Week ending September 30th 2012
I washed and hung out my red and green sheets, a present from Chicago some time ago, and hung them out on the line the day after Mayo’s win over the Dubs in the All Ireland semi-final. The sheets were not even soiled but I needed to make a statement. Mayo people in foreign lands like myself need to be discreet and not rub their neighbour’s noses in it, though Galway people were happy to be in the hurling final themselves and wanted the two western counties to go all the way. Even the old and housebound I was visiting around Carna and Cill Chiaráin on the first Thursday and Friday of the month were genuinely delighted at Mayo’s semi-final win and wished them well in the final. One ninetyseven year old great grandmother told me she fancied at least one of the Mayo centrefielders whom she described as “fathach fir” giants of men.
That victory over Dublin reminded me of the 2006 win which I watched while at a Tourmakeady wedding in Westport. I was in the bar with a number of Kerrymen who waxed lyrical about “the lovely left legs” of a number of the Mayomen. They spoke with at least as much admiration and respect as if admiring young women. The real reason for their happiness was, I suspect, that they felt their own team had a better chance of beating Mayo than Dublin. We all remember that final, and it has put everyone on their guard for this one. Mayo were not the only team to collapse in a final - we have seen something similar in a number of hurling finals, and it was not the end of the world for any of them. It does however give an even bigger incentive to get preparations perfect and hype under control. We can do the hyping for the rest of the year.
Those of us who live in foreign counties are playing things down as best we can, and putting on the poor mouth from ear to ear. Certain phrases come in useful: “I suppose they will go up for the National Anthem anyway,” or “Daniel O’Donnell would beat us on his own,” not mentioning that was only true for a singing competition. My own memories go back to standing outside Fahy’s house in Ballydavock, between Belcarra and Clogher in 1950 or ’51, or both, while the grown-ups were inside listening to Micheál Ó Heihir and looking at the only radio in the village, each imagination putting a picture on the commentator’s “pretends to go left, goes right,” and many other colourful phrases.
1969 was the year my cat nearly died for Mayo while living on the Aran Island of Inis Meáin. My raucous roar of joy at Anthony Finnerty’s goal sent the cat through a narrow opening at the top of the front window, and he did not return for days. Every year since the early fisties has been a “This might be the year, year.” This is, I hope, THE YEAR.
That victory over Dublin reminded me of the 2006 win which I watched while at a Tourmakeady wedding in Westport. I was in the bar with a number of Kerrymen who waxed lyrical about “the lovely left legs” of a number of the Mayomen. They spoke with at least as much admiration and respect as if admiring young women. The real reason for their happiness was, I suspect, that they felt their own team had a better chance of beating Mayo than Dublin. We all remember that final, and it has put everyone on their guard for this one. Mayo were not the only team to collapse in a final - we have seen something similar in a number of hurling finals, and it was not the end of the world for any of them. It does however give an even bigger incentive to get preparations perfect and hype under control. We can do the hyping for the rest of the year.
Those of us who live in foreign counties are playing things down as best we can, and putting on the poor mouth from ear to ear. Certain phrases come in useful: “I suppose they will go up for the National Anthem anyway,” or “Daniel O’Donnell would beat us on his own,” not mentioning that was only true for a singing competition. My own memories go back to standing outside Fahy’s house in Ballydavock, between Belcarra and Clogher in 1950 or ’51, or both, while the grown-ups were inside listening to Micheál Ó Heihir and looking at the only radio in the village, each imagination putting a picture on the commentator’s “pretends to go left, goes right,” and many other colourful phrases.
1969 was the year my cat nearly died for Mayo while living on the Aran Island of Inis Meáin. My raucous roar of joy at Anthony Finnerty’s goal sent the cat through a narrow opening at the top of the front window, and he did not return for days. Every year since the early fisties has been a “This might be the year, year.” This is, I hope, THE YEAR.
Week ending September 25th 2012
I was writing here a year ago about dealings I had with two different telephone companies, as I left one to join another for financial reasons as well as in the hope of getting a better broadband connection and reception. The move turned out to be a mistake and I am now back again in the bosom of Eircom. What amazes me most about many service providers is how few of them have contact numbers with which to make a query or question a decision. Many of their e-mails are of the type to which it is a waste of time to reply, so communication with the customer is virtually one way traffic, with all the cards stacked in favour of the supplier. The customer is always right, but never as right as when you can keep him or her gagged.
I am very surprised that the Consumer Association or the Department of Communications have not some rules in place directing communications companies to make it easier to communicate both ways with their clients. Much of this is probably no problem to young people with computer skills, but I feel that there is an element of ageism present when people in their mid-sixties like me are left hanging, in so far as companies which charge plenty for their services are concerned. Many others have difficulties with Banks insisting on on-line banking or making it as difficult as possible for people to do what used to be a simple transaction across a counter.
I wrote here on a number of occasions about a complaint I had made to the Office of The Ombudsman about Arts Council insistence that all applications for bursaries be made on-line. That is fine if a person has a fast and efficient service, something which is certainly not available in South Conamara. When I send an e-mail I seldom know if it has reached its destination. I know that articles I have sent to the Connaught Telegraph by e-mail attachment have not got to the newspaper, as they were returned ‘failed to deliver’ when too late for publication.
I am not completely computer illiterate so earlier this year I followed all the directions with regard to the Arts Council bursary, but then the application faled to cross the final hurdle because of a technical fault here in Conamara. I may not have earned a bursary anyway, but I sure had no chance when the application would not go through in time. I was later informed by the Ombudsman’s Office that it has no remit with regards to the Arts Council. It has no authority to question the Council on matters such as this, just as it has no authority to question why the heavily subsidised Abbey Theatre does not read many of the plays submitted there. Am I the only one thinking that we badly need an Arts Tribunal?
As far as I know a more recent application to the Arts Council has got there intact, so it is a matter of: “Come back Eircom, all s forgiven.” I will be keeping a close eye on my renewed telephone supplier to see will all the promises made to woo me back be fulfilled. Like the Skibereen Eagle keeping an eye on the Tsar of Russia in days gone by, I will be monitoring their every move, and letting you and them know – if I can manage to get in touch with their non-communicating inner circle.
I am very surprised that the Consumer Association or the Department of Communications have not some rules in place directing communications companies to make it easier to communicate both ways with their clients. Much of this is probably no problem to young people with computer skills, but I feel that there is an element of ageism present when people in their mid-sixties like me are left hanging, in so far as companies which charge plenty for their services are concerned. Many others have difficulties with Banks insisting on on-line banking or making it as difficult as possible for people to do what used to be a simple transaction across a counter.
I wrote here on a number of occasions about a complaint I had made to the Office of The Ombudsman about Arts Council insistence that all applications for bursaries be made on-line. That is fine if a person has a fast and efficient service, something which is certainly not available in South Conamara. When I send an e-mail I seldom know if it has reached its destination. I know that articles I have sent to the Connaught Telegraph by e-mail attachment have not got to the newspaper, as they were returned ‘failed to deliver’ when too late for publication.
I am not completely computer illiterate so earlier this year I followed all the directions with regard to the Arts Council bursary, but then the application faled to cross the final hurdle because of a technical fault here in Conamara. I may not have earned a bursary anyway, but I sure had no chance when the application would not go through in time. I was later informed by the Ombudsman’s Office that it has no remit with regards to the Arts Council. It has no authority to question the Council on matters such as this, just as it has no authority to question why the heavily subsidised Abbey Theatre does not read many of the plays submitted there. Am I the only one thinking that we badly need an Arts Tribunal?
As far as I know a more recent application to the Arts Council has got there intact, so it is a matter of: “Come back Eircom, all s forgiven.” I will be keeping a close eye on my renewed telephone supplier to see will all the promises made to woo me back be fulfilled. Like the Skibereen Eagle keeping an eye on the Tsar of Russia in days gone by, I will be monitoring their every move, and letting you and them know – if I can manage to get in touch with their non-communicating inner circle.
Week ending September 18th 2012
The high tides of the Autumn equinox will have seawater lapping at the perimiter wall of Cárna church next weekend, without being of any particular threat to the church itself. While the building is at the end of a bay, the water is relatively shallow with lots of large rocks strewn around, which tend to dissipate any buildup of flooding from the combination of a southerly gale and a high tide. The church has stood there since before the Great Famine of the eighteen forties, so I hope it is not going to start flooding on my watch. Incidentally it was built, or at least the building work was organised by a priest involved in providing six churches for the Archdiocese of Tuam, Father Peter Conway. He was responsible too for Saint Mary’s Church, Partry, in the last parish in which I served. Naming the churches in honour of Our Lady reflects a deep devotion, as there must have been pressure to name Carna’s church after the local saint, MacDara.
Most of Carna Bay almost empties itself of water at low tide. It goes from lapping at the wall that surrounds the church to looking as if the Bay has taken a deep breath. Instead of water all that can be seen is yellow-brown seaweed and scattered rocks. This gives seaweed gatherers a great opportunity in spring to cut the most valuable weed and build square ‘cimíns’ which are floated on to a slipway to be loaded by a grab on to lorries or trailers for the local seaweed plant in Cill Chiarán. The coming and going of the tide reminds me of saying Mass onetime on Carraroe’s coral strand at the beginning of a regatta, Féile an Dóilín many years ago. I stood at the altar-table with my back to the sea, the congregation gathered on the sloping strand, shaped like a small amphitheatre, in front of me. The tide rose slowly behind me, the best recipe I have seen yet for a fast Mass.
The tide is often in my thoughts and conversation as I sit with families by the bedsides of loved ones approaching death. The biggest difference I find between this and previous parishes is the presence of a fifty bed nursing home which is situated as close to the tide as Carna church is.. I have mentioned before that I have had more sick calls since arriving here than in the other forty years or so of my priesthood.. The Nursing Home gives wonderful service to a community situated about eighty kilometres or fifty miles from Galway hospitals. People can grow old and die with dignity within easy reach of their families. It also provides daycare on a Wednesday for those who are ill, aged or housebound. As most people in the Nursing Home are native Irish speakers, the presence of staff who can communicate easily with them is also very important.
Sitting for hours by death-beds over the years has helped me to get to know a number of families, as stories were told and memories shared. Thoughts turned from time to time to the tides and the influence they have on our lives, unknown to many of us. I had heard in previous coastal parishes that a person is most likely to slip away from this life as the tide turned. This has to do with the magnetism of the moon, which affects us as well of course when we are not anywhere near the sea. Death comes in its own time, of course, but in my experience, more often with the turn of the tide than in between. That said, the most contented death I have witnessed was in my first posting, in Inis Oirr in the Aran Islands. A woman asked for her dúidín, her clay pipe, and proceeded to puff her way into eternity.
Most of Carna Bay almost empties itself of water at low tide. It goes from lapping at the wall that surrounds the church to looking as if the Bay has taken a deep breath. Instead of water all that can be seen is yellow-brown seaweed and scattered rocks. This gives seaweed gatherers a great opportunity in spring to cut the most valuable weed and build square ‘cimíns’ which are floated on to a slipway to be loaded by a grab on to lorries or trailers for the local seaweed plant in Cill Chiarán. The coming and going of the tide reminds me of saying Mass onetime on Carraroe’s coral strand at the beginning of a regatta, Féile an Dóilín many years ago. I stood at the altar-table with my back to the sea, the congregation gathered on the sloping strand, shaped like a small amphitheatre, in front of me. The tide rose slowly behind me, the best recipe I have seen yet for a fast Mass.
The tide is often in my thoughts and conversation as I sit with families by the bedsides of loved ones approaching death. The biggest difference I find between this and previous parishes is the presence of a fifty bed nursing home which is situated as close to the tide as Carna church is.. I have mentioned before that I have had more sick calls since arriving here than in the other forty years or so of my priesthood.. The Nursing Home gives wonderful service to a community situated about eighty kilometres or fifty miles from Galway hospitals. People can grow old and die with dignity within easy reach of their families. It also provides daycare on a Wednesday for those who are ill, aged or housebound. As most people in the Nursing Home are native Irish speakers, the presence of staff who can communicate easily with them is also very important.
Sitting for hours by death-beds over the years has helped me to get to know a number of families, as stories were told and memories shared. Thoughts turned from time to time to the tides and the influence they have on our lives, unknown to many of us. I had heard in previous coastal parishes that a person is most likely to slip away from this life as the tide turned. This has to do with the magnetism of the moon, which affects us as well of course when we are not anywhere near the sea. Death comes in its own time, of course, but in my experience, more often with the turn of the tide than in between. That said, the most contented death I have witnessed was in my first posting, in Inis Oirr in the Aran Islands. A woman asked for her dúidín, her clay pipe, and proceeded to puff her way into eternity.
Week ending September 11th 2012
My twelfth Irish language novel, “Ar Nós An Pháiste” has just been published by Cló Iar-Chonnacht, publishers of books and music based in Indreabhán on the coast that runs west from Galway City. I am looking at the cover as if it were a day old chick at the moment, as it has not yet reached the shops. Fans desperate to buy it can order it online from cic@iol.ie. Based in Amsterdam, it tells of an Irishman who climbs onto the wall of a stairwell three stories up in the Van Gogh Museum. On a visit there some years ago I was amazed at how open and dangerous that stairwell had been left and wondered what the reaction would be if I stood there. On such thoughts are novels based. My character climbed up there for me and left the rest to the imagination. My twelfth novel is to be followed soon by a reissue of my first, published twentynine years ago and launched at Oireachtas na Ceathrúin Rua by Aran Island born journalist, the late Breandán Ó hEithir. “Súil le Breith” was published by Séamus Ó Scolaí of Cló Chonamara, and it has been out of print for some years. Séamus’ son Darach is about to reissue the book on his own publshing label, Breacán.ie. This particular book has taken on somewhat of a new life as it was recently published in Bulgarian with the help of Irish Literature Exchange, an organisation which translates books from minority languages such as Irish into mainstream European tongues. As I wrote in Irish in the first issue of the magazine of the Archdiocese of Tuam:“New Dawn,” I am delighted to think of the Bulgarian Fir Boilg sitting on their sandy beaches in the shadow of NAMA owned apartments, drinking their wine and reading my book.
Breandán Ó hEithir’s brother, Éanna was principal teacher in Inis Oirr National school when I went to that Aran Island in 1971. He died a couple of years later at the age of thirtyseven, a great tragedy for his family and for the island as he was deeply involved with the local co-operative which was working to bring electricity to the people at the time. I still remember a story he told me from his young days in Inis Mór. Like many youngsters he brought tourists by horse and trap from the pier in Cill Rónáin to see the great fort of Dún Aenghus perched on the edge of a cliff. One day an elderly priest booked him for the trip. Éanna minded the horse and trap while the priest visited the Dún. The old man was delighted when he returned, and explained his joy by mentioning: “In fact I am a bit of an Antiquarian.”
“Antiquarian” was a word that had a bad name on the island as the Royal Society of Antiquarians had held their Annual General Meeting in Dún Aenghus during the height of the Great Famine of the eighteen forties. The islands were not as badly hit by the famine as other areas because of the availability of fish, but “Antiquarians” still got the reputation on Inis Mór of being a bit touched in the head. When the priest declared himself “a bit of an Antiquarian” Éanna said he reassured him that he was alright. Some years later I was to use “Anthropological” rather than “Antiquarian” in a similar sense as the title of a novel: “Na hAintraieologicals.” (Cló Iar-Chonnacht 1994) On such gems that live on in the memory are books based.
Breandán Ó hEithir’s brother, Éanna was principal teacher in Inis Oirr National school when I went to that Aran Island in 1971. He died a couple of years later at the age of thirtyseven, a great tragedy for his family and for the island as he was deeply involved with the local co-operative which was working to bring electricity to the people at the time. I still remember a story he told me from his young days in Inis Mór. Like many youngsters he brought tourists by horse and trap from the pier in Cill Rónáin to see the great fort of Dún Aenghus perched on the edge of a cliff. One day an elderly priest booked him for the trip. Éanna minded the horse and trap while the priest visited the Dún. The old man was delighted when he returned, and explained his joy by mentioning: “In fact I am a bit of an Antiquarian.”
“Antiquarian” was a word that had a bad name on the island as the Royal Society of Antiquarians had held their Annual General Meeting in Dún Aenghus during the height of the Great Famine of the eighteen forties. The islands were not as badly hit by the famine as other areas because of the availability of fish, but “Antiquarians” still got the reputation on Inis Mór of being a bit touched in the head. When the priest declared himself “a bit of an Antiquarian” Éanna said he reassured him that he was alright. Some years later I was to use “Anthropological” rather than “Antiquarian” in a similar sense as the title of a novel: “Na hAintraieologicals.” (Cló Iar-Chonnacht 1994) On such gems that live on in the memory are books based.
Week ending September 4th 2012
Mention ‘blackberry’ nowadays and many people think of mobile phone accoutrements. I still think of juicy berries, ‘free to air’ as they say in TV programming circles. I think of the jams, jellies, additions to sauces and desserts that those berries can produce, not to speak of blackberry wine. Even in recessionary straithened circumstances it is great to find something that is free and healthy growing wild by the roadsides and hedgerows. No matter how many berries we pick, there are still plenty left over for birds and other creatures.
I am not sure if blackberries ripen quicker by the seacoast, but I think this was the first year that I had a few pots of blackberry jelly in the fridge before the fifteenth of August. Admittedly I had to go a long way to collect the makings of three jars, but the second round a week later was much easier, as there were fistfulls of berries close together. People are probably saying that the poor priest that came down from Mayo two years ago must be hungrier than he looks, seeing that he has to feed himself with the fruit of the briar. The sympathy vote does me no harm at all. The apple trees I set when I came here have been very productive, with lovely red ones to eat as well as cookers for stewing and baking. That fine spell at the time of the apple blossoms, one of the few we have had all year, seems to have made all the difference.
Speaking of self-sufficiency, I have not bought a vegetable for months and I still have lots of curly kale as well as carrots, parsnips and beetroot. I was disappointed in my spinach this year, only managing couple of meals. I have set some in the area from which I have dug potatoes and that seems to be thriving. The taste of new potatoes is one of the pleasures of any year. I had enough for a couple of weeks after bonfire night and really enjoyed them. I don’t mind buying them after that as that original taste is gone. It looks like the bad harvest will mean more expensive spuds, but I can cut back on most things except those. It would be pushing it a bit to send around the Sunday basket for the ‘potato collection.’
I have been claiming since I came here that the people of Carna are really from Mayo, using the argument that:”you are what you eat.” Every day I go back through the village I see delivery vans with sausages from The Neale or Newport, bread and cakes from Ballinrobe or Foxford, frozen food from Ballinrobe, eggs from Balla. Meat, bread and milk are delivered to my door from Westport every Tuesday as soon as I leave the bed. I have marvelled in recent years at the entrepenarial abilities of Mayo people who outdo Galway City deliveries day by day, despite having to cross a mountain range to get here, Now, if I could persuade those who eat the Mayo food to fly the Mayo flag.
That said I have been sampling plenty of fish from the local area as well, though the red tide warnings have put me and many others off shellfish for the moment. Still the old favourites such as mackeral and pollock and the occasional piece of monkfish are very welcome on plate and palate. As in previous parishes in which I served by lake and sea I always feel the gospel stories of Jesus and his fisherfolk friends are best understood in places by the shore.
I am not sure if blackberries ripen quicker by the seacoast, but I think this was the first year that I had a few pots of blackberry jelly in the fridge before the fifteenth of August. Admittedly I had to go a long way to collect the makings of three jars, but the second round a week later was much easier, as there were fistfulls of berries close together. People are probably saying that the poor priest that came down from Mayo two years ago must be hungrier than he looks, seeing that he has to feed himself with the fruit of the briar. The sympathy vote does me no harm at all. The apple trees I set when I came here have been very productive, with lovely red ones to eat as well as cookers for stewing and baking. That fine spell at the time of the apple blossoms, one of the few we have had all year, seems to have made all the difference.
Speaking of self-sufficiency, I have not bought a vegetable for months and I still have lots of curly kale as well as carrots, parsnips and beetroot. I was disappointed in my spinach this year, only managing couple of meals. I have set some in the area from which I have dug potatoes and that seems to be thriving. The taste of new potatoes is one of the pleasures of any year. I had enough for a couple of weeks after bonfire night and really enjoyed them. I don’t mind buying them after that as that original taste is gone. It looks like the bad harvest will mean more expensive spuds, but I can cut back on most things except those. It would be pushing it a bit to send around the Sunday basket for the ‘potato collection.’
I have been claiming since I came here that the people of Carna are really from Mayo, using the argument that:”you are what you eat.” Every day I go back through the village I see delivery vans with sausages from The Neale or Newport, bread and cakes from Ballinrobe or Foxford, frozen food from Ballinrobe, eggs from Balla. Meat, bread and milk are delivered to my door from Westport every Tuesday as soon as I leave the bed. I have marvelled in recent years at the entrepenarial abilities of Mayo people who outdo Galway City deliveries day by day, despite having to cross a mountain range to get here, Now, if I could persuade those who eat the Mayo food to fly the Mayo flag.
That said I have been sampling plenty of fish from the local area as well, though the red tide warnings have put me and many others off shellfish for the moment. Still the old favourites such as mackeral and pollock and the occasional piece of monkfish are very welcome on plate and palate. As in previous parishes in which I served by lake and sea I always feel the gospel stories of Jesus and his fisherfolk friends are best understood in places by the shore.
