From the Irish Examiner 26 July 2020
It’s the summer of 1979 and I am ten years old. I’m on holidays with my family in Ardmore, Co Waterford, and the campsite where we’re staying has been ambushed by a storm. Outside, the wind sucks noisily at the sides of the caravan. Inside, the wall panels bang and clatter as they move in and out – inhale, exhale – as if the storm, or the caravan itself, is a thing alive. Although it’s the middle of the night, I’m out of my bunk, standing barefoot in my pyjamas beside my baby sister’s carry cot.
Read more here