overhead
The bunting held its breath.

Not black.
Not bright.

Only listening.

A coin rolled.
A chair wavered.
A praise paused
On the edge of pride.

These were the fireworks.

Not flame —
But inclination.

Not thunder —
But reflex.

In the smallest space
Between falling and reaching
A village chose itself again.

By dusk
The bunting had settled
Into white.

The mirror said nothing.
The field resumed its grass.
The wind untied what it had tied.

Tomorrow
There would be no trace
Except doors opening
A fraction sooner.

And somewhere,
Folded into the quiet of the land,
The Fête would wait —

Unadvertised,
Unforgotten,
Watching
For the colour of the sky.

Epilogue: The One Who Watched

They did not notice her at first.

She stood where the stone wall dips,
Where daisies lean
And lantern light does not quite reach.

Her hair caught the fire’s gold
Before the fire caught her face.

She did not enter the sack race.
She did not judge the sponge.
She did not turn the tombola drum.

She watched.

When the coin rolled,
Her hand did not move.

When the chair wavered,
Her breath did —
But she did not.

She has learned, you see,
That villages must steady themselves.

The bunting above her
Had begun the afternoon undecided.

She saw the first thread pale.
She saw the second follow.

She saw Mrs Doyle’s praise
Tilt the colour toward light.

And when the mirror stood
At the field’s edge,
She did not look for herself.

She looked for the field.

Grass.
White bunting.
No ledger.

That was enough.

Later — long after the fire fell to embers —
A child would say,

“Was Alice there?”

And someone would answer,

“Of course she was.”

Because there are some gatherings
She does not begin,
Does not mend,
Does not command —

She only keeps.

And when the wind untied the bunting
And folded it back into the sky,

It brushed her shoulder
Like thanks.

 

You can read the full story via this LINK. Enjoy.

 
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Posted by on March 4, 2026 in Alice in Ballykillduff, Alice in Wonderland, ballykillduff

 

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The summer harvest in bygone days

30 Jan
The summer harvest in bygone days

The sun beat down on Ballykillduff, a golden hammer forging memories into the very earth. It was the height of summer harvest, and the fields shimmered with ripe wheat, a sea of gold stretching to the gentle hills beyond. Old Man Finnegan, his back a permanent curve from decades of toil, leaned on his scythe, wiping a brow beaded with sweat. “Aye,” he’d often say, “these are the days to remember.”

He watched the rhythm of the village unfold before him. Young Michael, barely a man, grunted as he wrestled a heavy sheaf onto a growing stack, his freckled face red with effort and a burgeoning pride. His mother, Mary, moved with the quiet grace of a seasoned farmer, her hands calloused but nimble, gathering stalks into neat bundles. Even little Brigid, no older than five, chased after her dog, a scruffy terrier named Rusty, as it darted through the stubble, imagining herself a grand huntress.

In the distance, the chugging of Mr. O’Malley’s tractor, a relatively newfangled contraption, mingled with the shouts and laughter of the men loading the hay wagon. It was a faster way, to be sure, but Finnegan preferred the quiet swish of the scythe, the feel of the earth beneath his worn boots. He remembered his own youth, when every grain was cut by hand, every stack built with sweat and song.

The stone church steeple pierced the azure sky, a silent sentinel watching over generations of harvests. White-washed cottages nestled among the trees, their chimneys hinting at the warm meals and tired bodies that would soon fill them. The air was thick with the scent of cut grass, warm earth, and the promise of a bountiful supper.

As the sun began its slow descent, painting the clouds in hues of orange and pink, Finnegan smiled. These weren’t just fields of wheat; they were fields of shared labor, of community, of life itself. He thought of his own father and grandfather, their spirits woven into the very fabric of Ballykillduff. “Aye,” he murmured again, a soft sigh escaping his lips, “these are the days that last.” The memories, golden and vivid, were as real as the setting sun, cherished treasures of a time when the land and its people moved as one, under the generous hand of a summer sky.

 
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Posted by on January 30, 2026 in ballykillduff, summer harvest

 

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Alice in Tartaria

13 Jan
Alice in Tartaria

Alice in the Magical Square of Tartaria

 

Ballykillduff is a village that thinks quietly.

Lanes hesitate. Grass leans when it should not. Things happen just slightly to the side of where they are supposed to be. Alice has lived there long enough to know this, and just long enough not to question it.

So when a crease appears in the air behind the Old Creamery, and a place called Tartaria slips sideways into existence, Alice is the only one who notices — and the only one who understands that some places survive by being remembered badly.

Tartaria is a civilisation that vanished by behaving too well. Now it endures in a state of almost compound memory: misremembered, misfiled, and dangerously unfinished. Maps argue. Councils disagree. Scholars from Outside begin asking sensible questions — the most dangerous kind of all.

As Alice moves between Ballykillduff and Tartaria, she discovers that memory is not passive, certainty is a trap, and being understood may be far worse than being forgotten. Worse still, Tartaria begins to misremember her.

To save both worlds, Alice must learn how to remember wrongly on purpose — without doing it too well.

Alice in Ballykillduff and the Almost-Remembered Tartaria is a whimsical, quietly unsettling fantasy in the tradition of Lewis Carroll: a story about places that think, truths that refuse to settle, and the peculiar courage it takes to remain unfinished.

To read this new story click on the link below.

Click HERE – and enjoy

 

 
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Posted by on January 13, 2026 in A new Alice in Wonderland story, adventure story, alice in wonderland adventure, ballykillduff, tartaria

 

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The Moonlight Key and the Sky-Bottomed Square

05 Jan
The Moonlight Key and the Sky-Bottomed Square

Ballykillduff is a village where nothing ever happens twice. Liam is a man of spreadsheets and stone walls, a man who believes that a key’s only job is to open a door. But when he fumbles his keyring into the black, glassy surface of the Un-Lake, the laws of Carlow begin to fray at the seams.

He doesn’t just get his keys back. He pulls something out from the reflection—a Moonlight Key that hums with the sound of “What If.”

Now, the “Out-There” is leaking in. The local pub is made of liquid Guinness, the sky has swapped places with the ground, and a choir of sepia-toned ancestors is singing the town into a memory. As the “Architect of the In-Between,” Liam must navigate a landscape built of his own stray thoughts to lock the leak before the village he knows is un-thunk forever.

In the Un-Lake, the reflection is better than the reality. But as Liam is about to learn, a perfect world is a very lonely place to live.

To continue reading this story, click HERE and enjoy.

 
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Posted by on January 5, 2026 in ballykillduff, carlow

 

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The Troll

28 Dec
The Troll
The Troll of Ballykillduff Bridge
********************************
Everyone in Ballykillduff knew the bridge, though nobody quite agreed on how long it had been there. Some said it had grown out of the river one night like a thought nobody remembered thinking. Others claimed Jimmy McGroggan once tried to repair it and the bridge repaired him instead.
But what everyone did agree on was this:
there was a troll living underneath it.
His name was Mosskin O’Grumble, and he was a very polite troll with extremely poor manners.
Mosskin lived in a snug hollow beneath the bridge, furnished with a teapot that never stopped dripping, three boots that were not a pair between them, and a chair that sighed whenever anyone sat on it. His beard was thick with moss, his coat smelled faintly of river stones, and his hat had once been a kettle before it decided it preferred being worn.
Each morning, Mosskin poked his head out of the shadows and called in his loudest, trolliest voice,
“WHO GOES OVER MY BRIDGE?”
This caused mild inconvenience, as the people of Ballykillduff went over the bridge all the time.
“Morning, Mosskin,” called Bridget, carrying her shopping.
“It’s only me,” said Seamus, for the third time that day.
“Oh,” Mosskin muttered, disappointed. “I was hoping for someone new.”
You see, Mosskin was meant to demand tolls. That was the rule. Troll rules were very old and written in ink that smelled of damp. Unfortunately, nobody in Ballykillduff ever had the right sort of toll.
One offered him a button.
Another offered a joke that didn’t quite work.
Once, Father Donnelly accidentally gave him a blessing, which caused Mosskin to glow faintly and hum hymns whenever it rained.
Mosskin accepted everything solemnly and stored it all in a jam jar labelled TOLLS (IMPORTANT).
The trouble began on a Tuesday, which in Ballykillduff is widely considered an unreliable day.
That morning, the river stopped.
It did not freeze. It did not dry up. It simply decided it had gone far enough and sat still, like a sulking child.
The bridge creaked uneasily.
“This will not do,” the bridge murmured.
Mosskin poked the river with a stick.
“Have you tried moving?” he asked.
The river refused to answer.
By lunchtime, the village had gathered. Jimmy McGroggan arrived with a machine involving springs, levers, and optimism. Bridget brought sandwiches. Someone suggested asking the bridge nicely.
At last, Mosskin climbed up onto the bridge itself, clearing his throat in a way that startled several beetles.
“I am the Troll of Ballykillduff Bridge,” he announced, surprised by how important it sounded. “And I declare that something is wrong.”
“I am tired,” said the bridge. “People cross me without noticing. The river forgets to sing. Everyone rushes.”
Mosskin thought very hard. This caused a small puff of steam to rise from his ears.
“Well,” he said slowly, “perhaps you need a proper toll.”
“But we haven’t any money,” Seamus said.
“Good,” Mosskin replied. “Money is rarely the right thing.”
That evening, the villagers lined up at the bridge. One by one, they crossed more slowly than usual.
They offered small, strange things.
A promise, spoken carefully.
A regret, folded neatly.
A story remembered from childhood.
A song hummed badly but honestly.
Mosskin collected each offering and, instead of placing them in his jam jar, gently set them into the river.
And the river began to move again.
Not quickly. Not sensibly.
But with the soft, happy sound of something remembering itself.
As dusk settled, the villagers drifted home. Mosskin remained beneath the bridge, listening.
The water flowed. The stones no longer sighed. The bridge stood a little taller, pleased in the quiet way old things prefer.
Mosskin sat on his sighing chair and looked at his jam jar. It felt lighter now, though it was fuller than it had ever been.
Only then did he understand.
Nobody had crossed the bridge in a hurry. They had slowed. They had looked down at the water. They had touched the stone. Some had even spoken to the bridge itself, which made it warm all through.
“All this time,” Mosskin murmured, “I thought I was guarding the bridge.”
But the bridge had never needed guarding.
It had only wanted to be noticed.
So now, when someone crosses the bridge at dusk and pauses without knowing why, they may hear a voice from below, warm and grateful, carried gently by the water.
“Thank you,” it says.
“Thank you for noticing.”
And the bridge, the river, and the village of Ballykillduff go on working properly again, as they always do, once someone remembers to pay attention.
 
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Posted by on December 28, 2025 in ballykillduff, carlow, troll

 

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A Ballykillduff Extermination (Of the Blues)

17 Dec
A Ballykillduff Extermination (Of the Blues)

Deep in the heart of Ballykillduff, where the tea is strong and the Daleks have replaced their death rays with tinsel, comes a festive greeting just for you.

A Ballykillduff Extermination (Of the Blues)

“Listen here now, humans of the parish! It is I, Dalek O’Shea, and I have a formal announcement before the Angelus rings.

We have scanned the perimeter of the creamery and found no trace of bad luck. Therefore, by order of the Supreme Council (and Father Murphy), you are all sentenced to a Grand Ould Time.”

The Festive Mandate

  • EXTERMINATE the dry turkey!
  • CELEBRATE with a decent drop of Jameson!
  • REGENERATE after the third helping of pudding!
  • INFILTRATE the neighbor’s house for a quick gossip and a mince pie!

“You will sit by the fire. You will watch the Late Late Show. You will enjoy yourselves… OR BE EXTERMINATED! (But only after we finish this plate of sandwiches.)”

The Wish

May your chimney be wide enough for a Dalek in a Santa hat, may your cows stay milked, and may your Christmas be more powerful than a Sub-Etheric Transmitter.

Nollaig Shona Duit—EXTERMINATE! EXTERMINATE! EXTERMINATE!

 
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Posted by on December 17, 2025 in ballykillduff, christmas wish, daleks

 

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The Twelve Dalek Days of Christmas

08 Dec
The Twelve Dalek Days of Christmas

The Daleks of Ballykillduff and the Twelve Days of Absolutely Catastrophic Christmas

Ballykillduff was gearing up for its usual festive carnage when the three Daleks (Zeg, Zog, and Zag) decided Christmas was a strategic weakness ripe for conquest. They were wrong. Spectacularly, hilariously, catastrophically wrong.

Day 1 – A Partridge in a Pear Tree Zeg declared himself the new Lord of Christmas and tried to occupy the village pear tree. The tree had ideas. One gust of wind and Zeg shot out like a metallic cannonball, landing upside-down in Mrs Mulgrew’s prize-winning compost heap. “EXTERMINATE THE COMPOST!” he shrieked, muffled by six feet of rotting cabbage. Mrs Mulgrew charged out in hair curlers, brandishing a broom. “You’ll be compost yourself, ya pepper-pot gobshite!” Zeg spent the rest of the day being hosed down by the fire brigade while the entire village filmed it for TikTok.

Day 2 – Two Turtle Doves Zog kidnapped the doves to interrogate them about “avian loyalty.” The doves shat on his dome in perfect unison, then flew off with his eyestalk cover. He chased them screaming “RETURN MY OPTIC!” straight into the duck pond. Ducks 3 – Three French Hens** The hens belonged to Sister Bernadette. They were ninja hens. Zog is still convinced they were cyber-converted. He has PTSD and flinches every time someone says “coq au vin.”

Day 4 – Four Calling Birds Zag tried to weaponising them with tiny Dalek voice modulators. The birds learned one phrase: “ZAG IS A SPAWNFACE.” They followed him everywhere for a week, screeching it at 140 decibels. He now sleeps with industrial earmuffs.

Day 5 – FIVE GOOOOLD RIIIINGS Zeg stole the five gold rings from the jeweller and tried to wear them like Olympic medals. They got stuck on his plunger. The fire brigade had to come back. Again. The chief now has a special “Dalek wedged in something stupid” incident code.

Day 6 – Six Geese a-Laying The geese took one look at three rolling dustbins shouting “EXTERMINATE” and decided it was go-time. Live-streamed goose chase lasted twenty-three glorious minutes. Final score: Geese 47, Daleks 0. Zeg’s dignity is still missing, presumed pecked to death.

Day 7 – Seven Swans a-Swimming The swans were rented from a posh estate for the crib scene. Daleks attempted a synchronized swimming takeover. Swans formed a V-formation and torpedoed them like feathery missiles. Zog was last seen doing 360-degree spins in the fountain yelling “WHY IS EVERY BIRD IN IRELAND EVIL?”

Day 8 – Eight Maids a-Milking The maids were actually eight burly farmers’ daughters who’d had three pints each at the pub. They mistook the Daleks for novelty kegs, flipped them upside down, and tried to “tap” them. Milk stout was not improved by Dalek hydraulic fluid.

Day 9 – Nine Ladies Dancing Céilí night. The Daleks stormed the hall demanding everyone riverdance in perfect Dalek formation. The band struck up “The Siege of Ennis” at double speed. The floor had been waxed with Murphy’s Homemade Furniture Polish (90% butter). All three Daleks achieved low-orbit skids, ricocheted off the walls like pinballs, and took out the Christmas tree, the buffet table, Father Murphy, and the life-size Baby Jesus in one glorious crash. The village gave them a standing ovation and voted it “Best Nativity Ever.”

Day 10 – Ten Lords a-Leaping The lords were the Ballykillduff under-12 hurling team in panto costumes. They used the Daleks as goalposts. Zag still has a hurley stuck through his grille.

Day 11 – Eleven Pipers Piping The pipe band marched straight at them playing “Garryowen” at full volume. Zeg’s audio circuits overloaded; he started speaking only in bagpipe noises for six hours. “SKRL-SKRL-SKREEEEE—EXTERMINATE—SKRL!”

Day 12 – Twelve Drummers Drumming Christmas Eve. The Daleks, battered, leaking, one still wearing a goose feathers like a Hawaiian skirt, rolled to the top of the hill for one last stand. Zeg raised his gunstick: “On the twelfth day of Christmas the Daleks give to you… TOTAL OBLITERATION!” Snow started falling. The village kids pelted them with snowballs. One perfect snowball hit Zeg’s power cell. He short-circuited, lights flashing like a disco, and began singing “Jingle Bells” in a helium voice. Zog and Zag joined in, completely against their will. The entire village gathered, phones out, singing along while three mortified Daleks performed an involuntary Christmas concert on the hillside.

Midnight struck. Church bells rang. Even the geese shut up for a minute.

Zeg’s eyestalk drooped. “Temporary… ceasefire. For tactical reasons.” Someone stuck a Santa hat on him. Someone else tied tinsel round Zog’s plunger. Zag got a sprig of mistletoe wedged in his gun barrel and spent the rest of the night accidentally kissing pensioners.

Mad Jimmy McGroggan raised his pint from the pub doorway and roared: “Merry Christmas, ya glorified teapots!”

And from the top of the hill came three metallic voices, small and very, very embarrassed:

“MER-RY CHRIST-MAS… TO YOU… FILTHY HU-MANS.”

Then, quieter: “…and don’t tell the Supreme Dalek.”

Best Christmas Ballykillduff ever had. The geese are already booked for next year.

 
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Posted by on December 8, 2025 in ballykillduff, carlow, dalek, daleks

 

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04 Dec

THE BALLYKILLDUFF DALEKS SAVE CHRISTMAS

A Festive Tale

CHAPTER ONE

Snow on Ballykillduff Hill

Ballykillduff was not known for dramatic weather. Rain was expected. Mists drifted in like gossip and no one questioned them.
Snow, however, did not fall in this part of Carlow. Not ever.

Which was why the villagers stared at the sky on Christmas Eve as soft flakes began to drift down with the elegance of ballet dancers who had taken a wrong turn.

Jimmy McGroggan burst out of his shed and threw his arms wide.

“I told you so,” he shouted. “The Weather Encourager Three Thousand works at last. I have finally persuaded the heavens to behave.”

Before he could continue bragging, three Daleks came sliding down Ballykillduff Hill.
“Slipping,” cried Zeg. “This terrain is treacherous.”
“My lower section is freezing,” shouted Zog.
“The ground is attempting to exterminate us,” howled Zag.

They crashed together in a perfect metallic heap inside Jimmy’s gooseberry bushes.
Jimmy sighed in a way that suggested he was used to this sort of thing.

Click HERE to continue reading this story.

 
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Posted by on December 4, 2025 in ballykillduff, Christmas story, dalek, daleks, Santa

 

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The Ballykillduff Banger

02 Dec
The Ballykillduff Banger

The Ballykillduff Banger (A Ballad of Mad Jimmy) 

(Verse 1) In Ballykillduff, where the grass is so green, Lived a man named Jimmy McGroggan, the wildest ever seen! They called him “Mad Jimmy”, but not for bad grace, He once tried to heat up the entire whole place! With a kettle and toaster, and a spring from a peg, He wasn’t quite right from the waist to the leg! He was just inventive, you see, a mechanical nut, Like a squirrel who stores nuts in a lawnmower’s gut!

(Chorus) Oh, the Ballykillduff Banger, a sight for sore eyes, A chariot of junk, underneath Irish skies! A mobile compost heap and a Transformer blue, Mad Jimmy’s creation, for me and for you! It’s got a wee wobble, it’s got a small cough, But when he got going, the wheel just fell off!

(Verse 2) Jimmy had a dream, not of riches or fame, But to drive a fine motor and utter its name! Now, banks made him sneeze and the law made him frown, So he built his own car from the junk of the town! The lads in the pub put their money down fast, They bet his poor shed wouldn’t properly last. His garden, a scrapyard, a magpie’s delight, With half a fridge, a pram, and a bathtub painted: “CURSED! DO NOT SIT TIGHT!”

(Verse 3) The chassis was bunk beds, all twisted and old, The engine from a lawnmower, the tale must be told! Four wheels he found, two from a trolley so bright, One from a wheelie bin, one from a unicycle‘s might! The steering wheel? Ah, a dinner plate grand, Glued fast to the shaft of a Dyson in hand! The horn was a bicycle bell, gave a “meep” when it cared, And the seat was a toilet with a cushion prepared!

(Chorus) Oh, the Ballykillduff Banger, a sight for sore eyes, A chariot of junk, underneath Irish skies! A mobile compost heap and a Transformer blue, Mad Jimmy’s creation, for me and for you! It’s got a wee wobble, it’s got a small cough, But when he got going, the wheel just fell off!

(Bridge) Sunday morning arrived, the townsfolk all near, Father Dunne kept his distance, quite sheltered by fear! Jimmy put on his goggles (a sieve with some film), The engine went “brrrrrrr” like a goat in a chill! He shot down the hill, then he spun to the side, Right into the hen house where Seamus’s chickens reside! Jimmy popped out the hole, with a feather on top, “She handles like a dream! Full of terror and POP!”

(Verse 4) They made a repair, added the bathtub as a seat, A microwave door for the glass, isn’t that neat? He tried one more time, on a hill stiff and steep, He made it just seven feet, then fell fast asleep! ‘Cause the wheel took a runner and flew down the slope, Chased by a child, a dog, and Father Dunne shouting: “NOPE! It’s heading for the Sacristy, oh dear, dear, dear!”

(Outro) Now the Banger is parked, an exhibit for sure, Tourists take selfies beside the front door. But Jimmy sits in it each Friday at dark, Sippin’ tea from a spark plug, just having a lark! Hands on the dinner plate, engine noises he’ll make, “Best car that I owned!” for goodness’ sweet sake! And smoke rises gently from somewhere amiss, But nobody tells him, they just nod and they kiss! Ah, nobody tells him otherwise!

 
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Posted by on December 2, 2025 in ballykillduff, beer, fantasy, fantasy story, funny song, funny story, humor, humour, pub song, singalong

 

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