This blog is a personal take on Listowel, Co. Kerry. I am writing for anyone anywhere with a Listowel connection but especially for sons and daughters of Listowel who find themselves far from home. Contact me at listowelconnection@gmail.com

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Albert Kennedy Roundabout

On the Ballybunion Road

The Old Order Changeth….”

This store is due to be demolished to give way to the new one and the greatly extended car park.

Parents and Friends Garden Fete

People worked really hard to make this one a success. The results of their efforts meant a great few hours for us all. Well done, all.

The theme was Hawaiin. Nobody told the weather though.

Aloha, ladies

There were some fabulous prizes to be won.

( I’ll have a few more photos next week.)

A Few more from my Trip to Knockanure

A lovely tribute to a beloved pastor

Today’s PP has a dedicated parking spot.

Making sense of it all. Wordsmith Writers Group 

Mick O’Callaghan

Friday June 13th, 2025

Perhaps man had 100 senses and when he died only the 5 senses, we know of perish with him and the others remain. Checkov

In this deeply philosophical prompt, I think that we are challenged to look at ourselves 

In school we were always taught that we had 5 senses, sight, taste, smell, touch and hearing. We also learned that there was an interaction between all 5. Our taste buds will influence what we eat but so too will smell and its appearance. If food smells bad or is not well presented visually, we will be loath to eat it.

At home we were made aware of another sense. If we were in doubt about doing something we were told to go with our gut instinct. 

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Initially in this writing prompt Checkov is basically telling us that there is more to life and living than what we experience through the basic five senses. He is also saying that when people die, they leave a lot of themselves behind.

Last September we had a family reunion of relations from America, England and Ireland. They all wanted to experience the lives and homesteads of their forebears. We drove to Béal Trá in Barrow, Ardfert and we saw the foundations of the ancestral home. There was a preservation order on some of these because they were built in famine times. We walked through them and took lots of photographs. One of my American cousins said, as we walked through the old outhouses ‘Don’t you feel a great sense of history here, he could feel it in his bones. When he touched the stone wall and as his daughter was filming him, his emotions took over and he shed copious tears.

We surely were reliving emotional history as most of my relations had never visited here before. As I walked through the ruins of my great grand uncle’s kitchen, I could smell the plug tobacco from his pipe and the scent of the timber logs burning in his fire. I could see and experience his roguish smile, and I could see his súgán chair and large wooden table. Jim Bob O Connell was an ex-policeman in Dublin, and he had a sharp sense of security, sleeping with a shot gun across his bed every night. I re envisaged that scene as I was walking about the remnants of the old homestead. I heard his roguish smile in my ear, and I felt his sense of excitement when we brought him up fresh bass from the sea. Now as I visualised the fresh fish we caught, I can feel and sense the fishy scales on my hands while my sense of smell was activated by the flames shooting out from the frying pan cooking the fish swimming in a sea of melted butter.

I left this place over 60 years ago and Jim Bob is now dead over 40 years. When we walked the ground of our ancestors, we experienced all those extra dimensions of his life which he left behind, through our basic five senses.

The memories and recall of these events are still alive in my head today. My nose can detect many long-lost healthy salt sea air smells. When I went outside the door of Jim Bob’s home I began to relive more of my youthful journeys along that historic Barrow. Banna strand. My brain was on overdrive processing all the varied images of people and places I knew so well in my youth. They were all long since dead but were alive to me now. I felt their presence and their influence on me. I had a real sense of how they had shaped my life and values.

As I strolled down the lane, I was feeling the soft sea mists of long ago and how we sheltered under the rickety hay shed or under the bushes till it passed by. I was tasting the lovely plum jam which my granny made from the plums growing there.

I can also remember many feelings of hunger and thirst during our many visits there as our families were strictly three meals a day people and snack bars were unheard of.

As we strolled here in our younger days we fell, got cuts and injuries, we felt a sense of pain but never mentioned pain threshold. Everything was cured with a splash of iodine or mercurochrome and after their application we were asked if we felt any pain now. No one ever did.

In life we have our five basic senses, but we feel much more in our everyday existence.

I can put my finger up to my nose, put my hands behind my back, tie my laces and perform such complicated acts as walking, co-ordinating movements, climbing, eating, chewing, swallowing, speaking and breathing during my time on planet earth. We feel cold and heat, anxiety, isolation and we have all experienced a sense of fear in some situations in our lives. There are many senses and situations that we must manage every day. We manage them well enough but sometimes experience stress.

Then people often comment and say that someone has a great presence about them with a sense of confidence oozing out from them. They are portrayed as role models.

We also see exemplary people who influence us greatly. Mother Teresa of Calcutta is now dead, but she has left behind a great legacy. We can easily recall her great sense of caring, her sense of selflessness and her compassion in relieving deprivation in the ghettos of Calcutta. I remember being lucky enough to be in her presence in the Mansion House in Dublin. You felt you were in the presence of greatness, and I was certainly inspired by her and in awe of her work

Checkov himself during his all too short life on earth displayed a great sense care of family. He suffered from Tuberculosis all his life but from an early age he wrote short stories and sold them to make money to pay for his family’s education.

When I was growing up, we were advised to use our sense of hearing more than our act of speaking which I generally adhere to in my life. My senses are always turned on, but I try to ensure while walking, talking or listening that I am paying proper attention, benefitting from my surroundings and from people who talk to me.

At this stage of my life, I reflect on things regularly, I walk and eat more slowly, and I listen to my body, my constant sixth sense. While strolling I do not wear earmuffs, earplugs, or other appendages preferring to listen to the ambient sounds of nature such as birds singing, streams flowing or leaves blowing in the wind. 

I thank my forebears for all the wonderful memories they left behind in the collection of their accumulated 95 senses .

Clarification

A week is a long time in local politics. Obviously the decision was already taken but the signs dedicating the new roundabout to Albert Kennedy had not yet been erected when I took my photos last week.

A Fact

Debate over. It’s concluded by scientists that the chicken came before the egg. The protein that makes egg shells is only produced by hens.

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A Roundabout

Ballybunion Road entrance to the cycle path

Simple and beautiful playthings

When did you last see a child play with marbles? These primitive toys were cheap and colourful. and hours of fun.

My collection

Roundabout on the Ballybunion Road

This roundabout takes you away from town and on to the relief road for Tralee.

This is the commemorative stonework marking the official opening of the new road.

The stonework is beautiful.

I’m presuming the stones were carved by B. Leen and C. O’s.

I have no idea what the significence of this is. Could it be that we’re all broken but there is a golden core of goodness in everyone?

Maybe not.

There is a bit of celtic knotwork on this stone. I know a man who thinks that Listowel deserves the title of the World Centre of Celtic Art.

I don’t know if this roundabout has a name. If it doesn’t, may I suggest calling it after John Pierse. It is located beside Teampall Bán. John did Listowel a huge service by researching and documenting the history of this place of pain and anguish…Listowel’s worst wound.

Because of John and his beloved Tidy Town group we will never forget.

Progress at Lidl site

I’m a bit behind with my photos.

This looks to me like a huge building project.

A Poem

On Lough Annagh, Co. Mayo

The Fisherman

by W. B. Yeats

Although I can see him still— 

The freckled man who goes 

To a gray place on a hill 

In gray Connemara clothes 

At dawn to cast his flies— 

It’s long since I began 

To call up to the eyes 

This wise and simple man. 

All day I’d looked in the face 

What I had hoped it would be 

To write for my own race 

And the reality: 

The living men that I hate, 

The dead man that I loved, 

The craven man in his seat, 

The insolent unreproved— 

And no knave brought to book 

Who has won a drunken cheer— 

The witty man and his joke 

Aimed at the commonest ear, 

The clever man who cries 

The catch cries of the clown, 

The beating down of the wise 

And great Art beaten down. 

Maybe a twelve-month since 

Suddenly I began, 

In scorn of this audience, 

Imagining a man, 

And his sun-freckled face 

And gray Connemara cloth, 

Climbing up to a place 

Where stone is dark with froth, 

And the down turn of his wrist 

When the flies drop in the stream— 

A man who does not exist, 

A man who is but a dream; 

And cried, “Before I am old 

I shall have written him one 

Poem maybe as cold 

And passionate as the dawn.”

A Fact

Alcoholics Anonymous was founded in Ohio in the USA in 1935.

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Lá sa Phortach

At The Greenway in Cahirdown

with a Listowel connection

Niamh (Kenny) Lordan and her husband, Ted, were each finalists in the best dressed competitions at Killarney Races.

A Day in The Bog

Remember this lovely bog picture

Well, the bog isn’t all fun and games.

Mick O’Callaghan remembers childhood days harvesting fuel for the winter;

My Memory of Days in the Bog.

The days in the bog were part of my life growing up in Kerry. When the year turned the corner of St Paddy’s Day turf appeared quite often in the lexicon of many a house. My father would take down the hay knife and sharpen it, likewise with the slean [slawn, turf cutting spade). When we heard the question ‘when is Good Friday this year’, we knew turf was in the air.

We rose early on Good Friday morning to clean the top rough sod off the turf bank to be ready for cutting on Easter Monday. We marked about a yard wide down the length of the raised turf bank and started the marking the surface sod with the hay knife and sliced if off with the wide spade. Then we ensured all drains were clear so that there would be no excess water around the turf bank on cutting day. This work had to be finished by noon because we had to attend the stations of the cross at three o clock in the afternoon.

Our bog was located in Gleann Scoithin, and we passed Queen Scotia’s grave on the way up.  Queen Scotia was reputed to have been a daughter of an Egyptian Pharaoh. She was Queen of the Celtic Milesians who defeated the Tuatha De Danann.  On top of the hill in Scotia’s Glen there lived a family of sheepmen. Tom told me stories about Queen Scotia and her sexual exploits around the valley. I never knew whether he was telling me the truth or not. I did take notice when he told me to “stick to the books garsún” and avoid the hard work of turf. When we passed their house in the morning on the way to the bog, Tom was out shaving. He used a white enamel pan with some hot water brought out from the saucepan on the range, a bit of glass stuck in the ditch served as a mirror. He made a good lather with some carbolic soap and shaved away quite happily, totally oblivious to the curious gaping of passers-by at this bare topped mountain man. He just continued with the greeting “Welcome to Glean Scóithín, Are ye right for pikes and sleans lads? Ye know where they are”. He continued shaving.

Easter Monday, which was cutting day, weather permitting, was fast approaching. There was always great preparation the night before. We had a cutter and another man for pitching the sods. We had to provide all the food. The big chunk of ham, two loaves of Barry’s white bread, the pound of Lee Strand Creamery butter, hard boiled eggs, a packet of Galtee cheese, some of my mother’s homemade currant bread and Marietta biscuits were packed as well as the loose tea, milk, mustard, a few knives and spoons and we were ready for our bog day. Our man on the slean was Micky Quirke and he would be in the bog around 6.45am to start the cutting and marking out the size of area needed to spread the turf out for drying. Con Sugrue took the sods and tossed them out to my father who piked them on to me for spreading in serried rows ready for footing and drying.

As the youngest of the team, I was the designated tea boy. My first job was to get sufficient cipíní and dryish turf to start a fire. Next the old, blackened kettle was produced, and I was despatched to go to the well for water. When the water was procured it was boiled on the fire and several spoons of tea were spooned into the kettle. It was always great strong tea. Then the cuisine a la Mick started. The pan loaf and butter were opened. Generous chunks of ham were piled up on well- buttered bread with a slice of cheese on top of that, topped off with a dollop of Coleman’s mustard. This was fine al fresco dining at its best. The boiled eggs were eaten from the hand. Then we had a few Marietta biscuits liberally coated with butter followed by a slice of my mother’s homemade currant bread, all washed down with bog water strong tasting tea. 

Being fully nourished and fortified it was back to the business of cutting turf while the garsún tidied up. I had to keep any tea left in the kettle and pour it into a couple of bottles with added milk. I carefully rolled up the paper corks and stuck  them into the bottles. There was nothing better than cold boggy tea, corked with the sloppy paper corks, for the four-o clock snack with the currant bread.

These  bottles were wrapped in socks for the evening, for what reason I will never know.

As the cutting progressed, we got deeper into the bog and the quality of the turf improved with each sod being as black as coal. This was the real deal as regards quality turf. It was much harder work, tossing it out from a lower position and every muscle was strained. We worked a full 10-hour day and at the end we exchanged pleasantries with the Browns and the Morans who were cutting adjoining banks of turf. We bid farewell to the bog and arrived home tired and weary. 

Now we had to wait and hope the weather kept fine till we lifted the turf for footing to let the wind blow through. This was a painstaking, back breaking exercise. You had to bend down to pick up every sod of turf and make the base tripod of sods and keep them standing. We were lucky most years with this laborious crop and got the reek made early enough in summer. All turf had to be home in the yard before Tralee Races and The Rose of Tralee annual festival  at the end of August. Bringing home the turf was a great occasion. We would get two big lorries of turf clamped up high by our driver. When it was home in the yard it was stacked away in sheds ready to keep the home fires burning for another winter. Neighbours came to inspect the turf and help with putting it into the shed. There was always a neighbourhood meitheal to help with jobs like this, a tremendous spirit of co-operation and genuine spirit of love thy neighbour.

There was many a joke and comment passed about the quality of the turf, but it was all good, humoured banter. The winter fuel was now secure for another winter.

A Staycation

Molly is happy out exploring Listowel. I haven’t shown her any of the photos of her forever family sunning themselves in the Algarve.

What the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve over.

A Definition

from The Devil’s Dictionary

by Ambrose Bierce

congratulation, n. the civility of envy

A Fact

There are more left handed people with IQs over 140 than right handed people.

Experiencing The Greenway

in Listowel Town Square

My Visitors on The Greenway

Photos: Carine Schweitzer

Bobby Cogan

These roadside rapid repair stands were a feature Bobby and Carine had not encountered before. A great idea.

Lovely to be out in the thick of unspoilt Nature

Carine and Bobby love the outdoors, walking, hiking or cycling. These lovely pitstops were a welcome respite.

Irish Travellers in the Old Days

This photograph from The National Gallery’s collection was taken by a famous travel photographer, Inge Morath.

In the photograph is a Traveller family, in a convoy of barrel top caravans on their way to Puck Fair in Killorglin in 1954.

The following essay is taken from a website called Tinteán

The article was written in 2021.

By Frank O’Shea.

In Ireland today there are about 30 000 people referred to as Travellers. Just over two years ago, the Irish parliament recognised Travellers as a distinct ethnic group within the Irish population. This was a hugely significant decision for Irish people who always regarded ourselves as homogeneous. It was also of course significant for the Travellers, because it went a long way to restoring their self esteem and pride in their heritage. Interestingly, the decision does not create new rights and has no implications for public expenditure.

So who are these people we call Travellers? They used to live mostly in caravans or mobile homes in which they travelled all over the country or into England. They have Irish surnames – Ward, Connors, Carty, O’Brien, Cash, Coffey, Furey, MacDonagh, Mohan. In recent times, some have moved into the settled community; the town of Rathkeale in Co Limerick, population about 2000, has about 45% Travellers.

en.wikipedia.org 

That the Travellers are a distinct ethnic sub-group within Ireland has been recognised as a result of recent research. To summarise that research:

  • The Travellers are not part of the Indo-European Romani groups found in Europe and the Americas.
  • Genetic studies have shown that
    • The Travellers are genetically Irish
    • There are subgroups within them
    • There is a suggestion of strong origins from the midland counties
  • It used to be thought that the Travellers owed their origins to the Irish Famine or to the Huguenots who came to Ireland from persecution in France and were able to buy out small farms, but the new studies suggest that they go back much farther, as much as 1000 years.
  • The most reliable evidence shows that this distinctiveness from the local Irish population goes back between eight and 14 generations. Taking 11 generations as a reasonable median, this has given a possible origin as following the Cromwellian era.
  • Another set of researches has shown that a particular allele (a variation of a gene) is found in 100% of Travellers, but in only 89% of the settled Irish population. This may be due to the long tradition of intermarriage within the community, but could also be interpreted as a sign of a possible ‘Abraham’ of all Travellers.

There is a unique Traveller language, variously known as Cant or Shelta or Gammon. This is quite distinct and has echoes in their spoken English. It contains words from Italian and Latin but its vocabulary is mainly Irish, sometimes in a clever anagram. For instance in Gammon the word for whiskey is scaihaab = scai + haab = anagramatically isca baha = phonetically uisce beatha, the Irish for whiskey. Likewise, the Shelta word for door is sarod, which is the Irish word doras backwards. For the Irish Travellers, Shelta or Gammon is usually regarded as a kind of code used deliberately to maintain privacy from settled people.

As well as their own language, travellers have a kind of semaphore for communication. For example, the rags which they leave attached to bushes when they move from a particular halting-place are significant. Red and white rags indicate that it was a good place; black or dark-coloured cloths tell of sickness or trouble with locals. In their folklore, as in that of many gypsies, the colour red has an important part to play as a protection against the Evil Eye.

In the middle of the last century Bryan MacMahon, the Listowel playwright and novelist, became friendly with the Travellers, learning their language and moving easily among them. He has written extensively about them, both as fact and in fiction. 

One paper which MacMahon wrote for the American Museum of Natural History attracted great attention. He received dozens of requests for transcripts of the article and for further information. Most of these requests were from university research schools, but some were from organisations with military or secret service connections. Intrigued by this, MacMahon enquired why his work should create such interest. He was told that in modelling the behaviour of people in a post-holocaust situation, useful guides were provided by marginal tribes like the Lapps, the Inuit or the Irish Travellers. All have survived harsh social and climatic treatment and have learnt to adapt to the most inhospitable of conditions. 

There can be great poverty among Travellers, especially those who move into the big urban areas. In campsites on the fringe of Dublin, conditions are primitive and unhygienic. Yet most caravans have a television and many have a satellite dish.

I now refer to my understanding of the Travellers from my growing up in Ireland. In the first place, we called them tinkers, a term that was not used pejoratively: this was a time when, if your kettle or cooking pot had a hole in it, you did not throw it out, you had it mended and if you were lucky, the tinkers were in the locality and they did it perfectly. They were tinsmiths and if we called them tinkers, we were not aware of any offence. It is possible also that the word is a version of tinklers, people who do lots of small jobs.

They would come to our part of Kerry for patterns and fairs or simply on a wide tour which covered our area at about the same time each year. Sometimes the children would come to school for a few weeks and we were always told to treat them with respect and kindness. There were occasional all-in fights between families but never with locals. Farmers might get angry about piebald horses grazing in their fields, while their wives became more alert in counting their chickens but in general there was a Christian tolerance for these people, ‘God’s gentry.’ 

Sometimes they would sell holy pictures or little statues and we would buy one or two. They were then and still are, strongly Catholic in their beliefs and practices. They had a strong moral code: teenage sex was a particular concern and it was common for girls to marry at 16-17 and men 18 or 19. They did not marry outside their own people, and marriages between first or second cousins were not unusual. 

When they were in the area, their women might come to our back door and ask my mother for a jug of milk or a cup of sugar, which would be given without hesitation. Sigerson Clifford, the Cahirciveen poet writes fondly of them. Many of the poems in his Ballads of a Bogman are devoted to them and to stories about them, always told with respect and great affection.

The tree-tied house of planter
Is colder than east wind.
The halldoor of the gombeen
Has no welcome for our kind.

The homestead of the grabber
Is hungry as a stone;
But the little homes of Kerry
Will give us half their own.

From The Ballad of the Tinker's Wife.

A Fact

James Naismith, a Canadian, invented basketball in Massachusetts in 1891. It was 21 years before it occurred to anyone to cut a hole in the bottom of the basket

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What’s in a Name?

Listowel Pitch and Putt Course

An Oldie and a Goodie

Carol Broderick shared this newspaper photo of some Listowel greats.

Names

I remember when I encountered names in book which I had never met in reality, I just made up my own pronunciation of them. We dont have to do that now as there are so many aids to help us pronounce unfamiliar names correctly.

You don’t want to hear how I used to mangle Yvonne and Penelope.

Here is the first half of Sean Carlson’s essay on the subject of Irish names in The Boston Globe

“What word has the biggest disconnect between spelling and pronunciation?”

The Merriam-Webster account on X, known for snappier and snarkier posts than are usually associated with dictionary publishers, recently managed to provoke some ire from the Irish by answering its own question with “Asking for our friend, Siobhan.”

Ah, Siobhán, a feminine equivalent of my own name, Seán. In the case of Siobhán (pronounced shiv-AWN), the obvious failure with the attempted zinger is that the name is conspicuously absent from Merriam-Webster’s online dictionary, since it is a proper name in the Irish language, not English.

Evan O’Connell, communications director for the French nonprofit Paris Peace Forum, countered Merriam-Webster with a volley of English surnames: “You had Featherstonehaugh, Cholmondeley and Gloucestershire right there.”

Caoilfhionn Gallagher, a lawyer with the Irish Human Rights and Equality Commission, posted, “Once more for the people at the back: Irish names *are* pronounced the way that they are spelled. In *Irish.*”

Siobhán O’Grady, the chief Ukraine correspondent for The Washington Post, agreed, pointing out that the accent mark known as a “fada” is used to elongate the “a,” in Siobhán (and in Seán, for that matter).

To be fair, most Americans are unfamiliar with the nuances of the Irish language. “Cillian Murphy pronunciation” is a top search request, and “Cillian Murphy speaking Irish” isn’t too far behind. In 2016, Stephen Colbert welcomed Saorise Ronan to the “Late Show” and held up flash cards of Irish first names — Tadhg, Niamh, Oisin, and Caoimhe — for her to read aloud. When they came to Siobhán, Colbert laughinglycalled it “ridiculous.”….

Greenway Milestones

These signs have appeared to help those going or coming on The Greenway.

Proof Reading

Reggie helping Bobby to check if I got his good side.

A Definition

from The Devil’s Dictionary by Ambrose Bierce

Appeal; In law, to put the dice back into the box for another throw.

A Fact

The world’s oldest creature, a mollusc, was 507 years old when scientists killed it by accident.

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