RECORDING A MEMORY Browsing your site brought back some fond memories. Holidays spent in Carlingford. My father was Brendan McParland son of John and Elizabeth Elmore McParland. My grandmother was a native of Carlingford and that’s why my father loved to go there. My father never drove but he bought a caravan and had it towed to the North Commons and with the permission of a man my father knew (I think it was John Francis O’Hagan) the caravan was parked at the start of the ‘Old Road’ down into Carlingford and from then on our weekends and summer holidays were spent at the Caravan. I recall climbing a mountain with my parents and three brothers; my father carrying a tin of white paint to a place on the mountain that he referred to as the ‘White Mans Face’ his purpose was to freshen the paint on the face. My father was a seaman and a great storyteller he told us children that ‘the face on the mountain was a land mark for ships at sea’ .I would love to know has anyone else a name for this land mark and how it came to be there? My Uncle Jim Mc Parland wrote a poem about the North Commons which he said was inspired by a visit to my father’s caravan on the North Commons. Jane Mc Parland Poland THROUGH THE EYES OF A CHILD By Jim Mc Parland There’s a place called the Commons that I used to know It over looks Carlingford Bay. Where often in childhood down there I did go And those memories are with me to stay. The Burn where we sailed our wee boats is now dry It’s overgrown, ruined and wild. And oft I go back to those scenes long gone by I first saw through the eyes of a child. I climbed Slieve Foy Mountain and walked by the streams I watched the trout leap in the pool And often I thought, but it was just idle dreams That I hated to go back to school. When School days were over, down there I would go To that place that is rugged and wild. Back to the scenes that I knew long ago I first saw through the eyes of a child. Those days have all past now, the old folk are gone And new folk have come there to stay. It was there that I first heard the lark sing at dawn To greet every new summer day. It was there in the evening the curlew would call From the mountain so rugged and wild. In that place called the Commons, the best spot of all I first saw through the eyes of a child.