When I was a kid, Castlebridge was a small, tidy village in rural Ireland. The surrounding countryside was a vast domain for kids to explore. Our territory was bounded by the limit of the church bell, its six o'clock peel summining us to dinner. There were two quarries, the old and the new, where we gathered tadpoles and brought them home or to school to watch them grow. There was Shortall’s Woods where we picked wild primrose for our mothers or the teacher. The wheat fields past the graveyard were the best place for summer blackberry picking while Poulsac Lane afforded the best source of holly for Christmas. The waterfall in Ardtrammond Forrest offered high adventure and the chance of breadnuts. But the best place of all was Ardtrammond Castle.

A square tower with majestic views over the river Slaney, Ardtrammond Castle was just one of many such ruins in Ireland. It stood erect in the middle of a meadow and was used for nothing more majestic than sheltering cattle. Consequently its ground floor, with two large doors on opposite sides, was hoofmarked and mostly covered in dry cowpats.

But the ground floor was of perfunctory interest to us. Up the narrow stone, broken stairs lay the greatest adventure of all. The room on what would have been the third floor (the second, being made of timber, was long gone) was always bright and airy. We imagined ourselves as kings and queens and courtiers gathered round a roaring fire with massive banquets spread before us. We never lit a fire in the fireplace for, although we were sure it would work, we were also sure it would draw the attention of the gentried landowner whom we had never met but  were none-the-less convinced was a gargoyle of hideous proportions and would dispatch us to hell for trespassing on his estate.

On we went, upwards, past another missing floor and eventually to the roof. The roof had a large hole in the middle through which you could see our magnificent dining hall. We never felt a sense of danger up there -- or at least we never admitted to it -- but at the same time we never ventured higher than hands and knees. Whether this was through a fear of heights (to which I now admit) or whether we wished to keep heads low lest we be seen from the front window of the gargoyle’s sprawling manor four hundred meters to the rear, I can’t say with honesty. But the roof of that castle was a truly majestic and magical place to while away a mid-summer’s evening, especially if you had the forethought to bring a pocket full of wheat to mix with the blackberries growing up there.

Twenty-five years later I returned to Ardtrammond Castle to show my two daughters my favoured childhood haunt. The castle is still standing, though a major crack from top to bottom looks set to topple so many years of history. As a parent showing an 11- and a 6-year-old around this place I was terrified, especially when the younger ran hither and thither, gasping, "Aw, cool!" We did venture to the roof for a quick look but my latter-year fear of heights combined with a fear for my kids brought us back to lower levels.

After exploring every nook and cranny, we returned to terra firma. As we were about to leave we heard a strange little thump and a blur of movement caught my eye out side the door. As we went closer,  another blur and a muffled thump.

"What was that, daddy?" Because daddies are supposed to know everything.

"I don’t know." But I would have to find out.

I went outside and looked up. Nothing. But wait, a speck. And then this little duckling, with legs splayed and stubby wings flapping at a million miles an hour hurtles down and … thump in the long grass, gets up and scurries away to hide.

"Aw, how cute. Is it hurt? Can I catch it?"

And then another and another.

"Quick, give me the camera."

Being reasonably handy with a camera, I aim in the right direction, pop the flash (to counter back lighting), pre-focus on a spot half way down and wait, hoping there may be just one more. And, as luck would have it, two (the last two) jump together, straight into my viewfinder!

With twelve ducklings now safely on the ground, mother duck rounded them up and set off in the direction of the river Slaney, the best part of a mile away over meadow and bog and fence and ditch.