Newry News and Irish Fun
John McCullagh 
In an earlier article featuring Kilkeel Harbour and the Coastguard Station, I made passing reference to my esteemed uncle who served there with distinction for many years.
I received an email of thanks from his son and my cousin Michael, who is retired and lives now between Germany and Spain (he has, I believe, homes in both!). This is my response!
Three months later and after a hard, wet drive from Livingstone on the way back to Rachel’s village, I once again reached the now familiar crossing point on the
Newry people abroad have it harder to access the Cathedral Parish Bulletins and so learn of the Recently Deceased – and the Newly Baptised. We like occasionally to offer this service by quoting from the latest bulletins. We quote verbatim from the bulletin and apologise for any unwitting error.
I had not been wrong about this young lady. She had done exactly what I had hoped she would.
Rachel had rented the little hut for the equivalent of ten dollars a month and she was realizing the same return each day, of which forty per cent was profit. She had been able to stock the whole store with what I had given her and enough to buy some bedding and cooking utilities.
It was late evening when, as I had promised nearly six weeks earlier, I again approached the almost deserted village. The landscape was awash in pastel azure moonlight, while inky black shadows etched sharp outlines to starkly highlight the austere habitations. Candle light glowing from the shabeen‘s doorway illuminated the yellow sand churned aloft by the swirling winds of dust devils as they made their way into the night.
We were somewhat concerned last year about the number (and, frankly, the quality!) of entries to Newry’s Annual Dr
Dr John McCavitt’s article entitled, ‘The Newry Massacres of 1641-2’, is reproduced from the original which first appeared in the 1988 edition of Cuisle na nGael.
Newry Journal readers are urged to consult the original article, as inevitably we have erred in ‘summarising’ what appeared there!
Two months later I returned to the village. As dusk fell and the last rays of sunlight cast an eerie glow upon the majestic river, I made my way as usual to the now familiar Shabeen. Rachel was not there – in her place was a much younger girl who seemed to be somewhat intoxicated and not very articulate.
I first met her in her secluded village on the western banks of the