Mae Leonard

Summer comes to our house with the stink of boiling glue, closely followed by the antiseptic odour of hot tar.

My father has taken the winter wrappers off our boat and is attempting to get its ship shape again.

Another weekend we'll be paddling our way up to St Thomas Island for the Sunday picnics.

Only, this summer, I'm not at all sure I want to join my family for those picnics anymore.

I want to do other things with summer Sundays.

I want to be with my friends who walk out to the new pool across the river at Corbally where they sit chatting and flirting with a group of local boys.

Won't last much longer, she's had her day, Dad says.

I think this summer at the island will be her last one.

He was talking of course about the boat but it could well have been about me.

The following Saturday we take the boat out onto the Abbey River at Atlunkard Boat Club to test her mettle.

I love the sound of the water as we dip slush, dip slush the paddles and I love the squawk of the waterhens as we glide through their territory.

And most of all I love the wet smell and the familiarity of the river.

Moving out onto the Broad Shannon, we turn right and slide under the metal bridge where the ancient heron stands as impassive as he has done for as long as I can remember.

We bypass the tailrace at Hardinacrusha and move through the pillars of the old salmon weir before we moor the boat at St Thomas Island.

The grass is high, the thistles have multiplied, but the scent of river mint still wafts on the air.

Barefoot, we check out our picnic place and yep, everything is perfect, ready for the season to begin tomorrow.

But how can I excuse myself from this picnic tradition and go to the other side of the river at Corbally to be with my friends instead?

Our favourite swimming spot provides the answer.

There's something awful all over our sandy beach.

I test it.