NewryUns

NewryUns Hello Ü new NewryÜns inside ü, family , tribe ,anystate, a nüw newry city Yarn, . Just a 🧶 a pipe bomb and my stupid curiosity on all things newry ..

About NewryUns.com

Wuth a background in image media , With over 25 Years expertise , NewRayPics Image Agency and our award winning team of photographers, specialising in PR., Features, News and Sports photography, was based in Newry, County Down, Northern Ireland. Newraypics experienced photographers have been awarded two numerous 1st & 2nd place awards in the highly regarded NIPP

A Northern Ireland Press Photographers Association) as well as Photojournalism Awards in 2008/9, and 2011 plus a commendation in 2009. We regularly undertake assignments from the Broadsheet and Tabloid market including The Guardian, Daily Mail, Daily Mirror, The Sun, The Irish Examiner, Belfast Telegraph, The Irish News, The Newsletter, Irish Independent and Irish Times as well as features work for Periodic Magazines across the United Kingdom and Ireland additional to that we have a working relationship with local Press including The Newry Democrat,The Cross Examiner, Newry Reporter and Mourne Observer - more recently we have been suppling one of the largest photo agency's in the world - Alamy -

To a degree or soo . Newraypics overtime had the honor to also supply all Irish newspapers with live news events and our work has appeared in publications all over the world, Our archive (currently 400,000 images) is represented by some of the world's largest stock photography agencies - namely Getty Images, Zuma Press and Alamy Images. My photography has been licensed/commissioned by the following Corporations, Publications and Newswires: The Irish Examiner, The Irish Times, Sunday Business Post, Sunday Times,Red Bull, Bank of Ireland,Ulster Bank, RTE, BBC, UTV, Channel 4,CNN, The Guardian (UK),, The Times (UK), The Independent (UK)The Telegraph (UK). LA Times, New York Daily News and Daily Mail, and my work has been reproduced all over the world including Japan, South America, USA, Russia. I also have over 1,000 (that's correct one thousand) Pearson Publishing book covers that have been created with my images. I live 3kms outside Newry, County Down with my 4 chickens - distance no object! I am a fully insured, and have close links with the National Union of Journalists and the with Irish Press Photographers Association…

Once upon a time after I’d sampled all all of the above .. slowly I lost faith in myself and my natives .. how had I who sees everything .. not see the sorrow I was in … Due to a few forks in my life .. I lost my way . I shuttered up , I went to my safe place .. a dark room .. . , over time my batteries failed my camera old wore out , and me Getting 🤧 unhealthy was an added bonus ., sure I hadn’t two legs to stand on for the guts of a year . These and alas more ,,, Pausing my talented eye , lost and alone . and Sure I spent half the weeks daylight hours in a dark room printings as a young man .. where I was alone .. I think I always did .. ... anyhow .,. My photography yarn .. it’s starts when I was very young

But that’s for later exposure .. …..

Wee yarn Damolly meadow 6 out of 6
20/06/2026

Wee yarn Damolly meadow 6 out of 6

Wee yarn. Damolly fire part 4 of 6 The base of the fire .. a wee look.
20/06/2026

Wee yarn. Damolly fire part 4 of 6
The base of the fire .. a wee look.

Wee yarn .. damolly meadow .. the burning part 3 of 6 ..A slope steeped in history on fire . But look at how Ulster Iri...
20/06/2026

Wee yarn .. damolly meadow .. the burning part 3 of 6 ..
A slope steeped in history on fire . But look at how Ulster Irish it looks .. see the smoky descenders .. & the shades of green & orange .

🔥 Wee Yarn … The Lost Meadow of Damolly 🔥 part 2 of 6 Sam evening back Standing above Newry watching smoke rise from th...
20/06/2026

🔥 Wee Yarn … The Lost Meadow of Damolly 🔥 part 2 of 6

Sam evening back Standing above Newry watching smoke rise from the meadow, I found myself wondering how many people had stood upon this same hill before me.

Today we know the place as Damolly.

The name comes from the Irish Damh Maoile, usually translated as “the ox of the bare hill” or “the ridge of the summit.”

A fitting name.

Because from here the ground rises above the valley, looking down across Newry, the Clanrye, the old roads, the old fields, and the routes people have travelled for thousands of years.

Long before housing estates, roads, spinning mills or footballs abandoned in the grass, this hill would have been one of the most visible places overlooking the district.

The smoke drifting across the meadow reminded me of another possibility.

What stood here before history began writing things down?

By the nineteenth century Damolly formed part of the great Needham estate, later the Kilmorey estate, whose influence shaped much of Newry and its surrounding townlands.

Maps show mill workers’ houses, tenant plots, lanes and fields.

The Damolly Spinning Company brought industry to the hillside.

Workers walked these roads.

Children played these fields.

Families built lives here.

But the hill itself is much older than any estate.

Much older than any mill.

Looking across the landscape it is not difficult to imagine that somewhere upon these heights there may once have stood an early Irish Rath.

A circular enclosure.

A farmstead.

A defended homestead.

Or perhaps a gathering place overlooking the valley.

Many such sites once crowned the hills around Newry.

Most have vanished beneath fields, roads and modern development.

Some survive only as faint rings visible from the air.

Others survive only in place names and local memory.

And even before the age of Raths, hills like this often held symbolic importance.

The high places of Ireland were never merely convenient places to build.

They were landmarks.

Boundary markers.

Assembly points.

Places where people watched the seasons change, measured the movement of the sun, gathered livestock, traded goods and told stories.

A hill visible from every direction naturally became a place of meaning.

Perhaps that is why the old name endured.

The bare hill.

The summit ridge.

The high place above the valley.

Standing there beside the smoke and the wild grass, it struck me that the meadow itself may be the oldest thing left.

The mills have gone.

The workers have gone.

The estates have faded into history.

Yet the grass still burns.

The wind still blows.

And the hill still watches over Newry, just as it may have done when Rath builders, monks, mill workers and curious wee firebugs all called this place home.

🔥🌿🏰

🔥 Wee Yarn … A Wee Adventure in the re weaving 🔥 1 of six See .. Back While meditating, growing a beard, learning to wal...
20/06/2026

🔥 Wee Yarn … A Wee Adventure in the re weaving 🔥 1 of six

See .. Back While meditating, growing a beard, learning to walk properly on both legs again, and somehow managing to lose a bone in my wee toe into the bargain, I found myself lying on the bed lacking the willpower to rebuild . researching olden times.. deep in theology . Lost in thought .
Looking for signs ..

Then I heard it. Not saw it ..

A faint crackling sound drifting through the open window.
First crack at what it was ..
it was a cracking sound from my childhood . A sign .
Dry grass burning.

A very particular sound.

A sound I hadn’t heard in years.

Not since the days when I used to light fires in Sharkie’s Field as a youngster.

Now before anybody phones the fire brigade retrospectively, I should explain that I was a curious child rather than a criminal mastermind.

From the moment I could walk, I seemed fascinated by fire.

I learned that different grasses burned differently.

Some hissed.

Some crackled.

Some produced thick rolling smoke.

Others vanished in a flash.

I knew the local grasses almost as well as I knew the local people.

In Sharkie’s Field I would sometimes burn small patches of dry grass, then spend the following weeks watching what happened.

How quickly would it recover?

Would spring growth arrive sooner?

Did autumn burns behave differently from summer burns?

To my young mind it was science.

Possibly questionable science.

But science nonetheless.

Occasionally my carefully planned experiment would become rather smokier than intended.

The crackling would grow louder.

The flames would find hidden dry stems beneath the surface.

The smoke would billow.

And there I would be, armed only with a pair of Dunlop gutties, frantically tramping out my “controlled burn” before it became a local news story.

But I learned something.

I learned to listen.

When grass fires become truly hot, the green shoots begin to carbonise, moisture flashes to steam, roots heat beneath the surface, and the fire almost develops a voice of its own.

A crackle.

A pop.

A rushing sound.

An unmistakable language.

So lying there all these years later, I recognised the sound immediately.

I went to the front door.

Smoke was billowing from the meadow beside my home.

A rare sight.

A rare moment.

A rare opportunity to watch Mother Nature at work.

Max heard it too.

He was already barking.

Investigation was clearly required.

So I grabbed the lead.

Grabbed the camera.

And off we scuttled.

Me, the recovering firebug.

Max, the self-appointed Chief Inspector of Everything.

Together heading off in search of the edge of a meadow on fire.

Not to start it.

Not to stop it.

Simply to witness one of nature’s oldest conversations between grass, smoke, wind & flame.

🌿 Wee Yarn … The Victorian Oregon Grapes of a Forgotten Garden 🌿Out wandering the quieter corners of Warrenpoint, myself...
19/06/2026

🌿 Wee Yarn … The Victorian Oregon Grapes of a Forgotten Garden 🌿

Out wandering the quieter corners of Warrenpoint, myself & Max found ourselves exploring one of those forgotten old driveways that seem to lead nowhere in particular nowadays.

The sort of place where nature has slowly reclaimed the boundaries.

The sort of place where old walls lean slightly, trees grow where they please, & the ghosts of gardeners long departed seem to linger amongst the leaves.

As usual, Max was conducting an important inspection of smells whilst I was conducting an important inspection of absolutely everything else.

That was when I spotted them.

A cluster of strange blue berries hanging amongst the rain-soaked greenery.

Out came the phone.

Snap.

Photo taken.

On we wandered.

Only later, when I looked more closely, did I discover that we may have stumbled upon a survivor from Warrenpoint’s great Victorian transformation. Soo two centuries old ..

The berries belong to a shrub known as Oregon Grape, or Berberis aquifolium — formerly known as Mahonia aquifolium.

Despite the name, it is neither from Oregon alone nor a grape.

It is a hardy evergreen shrub native to western North America, where it grows from British Columbia south through the Pacific coast forests.

The Victorians absolutely loved it.

During the nineteenth century, as Warrenpoint expanded into a fashionable seaside resort, estate owners, merchants, clergy, retired officers, doctors, railway investors & ambitious householders transformed the village with ornamental planting.

Exotic trees arrived.

Shrubs arrived.

Gardens appeared where once there had been rough fields.

The Victorian passion for collecting plants from every corner of the Empire meant that species from North America, Asia, Australia & beyond began appearing throughout Ulster.

Among them was Oregon Grape.

It was planted because it looked attractive all year round.

In spring it produced sprays of bright yellow flowers.

In summer those flowers became clusters of powder-blue berries.

In winter its glossy holly-like leaves remained green when much of the garden slept.

A perfect Victorian garden plant.

The berries themselves are edible, though most people who taste one quickly discover why birds are far less fussy than humans.

Sharp, tart & acidic, they were occasionally used in jellies, wines & preserves, often mixed with sweeter fruits.

The blue colour comes from a natural waxy coating that protects the fruit, giving them their distinctive dusty appearance.

Looking at the photograph, it appears the Oregon Grape has become tangled amongst another shrub, quietly surviving long after the gardeners who planted it have vanished from memory.

Which makes me wonder.

Who first planted it?

A Victorian gardener?

A sea captain’s wife?

A merchant returning from Belfast with a wagon load of fashionable new plants?

A local estate owner eager to show that Warrenpoint was every bit as refined as any seaside resort in Britain or Ireland?

We will probably never know.

Yet there it remains.

Still flowering.

Still fruiting.

Still quietly growing.

A small survivor from the days when Warrenpoint was being replanted & reshaped by Victorian ambition, carrying a little piece of North America in its branches whilst overlooking Carlingford Lough.

Not bad for a shrub that Max nearly walked past without so much as a sniff.

Then again, perhaps he knew all along.
But it does make wine ..
🐾🌿

🐾

Wee yarn … a gander up Great Georges Street at the rear of municipal town park . Warrenpoint. Co Down Ulster Ireland ...
19/06/2026

Wee yarn … a gander up Great Georges Street at the rear of municipal town park . Warrenpoint. Co Down Ulster Ireland .

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