It had to happen sometime, but I figured it would not be for another ten years or so. But last night it happened. For the first time ever the boys did not want me to tell them stories at bedtime. Instead they wanted to tell me their stories. I was a  bit put out with this, but put on a brave face and handed over the blue story chair to the boys.

Dylan went first. At five years of age he is now writing his own stories. He sticks scraps of paper together, carefully writes the title page then draws the rest. These picture drawings are wonderful, mixing real life with big adventures like travelling to the moon, swimming in oceans, walking through forests with wolves in them. So now he sat down with his latest book, opened it up and told the story to his audience of two. What i was particularly taken with was all the little details, like the radio on the astronauts helmet. After a big bula bus Dylan handed over the chair to his brother.

Callum at three don't do writing, but boy can he tell a story. I was at his creche on monday telling tales to the children and whilst all the other children joined in he simply sat watching me very carefully. Now last night he sat on his chair and began his telling. He's always been pretty good with gestures and wild ideas, but suddenly it just all fell into place, a slow steady delivery, with his voice falling in pitch at the scary bits, just the right body movements to indicate walking, swimming, being scared, silly ghosts etc. And even a few jokes thrown in which had his brother roaring with laughter. After a confident, if slightly long telling (he went for a pee half way through) he finished the story with Sin é, got off the chair and clambered into bed.

I was delighted with the boys' stories and sat down in the story chair to contribute to the evening's entertainment, but the lads had had their fun. I was relegated to singing songs.

Afterwards I went down stairs and found I had nothing to do. The final proof of Galway Bay Folk Tales had been sent off in the morning and was going to the printers at the end of the week. I'd also finished putting together four new workshops for teaching storytelling to children. I had time on my hand's but nothing to do. I very rarely watch telly but i decided to try gacking out in front of the idiot box. CSI was on. I watched it, mildly enjoyed it as the body count rose, but was a bit disappointed and confused by the ending which seemed to blame everything on dead squirrel. I think the story was trying to do a big theme thang about the interconnectedness of everything, but I just kept thinking about the Fireman Sam episode when a squirrel set Mandy's house on fire. Perhaps the CSI writers need to hang out with children more...

And here's the wee storytellers in Moycullen on Saint Patrick's day

Sometimes the cosmos throws things at my storytelling sessions that can make telling a tale or two just that little bit more challenging. There are enough variables going on in my Cottage Bar sessions as it is. Not only the composition of the audience, my own mood, the weather, but bigger more dramatic events during my show - including close brushes with birth, death and biblical flooding - help to keep things interesting.

This weeks show however threw a new challenge at me. Just as the second half was beginning I noticed the room was getting very dark. A number of the candles had burnt out and I asked the audience if they wanted new ones or perhaps some electric lighting. But everybody liked the gloom, so I took a moment to think what story to tell. I find darkness is a medium that does not favour some types of story but definitely adds to others (like spooky stories or romantic tales).

As I was thinking I lifted my cup to take a sip of tea. Suddenly the most hellish and violent sound erupted all around me. The tea leapt out of the cup and my bones nearly leapt out of my skin. 'Hold on!' I cried to the audience and ran out the room. In the bar the complete absence of any sonic assault left me bewildered; the only sounds were those of relaxed drinking and eating; laughter and the clink of glasses and the rattle of knifes and forks.

I asked Siobhan behind the bar what the sounds in the blue room were, but she looked around the bar and smiled. 'Nobody else can hear anything.'

'I tell you there is the most awful roaring screaming sounds coming into the blue room.'

'And would anybody else hear these sounds or is it just yourself.'

'There is a crowd of people in there, shaking in fear and trauma,' I explained in proper storytelling mode.

'That's nice,' replied Siobhan.'Would they be wanting to order any more drinks?'

'I tell you, the gates of Hell have opened in the blue room.'

But even as I spoke it was clear that not a squeak of the noise in the blue room could be heard anywhere else in the bar. It was - and remains - a mystery but I could not leave the audience for long. I went back into the room. A few more candles had burnt out and the music was if anything louder and insaner. But the audience, from the little I could see of them seemed to be in great form. All smiles, laughter and merriment. 

Who was I to be pissed off when everybody else was having a great time?

I stood up and began the second half. 'Well now seeing as we have the sound track to a 1970s slasher movie, lets say i tell you something dark and nasty.'

Which I did. I pitched my voice so it was just loud enough to be heard above the wailing, thudding, screeching sounds and began the story. And as I told it I found I began to enjoy the soundtrack screaming and roaring around me. Suddenly I was in harmony with the music and the very terror and madness of it lifted the story and made it darker and weirder and ever more horrifying...

And then just as I was coming to the climax of the story the music faded away, allowing me to drop my voice to a scary whisper. 

It was a great telling, invigorating and uplifting. But I still have no idea where that sound came from. There is a room above the blue room, but nobody has been allowed in there since the 'incident' back in 2003. When I checked with the bar staff after the show they were adamant the room was locked as it always is... Which leaves me in a bit of a quandary. You see my audience enjoyed the night so much they want to come back for more stories with horror soundtracks...

So now I'm on the look out for any death metal bands in Galway who would be free on a Thursday evening to come along to my show to sing a wee tune or two about dismemberment and intimate relationships with corpses.

Beth the editor at The History Press has now sent me on the proof of Galway Bay Folk Tales. 

It was not an easy book to write. Or rather I chose not to write it the easy way. It would have been simple enough to gather together all the folk stories that are recorded about this part of the world, as well as the modern stories that I've picked up as a storyteller. But i wanted to try something a more creative and challenging.

The result was a book in two sections "Ancient Tales" and "Modern Tales"

For the "Ancient Tales I wove together a variety of strands: the big ancient myths of Ireland; the local folk traditions about the mythic heroes; archaeology; news theories of human settlement patterns in mesolithic and neolithic Ireland; and a splash of my own poetic imagination. Though the first section is broken up into seperate chapters it should be read as a complete narrative that takes the reader on a journey from the birth of the universe up to the arrival of Christian saints on the Aran Islands. Oh yeah and just to add to the fun, there's an intro examining what exactly is meant by storytelling and folktales. Its a roller coaster of a read, with Marina's wonderful pictures to add to the joy of it all

As well as the proof of the book, Beth has sent me the art work for the front cover. Its a beautiful picture by Katherine Soutar Caddick and is based on one of the stories in the second part of the book

Today, the morning began with the clean uncluttered sound of rain; drumming heavy and loud on the roof, windows, doors; gurgling down the drains and guttering. The rest of the house was asleep and in the calmness I managed to take some notes on yesterday's groggy meetings. 

Yesterday was a day without calmness. The Atlantic had been hurling winds and rains all night. Then Callum woke at five in the morning demanding a crab for a pet. Now! He'd obviously been dreaming about summer days down at Salthill beach.

Somehow, sleep deprived as I was, I managed to meet up with the singer Sandra Coffey who is organising an Oscar Wilde festival later in the year and would like me to do a reading of The Ballad of Reading Gaol

Also caught up with my friend and collaborator Marina Wild who has created the illustrations for my next book Galway Bay Folk Tales. We now want to turn a previous collaboration Pirates, Dragons and Moon Monsters into a book. 

Finally had a quick chat with Cindy Dring the Health Promotion Officer of NUI Galway. Last year Cindy commissioned me to put together a health promotion blog for students. The blog was a great success so now the plan is to adapt parts of it into an info booklet for students starting in the autumn. As blog and books are completely different mediums this will entail a complete rewrite, but writing is what I enjoy doing...

So now i've posted my first blog, its time to go do that writing!

P.S. Here's the crab Callum was dreaming about and now wants as a pet. We met this crustacean in the summer down at Salthill and after a quick photo shoot we put him back in his rock pool