Opening Lines

Recently I came upon an article on famous opening lines.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times
- Charles Dickens: A Tale Of Two Cities.

I was born in the year 1632, in the City of York, of a good family, tho' not of that city, my Father being a Foreigner of  Bremen, who settled first at Hull.
- Daniel Defoe: Robinson Crusoe

Last night I dreamt I went to Manderlay again.
-Daphne Du Maurier: Rebecca

Once there were four children whose names were Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy. This story is about something that happened to them when they were sent from London during the war because of the air-raids.
-C.S. Lewis: The Lion The Witch and The Wardrobe

It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.
-George Orwell: 1984

Once when I was six years old I saw a magnificent picture in a book about the jungle called True Stories.
-Antoine de Saint-Exupery: The Little Prince

Once Upon A Time.
-Author Unknown: 14th. Century

I remembered back to when striking mental images became clearly perceptible to me having listened to and read  a passage of writing. I must have been about thirteen and was in secondary school. My English teacher was a wonderful gentleman called Brendan O' Connor. He read short stories for us, from our text book, an anthology of short stories: Exploring English 1. The dull, uninteresting title belied the magic that was conjured up for  me, on the pages within its covers.
The sun, seemed always to stream in through the classroom windows, and flood the room with light as I listened to the vivid words of Irish writers like, Liam O' Flaherty, Frank O' Connor, Sean O' Faolain, Mary Lavin and Michael Mc Laverty .
I laughed at the uplifting humour in the story of  young Jackie's, First Confession.
I was amazed in the sad account of The Story of the Widow's Son, that there were two endings.
My favourite short story was The Wild Duck's Nest by Michael Mc Laverty.
It too, has a wonderful, opening sentence and continues....

The sun was setting, spilling gold light on the low western hills of Rathlin Island. A small boy walked jauntily along a hoof-printed path that wriggled between the folds of these hills and opened into a crater-like valley on the cliff-top. Presently he stopped as if remembering something, then suddenly he left the path, and began running up one of the hills. When he reached the top he was out of breath and stood watching streaks of light radiating from golden-edged clouds, the scene reminding him of a picture of the Transfiguration......

The enchantment of the story has always stayed with me, and I still appreciate the enjoyment I derived from hearing these tales. Some thirty five or so years after listening to the telling of The Wild Duck's Nest I boarded the ferry at Ballycastle on the north Antrim coast and travelled the six miles to Church Bay on Rathlin Island.

I have been enjoying visits to the islands off the coast of Ireland since.