Campile. The Little Village
Anywhere in the world you find yourself, if anyone asks you where you are from, and you say Campile, chances are they know of it. Perhaps they passed through on their way to Duncannon on a childhood holiday. Perhaps they went on the beer with the boys in Tinbilly's. Perhaps they spent a night of passion-filled pleasure with one of our local bikes. They may even have tried to go to see the Leprechauns in some of the lads' holiday apartments in Tenerife many years ago. We are everywhere.
Some consider Campile to be the centre of their spiritual existence, others are afraid, or got pregnant in Harts carpark / Train-Station / Soccer Pitch, and cant get away from it fast enough. To the Campile born-and-bred native who might have moved away, you think you're clean but others can smell the Campile off you.
