Skip to content


I grew up in a family of story tellers.   Both my parents read stories to us , Aesop, the Grimm brothers, Hans Christian Anderson, Patricia Lynch, Charles Dickens, Canon Sheehan, Jerome K Jerome.

But the best was when my mother would turn off the light, gather us round the fire and  thrill us with tales  of the wee folk and changelings, and ghosts, of wily leprechauns and  mischievous pookas.  Or she’d poke up the fine and show us how the fall of a sod of turf formed a picture.   And that would be the  start off the tale of the great Bull of Cooley or  of Finn and the Fianna out on a hunt, or of Cuchullain in combat or of Balor, the giant with the one evil eye.

But my mother was not the only story-teller in my young life.    I had uncles and aunts, all of whom  could all fashion  stories from  daily events and make them  sound like exotic  adventures.   I reckon that I learned the secrets of telling stories  at home, from my family  without realising how lucky I was.   Performing stories now, seems to me  like a  way of  repaying the debt.

I perform regularly in Milk and Cookies and Yarnspinners as well as story festivals, arts festivals and frankly anywhere that will give me an audience.   Many of the stories I tell are my own version of  stories my mother told .   I tell  fairy stories, ghost stories, and stories of events that occurred in the not so long ago in Ireland.

Here’s the story of how Bridget and Michael  finally got the electric. 




Here’s another video.    Burning Bright – a little girl wants to be famous


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: