Week ending 27th September 2011
I shared parishes with Fr. Tommie Mannion, who died recently in Claremorris, for about twenty years of our priestly lives. We were together in An Cheathrú Rua (Carraroe) where he was chaplain to the Comprehensive school (Scoil Chuimsitheach Chiaráin) while I was local curate. He was my Parish Priest later in the Aran Islands, before he moved to a similar position, first in Louisburg and then in Claremorris. He was always kind and considerate. Archbishop Michael Neary in his funeral homily, and many other people in recent times have remarked on his gentleness than anything else. “Blessed are the gentle,” Jesus sais in his sermon on the Mount, “they shall have the earth for their heritage.” (Mt 5:4) May Tommie Mannion have heaven as his heritage.
Tommie spent many years in Gaeltacht parishes, in Cor na Móna as well as the parishes I have mentioned. He spent one year in the Cill Chiaráin side of Carna parish in which I now live. I was talking to a man recently who played football with him during that year, and he remarked on his strength and his skill. He was also a skilled hurler and I remember seeing him on the field of play in Maynooth during his final year there, which happened to be my first. He wes very involved with the GAA in Carraroe as well as in athletics both there and in Cor na Móna and in Inis Mór in the Aran Islands. An accomplished amateur actor, he was a member too of the local dramatic society, Aisteóirí Mhic Easmainn, in Carraroe, a company named after Roger Casement, who had been a frequent visitor to the area in the early years of the last century.
Tommie Mannion delghted in telling the story of a time he was partakng in a major Irish language drama competition judged by one of the Abbey Theatre’s top actors. Tommie was playing the part of a Judge who had to decide on the life or death of a prisoner in the dock. Through stagefright or some other reason his mind went completely blank as he was about to pass judgment, and he forgot his lines. The prompter had chosen the same moment to take a call of nature, so there was no help from the sidelines. He said that he put his head in his hands and started to laugh quietly at the incongruity of it all. The prompter returned, the lines came back and the show went on. When it was all over the adjudicator, unaware of the on-stage crisis, commended the Judge for the way he had cried because of the enormity of his decision, before passing sentence.
I will finish with another story from Tommie Mannion’s repertoire of amusing anecdotes from his priestly lifetime. While based in Cill Chiaráin in Southwest Conamara he was hurrying back to his home area to play a match after a Sunday Mass. Somewhere on the Galway Tuam road a car shot out just in front him and nearly caused an accident. He reported the car registration to the Gardaí because of dangerous driving. A local Garda warned the driver and mentioned that it was a priest from Carna parish who had reported him. The man headed west, not realising that there might be more than one priest in the parish. He knocked at the door of the Parish Priest, Father John Philbin, a man famous for his spirituality as well as for cures. “Did you report me to the Guards?” the man asked angrily. Fr. Philbin invited him in, sat him down and explained that not only did he not have a car, he had never driven in his life, nor had he ever made a complaint about another driver. He finished by suggesting: “I would advise you, young man, to be out of this parish before sundown.” Some would say the same man, on hearing of Fr. Philbin’s powers, never crossed the Corrib again. Ar dheis Dé go raibh anam Thomáis Uí Mhainnín.
Tommie spent many years in Gaeltacht parishes, in Cor na Móna as well as the parishes I have mentioned. He spent one year in the Cill Chiaráin side of Carna parish in which I now live. I was talking to a man recently who played football with him during that year, and he remarked on his strength and his skill. He was also a skilled hurler and I remember seeing him on the field of play in Maynooth during his final year there, which happened to be my first. He wes very involved with the GAA in Carraroe as well as in athletics both there and in Cor na Móna and in Inis Mór in the Aran Islands. An accomplished amateur actor, he was a member too of the local dramatic society, Aisteóirí Mhic Easmainn, in Carraroe, a company named after Roger Casement, who had been a frequent visitor to the area in the early years of the last century.
Tommie Mannion delghted in telling the story of a time he was partakng in a major Irish language drama competition judged by one of the Abbey Theatre’s top actors. Tommie was playing the part of a Judge who had to decide on the life or death of a prisoner in the dock. Through stagefright or some other reason his mind went completely blank as he was about to pass judgment, and he forgot his lines. The prompter had chosen the same moment to take a call of nature, so there was no help from the sidelines. He said that he put his head in his hands and started to laugh quietly at the incongruity of it all. The prompter returned, the lines came back and the show went on. When it was all over the adjudicator, unaware of the on-stage crisis, commended the Judge for the way he had cried because of the enormity of his decision, before passing sentence.
I will finish with another story from Tommie Mannion’s repertoire of amusing anecdotes from his priestly lifetime. While based in Cill Chiaráin in Southwest Conamara he was hurrying back to his home area to play a match after a Sunday Mass. Somewhere on the Galway Tuam road a car shot out just in front him and nearly caused an accident. He reported the car registration to the Gardaí because of dangerous driving. A local Garda warned the driver and mentioned that it was a priest from Carna parish who had reported him. The man headed west, not realising that there might be more than one priest in the parish. He knocked at the door of the Parish Priest, Father John Philbin, a man famous for his spirituality as well as for cures. “Did you report me to the Guards?” the man asked angrily. Fr. Philbin invited him in, sat him down and explained that not only did he not have a car, he had never driven in his life, nor had he ever made a complaint about another driver. He finished by suggesting: “I would advise you, young man, to be out of this parish before sundown.” Some would say the same man, on hearing of Fr. Philbin’s powers, never crossed the Corrib again. Ar dheis Dé go raibh anam Thomáis Uí Mhainnín.
Week ending 20th September 2011 www.tourmakeady.com
Cooking has come a long way since I first learned to boil an egg. Well, cooking itself has not changed that much, but the language used in connection with it has changed hugely. The idea of sweating an onion in my younger days would have conjured up an image of carrying around a peeled onion beneath your shoulder socket for days and nights. Not an appetising prospect for those expected to eat it. Even now when I read a recipe which involves the sweating of onions I instinctively reach for the deoderant. It means that I can produce an exotic ‘Old Spice Stew’ or ‘Brut-force Goulash,’ not to speak of ‘Sure-fired Onion Rings,’ safe in the knowledge that ‘Sure Men Will Not Let You Down.’
One of the advantages of spending years as a clergyman on offshore islands was that it gave a person time to learn to cook on a trial and error basis. With a small population/congregation, there was often not much else to do. Dependance on boats for deliveries also reduced the number and kind of ingredients readily available. Making the best of what you had was an ideal discipline. It meant the ability to conjure up a meal from whatever you could lay your hands on. I remember frying tinned spam with garlic and butter in order to try and put a better taste on it when the ferry from Galway, the Naomh Éanna, failed to travel for a couple of weeks at a time due to inclement weather.
There were always cockles and mussels to fall back on if things became really scarce. I sometimes brought firelighters, turf and coal with a pan in a plastic bag to the shore. While the fire was lighting up and the seawater heating a sweaty onion in the saucepan, I gathered shellfish and tossed them into the boiling water. I soon learned that fesh water worked better as the fish was already salty. Apart from minor problems with sand and seaweed, a hearty repast could be eaten. The best part was that there was no washing up in those long lost days before dishwashers arrived to take away the trauma of having to wet the hands in sudsy water
I recall those times now that I am back patrolling the shorelines of South Conamara. I think I have already told you about the nine beaches in the half-parish of Carna, one of which I walk most days with my dog Mocca. Sea-rods have replaced the sticks she carried through Tourmakeady wood in the first ten years of her life. She braves the tide in hot or cold weather, even doing so during the snows of last Christmas. The only encouragement she needs is to have a sea-rod fired in ahead of her. I presume that fleas are not too fond of saltwater, and that means that I seldom have the bother of washing the dog.
I have always liked the comparison between a fox getting rid of its fleas and Jesus getting rid of the sins of the world through baptism. It is said that a fox rids itself of fleas by backing slowly, big tail first, into water. When the fleas have crawled or hopped on to its nose to avoid the rising water it quickly ducks underneath the surface and leaves the fleas to sink or swim. This can compare well with baptism by total immersion, carrying as it does the notion of going underneath with Christ in death and rising cleansed with him in resurrection. There it is: I have to take my theology-babble with me even while walking the dog on the beach while my homegrown onions are slowly sweating on the pan as they wait for me back in the house..
One of the advantages of spending years as a clergyman on offshore islands was that it gave a person time to learn to cook on a trial and error basis. With a small population/congregation, there was often not much else to do. Dependance on boats for deliveries also reduced the number and kind of ingredients readily available. Making the best of what you had was an ideal discipline. It meant the ability to conjure up a meal from whatever you could lay your hands on. I remember frying tinned spam with garlic and butter in order to try and put a better taste on it when the ferry from Galway, the Naomh Éanna, failed to travel for a couple of weeks at a time due to inclement weather.
There were always cockles and mussels to fall back on if things became really scarce. I sometimes brought firelighters, turf and coal with a pan in a plastic bag to the shore. While the fire was lighting up and the seawater heating a sweaty onion in the saucepan, I gathered shellfish and tossed them into the boiling water. I soon learned that fesh water worked better as the fish was already salty. Apart from minor problems with sand and seaweed, a hearty repast could be eaten. The best part was that there was no washing up in those long lost days before dishwashers arrived to take away the trauma of having to wet the hands in sudsy water
I recall those times now that I am back patrolling the shorelines of South Conamara. I think I have already told you about the nine beaches in the half-parish of Carna, one of which I walk most days with my dog Mocca. Sea-rods have replaced the sticks she carried through Tourmakeady wood in the first ten years of her life. She braves the tide in hot or cold weather, even doing so during the snows of last Christmas. The only encouragement she needs is to have a sea-rod fired in ahead of her. I presume that fleas are not too fond of saltwater, and that means that I seldom have the bother of washing the dog.
I have always liked the comparison between a fox getting rid of its fleas and Jesus getting rid of the sins of the world through baptism. It is said that a fox rids itself of fleas by backing slowly, big tail first, into water. When the fleas have crawled or hopped on to its nose to avoid the rising water it quickly ducks underneath the surface and leaves the fleas to sink or swim. This can compare well with baptism by total immersion, carrying as it does the notion of going underneath with Christ in death and rising cleansed with him in resurrection. There it is: I have to take my theology-babble with me even while walking the dog on the beach while my homegrown onions are slowly sweating on the pan as they wait for me back in the house..
Week ending 13th September 2011 www.tourmakeady.com
I was
unable to attend the funeral of Fr. Michael Keane in Claremorris recently, as I
had Masses that morning in Carna and Cill Chiaráin, but I remembered him at
those altars. He served as a curate quite close to here, in Tully Cross and
Cashel in his younger days as a priest, so he knew this park of the Archdiocese
quite well. He never served in the Gaeltacht, but he was offered an appointment
in Irish speaking An Cheathrú Rua (Carraroe) almost thirty years ago in what in
hindsight was an illconsidered attempt to solve a problem in Dublin
Archdiocese. Fr. Michael was to be evicted from a parish house there because of
policy differences with church authorities in the caital. He was offered the
position of curate in Carraroe to Parish Priest, An tAthair Máirtín Lang, who
had gone to Dublin
to support him in court during the eviction hearings.
The problem with that from my point of view is that it was my job that was being offered in the weeks before Christmas, without anyone asking me was I prepared to move in order to solve this ‘problem.’ Writing about the matter in ‘The Irish Press’ on the 17th of December 1981, I made the following observation: “I and the people of Carraroe discovered from the media that it was apparently my position that was on offer to Father Keane without consultation in what appears to have been a hasty, ill-considered and cynical attempt to kill two birds with one stone – dilute the adverse publicity surrounding the eviction, and to ‘get at’ Father Máirtín Lang for publicly supporting his friend.”
I am not raking over those long quenched coals to offend anyone, because Fr. Michael Keane had long reconciled with those with whom he had fallen out on matters of principle in Dublin. There was an excellent edition of RTÉ’s “Would You Believe” about eight years ago which would bear showing again, in which that ceremony of reconcilation was shown. I also remember an occasion in Carraroe at which Monsignor Tommie Shannon, then Secretary to Archbishop Joseph Cunnane sang on stage with Father Michael Keane at a time when relations were somewhat strained between the Archbishop and former curate. That did not stop those two fine voices rattling the rafters in a show organised in support of Tigh Nan Dooley, the local centre for children with special needs. They can have a good laugh about it all now in the choirs of heaven.
I visited and stayed overnight with Father Michael in Templeogue on a number of occasions during his time in Dublin, and he attended the launch of my novel ‘Stigmata’ in Bewleys restaurant in 1995. Ironically I saw less of him after he moved back to Claremorris, but that was my fault. When we did meet he would draw attention so something written about in ‘Standún’s Station.’ More often than not it would not be radical enough for his liking, but he enjoyed what was witty or humourous. The finest achievement of his long life was probably Knock Marriage Bureau, still going strong, as are most of the people it has brought together. Ar dheis Dé go raibh a anam.
The problem with that from my point of view is that it was my job that was being offered in the weeks before Christmas, without anyone asking me was I prepared to move in order to solve this ‘problem.’ Writing about the matter in ‘The Irish Press’ on the 17th of December 1981, I made the following observation: “I and the people of Carraroe discovered from the media that it was apparently my position that was on offer to Father Keane without consultation in what appears to have been a hasty, ill-considered and cynical attempt to kill two birds with one stone – dilute the adverse publicity surrounding the eviction, and to ‘get at’ Father Máirtín Lang for publicly supporting his friend.”
I am not raking over those long quenched coals to offend anyone, because Fr. Michael Keane had long reconciled with those with whom he had fallen out on matters of principle in Dublin. There was an excellent edition of RTÉ’s “Would You Believe” about eight years ago which would bear showing again, in which that ceremony of reconcilation was shown. I also remember an occasion in Carraroe at which Monsignor Tommie Shannon, then Secretary to Archbishop Joseph Cunnane sang on stage with Father Michael Keane at a time when relations were somewhat strained between the Archbishop and former curate. That did not stop those two fine voices rattling the rafters in a show organised in support of Tigh Nan Dooley, the local centre for children with special needs. They can have a good laugh about it all now in the choirs of heaven.
I visited and stayed overnight with Father Michael in Templeogue on a number of occasions during his time in Dublin, and he attended the launch of my novel ‘Stigmata’ in Bewleys restaurant in 1995. Ironically I saw less of him after he moved back to Claremorris, but that was my fault. When we did meet he would draw attention so something written about in ‘Standún’s Station.’ More often than not it would not be radical enough for his liking, but he enjoyed what was witty or humourous. The finest achievement of his long life was probably Knock Marriage Bureau, still going strong, as are most of the people it has brought together. Ar dheis Dé go raibh a anam.
Week ending 6th September 2011
I got a bit of a surprise last week when a book with what seemed like undecipherable lettering on the cover arrived in the post. What was more intriguing to me was that it had my picture on the back cover. The lettering looked something like Greek, which I had once studied, but it was not Greek. It reminded me of the Russian letters I had seen years ago on TV on old Soviet warheads during huge Mayday parades. I had never seen Bulgarian writing before, but a note inside informed me that was indeed what it was. Given the geographical location of that country it is logical that the language should look like a cross between Greek and Russian. What surprised and delighted me most was to find that my first novel “Súil Le Breith” (Cló Chonamara 1983) was now published in a new language, organised by my present and longstanding Irish language publisher, Cló Iar-Chonnacht.
I was not one of those who had the money or the borrowing power to buy an apartment in Bulgaria during Celtic Tiger days, but I suddenly find myself almost related to the people of that country. They have to be the original Fir Bolg, and must be distant cousins of the people from that tribe who settled in Ireland long before Saint Patrick. Bolg is of course the Irish word for belly, and many of us Irish have the bolg to prove that relationship. For more than two hundred and fifty years we have given undue credit to Arthur Guinness for creating those bellies. They obviously go back much further than that. It may be too late now to have Arthur’s Day replaced by Fir Bolg Day, but surely the Bulgarian connection deserves a day of its own. I would even be prepared to do a reading from my new Bulgarian book on the day, if I could recognise a word of it.
Cló Iar-Chonnacht have previously organised translations of some of my writings into German, Polish and Romanian through what is known as Irish Literature Exchange. This leads to little financial gain for the author but it is a great boost to confidence, and an extra feather in the cap on a person’s CV when looking for funding from the Arts Council or Foras na Gaeilge in order to research a story. This is the kind of support which helped me to visit Venice, in which my soon to be published “I gCóngar I gCéin” (Close, Far Away) is situated. The official launch will probably take place around November, but I am told that the book itself will soon be on bookshelves or available direct from the publsher ([email protected])
This is the story of a former Republican sniper who was retired by the organisation in the bad old days – his death was faked and he was given a mock funeral. With a new identity he is working as a water-taxi driver in Venice. One day a young Irish artist recently separated from her husband who has had an office affair, steps on to his boat. They eventually become close, but his past begins to catch up with him. Friends of drug pushers whose family members he has ‘taken out’ come calling. Lost between two worlds, being officially dead he does not come under the terms of the Anglo Irish Agreement, and he is an embarrassment to former colleagues who would wish him out of the way, he has nowhere in which to turn… Read on.
I was not one of those who had the money or the borrowing power to buy an apartment in Bulgaria during Celtic Tiger days, but I suddenly find myself almost related to the people of that country. They have to be the original Fir Bolg, and must be distant cousins of the people from that tribe who settled in Ireland long before Saint Patrick. Bolg is of course the Irish word for belly, and many of us Irish have the bolg to prove that relationship. For more than two hundred and fifty years we have given undue credit to Arthur Guinness for creating those bellies. They obviously go back much further than that. It may be too late now to have Arthur’s Day replaced by Fir Bolg Day, but surely the Bulgarian connection deserves a day of its own. I would even be prepared to do a reading from my new Bulgarian book on the day, if I could recognise a word of it.
Cló Iar-Chonnacht have previously organised translations of some of my writings into German, Polish and Romanian through what is known as Irish Literature Exchange. This leads to little financial gain for the author but it is a great boost to confidence, and an extra feather in the cap on a person’s CV when looking for funding from the Arts Council or Foras na Gaeilge in order to research a story. This is the kind of support which helped me to visit Venice, in which my soon to be published “I gCóngar I gCéin” (Close, Far Away) is situated. The official launch will probably take place around November, but I am told that the book itself will soon be on bookshelves or available direct from the publsher ([email protected])
This is the story of a former Republican sniper who was retired by the organisation in the bad old days – his death was faked and he was given a mock funeral. With a new identity he is working as a water-taxi driver in Venice. One day a young Irish artist recently separated from her husband who has had an office affair, steps on to his boat. They eventually become close, but his past begins to catch up with him. Friends of drug pushers whose family members he has ‘taken out’ come calling. Lost between two worlds, being officially dead he does not come under the terms of the Anglo Irish Agreement, and he is an embarrassment to former colleagues who would wish him out of the way, he has nowhere in which to turn… Read on.
