Ever since our ancestors became aware of their mortality, the search for immortality became an obsession. They lived in the belief that life after death could be achieved for as long as the name of the deceased continued to be spoken. And maybe that’s why the oral tradition of the bard and the seanachaí is held in such high regard – because through the words of the storyteller the legend lives on.

The northside of Cork city has a proud culture that permeates every facet of life. This ancient heritage is not preserved intact like a museum piece, but rather a living tradition that continues to evolve right to the present day. It is our song, our story, our sport and the language that we speak. Of course food is a fundamental expression of all cultural heritage. And here on the northside, our cuisine is legendary, recipes handed down through the generations for local delicacies such as bodice, pig’s head, brawn, pressed tongue, crubeens, skirts and kidneys, tripe and drisheen, stuffed heart and more variations on the humble potato than you could shake a stick at.

Fair Hill is the backbone of the northside. Having spent my formative years in the North Monastery, a Christian Brothers’ school perched on Fair Hill, I had always been aware of its cultural significance. One bright May morning in 2007, I called to my friend John O’Shea; a singer, a storyteller, a modern-day bard. We were in his shed chatting about this and that when I noticed an old photograph; fifty or so men assembled on the steps of the North Monastery.

“That’s the Boys of Fair Hill,” he said.

John took the photograph from the wall and dusted it with his elbow. Then, one by one, he introduced every man by name: Connie Doyle, Johnny Clifford, Timmy Delaney; identifying each by their specific sporting prowess: bowler, harrier, pigeon fancier, hurler.

This was John O’Shea at his very best – in full-flight, animated and engaging, shuffling stories and characters, dovetailing fact and fiction, presenting anecdotal credibility with an appropriate verse from Sean O’Callaghan’s vast repertoire of songs. John continually reminded me that the only reason Fair Hill is immortalised is because of Sean O’Callaghan’s songs.

As morning stretched to afternoon, it occurred to me that, just as John O’Shea had been inspired by Sean O’Callaghan’s lyrics of past glory – the time had come to pass on the smouldering embers of history to a new generation. And so, over the next few months, John invited me to join him on a most incredible life-reaffirming odyssey into the beating heart of the northside of Cork city.

Next morning we called to Frank Quinlan, the most celebrated huntsman on the northside. An invitation was duly extended to visit the Fair Hill Harrier Club. It was a special privilege to sit in the company of hounds and their handlers in this ambient clubhouse steeped in history. An Aladdin’s cave of trophies, photographs and taxidermy. The talk was of dogs and demigod dog trainers, such as the great Connie Doyle. In Fair Hill lore, no dog will ever equal Ringwood. Such was Ringwood’s unbeatable determination that the arch-rival, Southern Hunt, nicknamed the hound the Armoured Car.

I have such special memories of my time with the Fair Hill Harriers; striding the undergrowth of Carraignabhfear woods, calling the baying pack to heel to the sound of the huntsman’s horn. But nothing could have prepared me for the thrill of my first draghunt. Standing on a hillside, surveying the surrounding country to infinity as far as the eye can see. The sheer exhilaration to witness as many as one hundred hounds released. Running hell for leather over walls and ditches, across ten miles of open countryside, tracking their progress until they are mere dots on the landscape, and then the loop– and they return full tilt back to the very spot on the hillside from where they set out. Magical. It defies description.

The following Wednesday afternoon, I arranged to meet the bowlers down the Blarney Road. And there’s something primordial, honest and authentic about a score of bowels. When a 28oz ball of iron is lofted at 70mph, then splits the sop, knocking sparks off stones and comes trundling down the road – it is a sight to behold. Later that day, Denis McGarry, in his own bardic way, regaled us with a blow-by-blow account of the legendary score between Timmy Delaney and Hammerman Donnelly, that took place back in 1928.

Of course, hurling and camogie are synonymous with Fair Hill. We regrouped at Na Piarsaigh Hurling Club to watch the Munster final on the telly. It was there, in the company of local male and female sporting legends that I first heard about the ill-fated Fair Hill Hurling Club. By all accounts, the club disbanded in 1920 after a crushing defeat; beaten by 15 goals, remembered locally as ‘a goal a man’. Devastated in defeat, it is said they burnt their hurleys after the game. In their defence, it was mentioned in hushed tones that their key players weren’t available to play that day; caught up in the War of Independence, on the run with the IRA.

But for me, the pigeon racing fraternity stole my heart. Sometimes misunderstood, but nonetheless a profound culture with a language and tradition all of its own. Breeding homing pigeons must be the most highly refined collaboration between human and wild animal. There is something philosophical about pigeon fanciers - I have such happy memories of the days spent with Michael Crane in his loft. Through his passion for the sport I learned to appreciate the regal majesty of pigeons – to witness the flash of iridescent neck plumage as a flock of pigeons bank into the sun is nothing short of mesmerising.

So, that’s the way the summer of 2007 unfolded. In the company of pigeons, bowlers and harriers. Just as Caílte mac Rónáin immortalised the epic deeds of na Fianna, Fair Hill will be remembered in the songs of Sean O’Callaghan.

In an oral tradition the storyteller becomes as important as the stories they tell. And so, to the new generation of bards and balladeers: John Spillane, Jimmy Crowley, Seán Ó Sé, Tim Riordan, Denis Twohig, Marion Wyatt - the story lives on.

Sadly, some of those who so kindly invited me into their lives, their homes and their lofts are now no longer with us. If, as our ancestors believed, that life after death can be achieved for as long as the name of the deceased continues to be spoken, so, I will whisper the names: John O’Shea, Denis McGarry, Magic O’Callaghan, Jim McKeon.

And so the legend lives on.

• Cónal Creedon's documentary The Boys Of Fair Hill came about as a result of this ‘holiday’. Available to watch at https://youtu.be/LxChF__cCtI