Dawn on Portmarnock strand…Photo Éamon ÓMurchú
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Listowel Juvenile Tennis club
Participants in the club championship 1987
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Listowel Drama Group 1976
Many of the participants are no longer with us. May they all rest in peace
Owen MacMahon shared the photos and programme with us and Dave O’Sullivan looks up the newspaper accounts of the play.
Early morning in Portmarnock Photo; Éamon ÓMurchú
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Listowel Writers’ Week 2009
One of the highlights of Writers’ Week was always the recording of RTE 1’s Sunday Miscellany. This one in St. John’s in 2009 had a star studded cast led by Hollywood icon Gabriel Byrne, who had just published his first book, Pictures in my Head. He published his second one at the end of last year, Walking with Ghosts. He writes well.
Seamus Begley and Gabriel Byrne at LWW 2009
The same Seamus Begley and his brother Breanndán from Baile na bPoc were guests on the Tommy Tiernan Show last Saturday. They gave us an insight into a way of life that is dying out.
Begley Brothers on Tommy Tiernan
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Seems a long time ago now
Happy group of knitters and natterers in Scribes in Church Street, Listowel in summer 2019.
Left to right; Mary Boyer, Mairead Sharry, Mary Cogan, Maureen Connolly, Kathleen MacCarthy, Patricia Borley and Una Hayes.
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What’s in a Name?
I got this book among my Christmas presents and I’m really enjoying it. It is full of little nuggets of information about Irish place names.
Did you know that places with
Kill in their name once had a church?
Knock means they are on a hill
Derry means they had an stand of oak trees one time
Glen is from the Irish gleann meaning valley
Clon is from the Irish Cluain meaning meadow
Ben means the town was built on a peak
Lough means it was near a lake
Clock from cloch meaning a stone often refers to local ogham stones.
Early morning in Portmarnock captured by Éamon ÓMurchú
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Weir in Ballincollig Regional Park
Christmas season 2020 brought us very mixed weather. When I was visiting my Cork family Storm Bella was raging and flooded roads were the biggest hazard. Then when I came home snow and ice were the problem. I live in dread fear of falling (once bitten etc.) so I didn’t even venture outdoors for exercise.
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The Way We Were
Noreen and John O’Connell here share with us an account of a way of life we will see no more. It is important to document this piece of social history in the words of a man who lived it, remembers it well and is generous in his sharing of it.
Mary, my good friend has prompted and encouraged me to send her some of John’s reminiscings.
My beloved husband John O’ Connell has a fantastic memory so I have been documenting some of his memories for our 8 children and 13 grandchildren. John from Coolaclarig, Listowel grew up in Curraghatoosane ( affectionately known as Bothairín Dubh). Therefore again he is the narrator, I, Noreen am the willing scribe!
“ I grew up on a farm, a mile outside the town. Cows were hand milked, I would have to milk 3 or 4 every morning before I went to primary school. We supplied milk to customers in town and others called to the house for it. So every morning and evening, I got on my bike, handlebars laden with 3 pint stainless steel measures and a 4-5 pint little tank and hit the road, delivering to families in Convent Street, O Connell’s Avenue, St. Brendans Terrace, Upper William St , the Square and down to Daltons in the Bridge Road. One frosty morning I skidded from the old Post office to John B.’s ( who was a customer) but thankfully never spilled a tint of milk. However I wasn’t as lucky another morning when I took my frozen hands off the handlebars and torpedoed at Leahy’s Corner. With empty gallons and grazed knees and hands, I nervously returned home to get very little sympathy but a re-fuel of milk and was sent away with a clip on the ear and a warning not to spill any more milk.
Then there was the market gardening side of life. All our neighbours were gardening also as the land was suitable and we lived near the town. We had acres of spuds, cabbage, carrots and turnips. Every spring there was ploughing and setting. We “comhared ”with Jack O’ Connor next door, my father and Jack shared the horse plough and his horse and ours were tackled to it. It was a 2 wheel plough and turned a single scribe. The horses were tackled with the collar and hames. The traces from the hames were attached to a back pad and then on to 2 small quins which were then attached to a big quin . For attaching a horse to a cart a britchen was used and a back band and a belly band. A reins was tied to each side of the mouth bit to guide the horses. The ploughing was slow and could take 2-3 days to complete.
After a week when the upturned ground was dry it was harrowed to break the scraws and soil. Next the drills were opened with a double- boarded plough and farmyard dung spread. Seemingly it was the job of the nana if one lived with you to cut the sciolláin. As we had no grandmother in our home, an elderly neighbour obliged. I remember her sitting by the open hearth, with a scarf and shawl around her shoulders , a bucket wedged on her lap and she was cutting away. There was an art to this as you had to ensure you had a súilín on each piece of the spud. When the sciolláns were finished, the setting began. We children were kept at home from school for this. We donned a hessian bib, roughly fashioned from a sack, which contained the sciolláin (seed potatoes) and dropped them 10 inches apart into the furrow, and pressed them into the dung (manure) with our bare feet. Furrows were for a big garden but ridges were for small areas. The sciolláin were set like a tri-pod in ridges.
We went totally barefoot from May to October. Our feet were black after this and even after steeping them in a pan of water the colour and maybe and the smell stayed put. As time passed the spuds were blinded and risen to with more earth. They were sprayed with a mix of water and bluestone to prevent blight. Before Listowel Races the digging began,with spades and then the pitting in the garden.
Throughout the winter we had to open the pits a few times and turn the spuds to prevent shooting. We’d dump the bad ones and then cover with fresh straw and close up again. T’is then you would see the mice flying. I remember a man my father had helping him, and a mouse ran up the leg of his trousers “unknownst”to him, stayed there in the comfort and heat until your man was taking off his trousers to go to bed that night, when he made his escape.
When spring came these spuds were bagged in 20 stone bags and transported down to the market, weighed and sold. The Aran Banners were bought for chips at 4d a stone. This income from the spuds was needed as we had no milk for sale until the calving . We kept enough spuds for ourselves, some for next years seed and the small ones were fed to the pigs and pulped for the cows. There was no waste.
As well as spuds we grew turnip and carrots and mangolds and, of course, cabbage. I remember going around the town with the ass and car selling cabbage on Saturday mornings. I got 6d a head. One woman had no change , but a pound and I hadn’t enough change for her. So I knocked on another door and asked the woman of the house if she had the change of a pound. She looked at me and said” Yerra garsún a chroí if I had a pound note like you have, I’d stay up all night minding it”
There was some oats set too. If it was a year when we only had a small amount it was cut by scythe, bound and stooked until the threshing, but other times it was cut by a man who was hired with a the reaper and binder. Threshing days were another great event in the year with a meitheal of locals. That night there was bit of a hooley with a half tierce and music and dance.
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Donie O’Sullivan of Cahirciveen and Washington
I’ve often thought that having an unusual name so that everyone recognised you by your Christian name only, would be cool. I am saddled with a name so common in my youth that one elderly nun in our school called every girl Mary and she was right at least half of the time.
Most of his friends and work colleagues in the US knew no one called Donie until they met this Kerryman. He has to explain that he is not Don ee but Dough Knee.
Now, here, where we know well how to say his name, he is the only Donie on everyone’s lips, for he has come to fame as one of the CNN journalists at The Capitol on its most historic day in recent times. I must confess that I had never heard of him until then ( even though he once worked for that groundbreaking organisation, Storyful, mentioned here before in connection with Malachy Browne and Rhona Tarrant) but I sure know him now and his lovely parents. His US friends may need subtitles for his down -to- earth Kerry father. It was a tonic to see mórtas cine shining from this man, a world away from Donald Trump who also takes pride in his sons. Both Donald and Donie’s escapades on January 6 2021 will now be part of history.
I had to share Brendan O’Connor’s piece in Sunday’s Independent, Jan 19 2021. It raised a smile in a tough old week.
A New Dawn
A new day dawns in Portmarnock and Éamon ÓMurchú was there to capture it.
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A Season for PJS and Slippers
Christmas 2020 was a festive season like no other I remember. We were given a brief respite from lockdown and I was lucky to see my family. Those few short family days confirmed my determination to stay safe so that I can enjoy these precious times again.
Chinese Chequers with the girlies.
Scrabble is another favourite. To our shame, the only non native English speaker at the board was the winner.
If you like boardgames and you are looking for some new ones to play in lockdown, I’d recommend Rummicub. It’s suitable for all age groups. We love Dixit too. This is definitely one for lovers of cryptic clues.
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Looking Back and Remembering 1991
Mary Robinson, President of Ireland came to town to open Listowel Writers Week ’91. On the morning after the official opening she met with representatives of local charitable organisations. I was there with the local branch of MS Ireland.
Left to Right: James Kenny, Bridie O’Rourke, Helen Moylan, Tom Kelly (Tom, very sadly, passed away on Christmas Day 2020. May he rest in peace.), Mary Robinson, Nuala Finnegan, Ursula O’Conor, Anne O’Connor, Mary Doyle R.I.P. and Mary Cogan
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Listowel Tennis Club Winners of Boys Tournament 1987
Back: John Finnegan, Brian O’Shea, Tom Doyle, John MacAuliffe and Seamus Cronin
Front; Dessie O’Sullivan, Bobby Cogan, Mikey Whelan and Seán Quinlivan
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A Precious Christmas Card
Listowel Town Square; Christmas 2020
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That’s all from me, folks for 2020. Happy Christmas to you all and I look forward to keeping on keeping on in 2021. I pray that this time next year we will all be in a better place.
1909 Christmas card from the National Museum collection
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Cuireadh do Mhuire
Le coinnle na n-aingeal
Tá an spéir amuigh breactha.
Tá fiacal an tseacha sa ghaoth on gcnoc
Adaigh an tine is teigh chun na leapan
Lúifidh mac Dé insan tigh seo anocht
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MY CHRISTMAS WISH
Oh Lord, when we give this Christmas time,
Do teach us how to share
The gifts that you have given us
With those who need our care,
For the gift of Time is sacred~
The greatest gift of all,
And to share our time with others
Is the answer to your call,
For the Sick, the Old and Lonely
Need a word, a kindly cheer
For every precious minute
Of each day throughout the Year,
So, in this Special Season
Do share Your Time and Love
And you’re Happy, Holy Christmas
Will be Blessed by Him above
Junior Griffin
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A Kerry Christmas Childhood
Garry MacMahon
Now I cannot help remembering the happy days gone by,
As Christmastime approaches and the festive season’s nigh.
I wallow in nostalgia when I think of long ago,
And the tide that waits for no man as the years they ebb and flow.
We townies scoured the countryside for holly berries red,
And stripped from tombs green ivy in the graveyard of the dead,
To decorate each picture frame a -hanging on the wall,
And fill the house with greenery and brighten winter’s pall,
Putting up the decorations was for us a pleasant chore,
And the crib down from the attic took centre stage once more.
From the box atop the dresser the figures were retrieved,
To be placed upon a bed of straw that blessed Christmas Eve,
For the candles, red crepe paper, round the jamjars filled with sand,
To be placed in every window and provide a light so grand,
To guide the Holy Family who had no room at the inn,
And provide for them a beacon of the fáilte mór within.
The candles were ignited upon the stroke of seven,
The youngest got the privilege to light our way to Heaven,
And the rosary was said as we all got on our knees,
Remembering those who’d gone before and the foreign missionaries.
Ah, we’d all be scrubbed like new pins in the bath before the fire
And, dressed in our pajamas, of tall tales we’d never tire,
Of Cuchulainn, Ferdia, The Fianna, Red Branch Knights,
Banshees and Jack o’ Lanterns, Sam Magee and Northern Lights
And we’d sing the songs of Ireland, of Knockanure and Black and Tans,
And the boys of Barr na Sráide who hunted for the wran.
Mama and Dad they warned us as they gave each good night kiss,
If we didn’t go to sleep at once then Santa we would miss,
And the magic Christmas morning so beloved of girls and boys,
When we woke to find our dreams fulfilled and all our asked for toys,
But Mam was up before us the turkey to prepare,
To peel the spuds and boil the ham to provide the festive fare.
She’d accept with pride the compliments from my father and the rest.
“Of all the birds I’ve cooked,” she’s say, “ I think that this year’s was the best.”
The trifle and plum pudding, oh, the memories never fade
And then we’d wash the whole lot down with Nash’s lemonade.
St. Stephen’s Day brought wrenboys with their loud knock on the door,
To bodhrán beat and music sweet they danced around the floor’
We, terror stricken children, fled in fear before the batch,
And we screamed at our pursuers as they rattled at the latch.
Like a bicycle whose brakes have failed goes headlong down the hill
Too fast the years have disappeared. Come back they never will.
Our clan is scattered round the world. From home we had to part.
Still we treasure precious memories forever in our heart.
So God be with our parents dear. We remember them with pride,
And the golden days of childhood and the happy Christmastide.
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