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
This poem, first published in 1861, tells the story of an Irish rebel from County Wexford who leaves his lover behind to help fight against British colonial rule.
The “barley” in the title forms the symbolic center of the poem; it was carried by rebels as a source of food, and eventually comes to remind the speaker of his forsaken love.
The title was borrowed by Ken Loach for his 2006 film, starring Cillian Murphy.
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Wild Flowers
Listowel this summer is ablaze with wild flowers. Listowel is looking after the pollinators. Molly, my doggie visitor, loves to explore the flowery verges on our morning walk.
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A Definition
from The Devil’s Dictionary
by Ambrose Bierce
consult, v to seek another’s approval of a course already decided on.
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A Fact
Hitler’s home phone number was listed in Who’s Who until 1945. It was Berlin 11 6191.
A lovely new mural is taking shape in Upper William Street
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Remembering Big Days in Old Listowel
The Big Fair of Listowel
Tom Mulvihill
Now Marco Polo went to China
But I swear upon my soul
He should have come the other way
To The Big Fair in Listowel.
There he’d see what he didn’t see
At the court of Kubla Khan,
The greatest convocation ever
Since God created man.
There were bullocks in from Mortra
And cows from Carrig Island
Sheep and gosts from Graffa
And pigs from Tullahinel.
There were men with hats and caps
Of every shape and size on,
And women in brown shawls and black,
A sight to feast your eyes on.
The finest fare was to be had
In all the eating places.
A sea of soup and big meat pies,
Some left over from the Races.
Floury spuds and hairy bacon
Asleep on beds of cabbage,
To satisfy a gentleman
A cannibal or savage.
And here and there among the throng
‘tis easy spot the jobbers
Jack O’Dea from County Clare
And Owen McGrath from Nobber.
There was Ryan from Tipperary
And McGinley from Tyrone.
Since ‘twas only Kerry cattle
Could walk that distance home.
And trotting up and down the street
Were frisky mares and stallions,
While here and there in little groups
Drinking porter by the gallons
Were all the travelling people,
The Carthys and the Connors,
The Maughans and the Coffeys-
Gentle folk with gentle manners.
And there you’d see old fashioned men
With moustaches like yard brushes
And more of them with beards that big
You’d take them for sloe bushes.
Up there outside the market gate
A matron old and wrinkled
Was selling salty seagrass
And little bags of winkles.
Inside the gate were country men,
Selling spuds and mangolds
While swarthy men from Egypt
Sold necklaces and bangles
And there you’ll find the laying ducks
Or broody hens for hatching,
Creels of turf and wheaten straw,
With scallops for the thatching.
Dealers down from Dublin
Did there set up their stands,
Selling boots and pinstripe suits
Both new and second hand.
Cups and saucers you could buy
Both singly or in lots,
And for your convenience late at night,
White enamel chamber pots.
If you had an ear for music
You could buy a finch or linnet,
And to bring your winter turf home
A Spanish ass or jennet.
And across at Walshe’s Corner
Stood a ballad singing fellow
Selling sheets- a penny each
Red and white and blue and yellow.
He was an old sean nós man
If you ne’er had music in you
He’s stop you in your stride, man
And you’d not begrudge the penny.
For he’d bring you back to Vinegar Hill
And to Kelly from Killane
Or you’d stand again in Thomas Street
And you’d see the darling man.
But woe alas for the singing man
The Dublin dealer and the drover,
The days of catch whatever you can
Are dead and gone and over.
Now we have fleadhs and Writers’ Weeks
And a plethora of rigmarole
But who remembers as I remember
The big fair in Listowel. Big Fair of Listowel
Tom Mulvihill
Now Marco Polo went to China
But I swear upon my soul
He should have come the other way
To The Big Fair in Listowel.
There he’d see what he didn’t see
At the court of Kubla Khan,
The greatest convocation ever
Since God created man.
There were bullocks in from Mortra
And cows from Carrig Island
Sheep and gosts from Graffa
And pigs from Tullahinel.
There were men with hats and caps
Of every shape and size on,
And women in brown shawls and black,
A sight to feast your eyes on.
The finest fare was to be had
In all the eating places.
A sea of soup and big meat pies,
Some left over from the Races.
Floury spuds and hairy bacon
Asleep on beds of cabbage,
To satisfy a gentleman
A cannibal or savage.
And here and there among the throng
‘tis easy spot the jobbers
Jack O’Dea from County Clare
And Owen McGrath from Nobber.
There was Ryan from Tipperary
And McGinley from Tyrone.
Since ‘twas only Kerry cattle
Could walk that distance home.
And trotting up and down the street
Were frisky mares and stallions,
While here and there in little groups
Drinking porter by the gallons
Were all the travelling people,
The Carthys and the Connors,
The Maughans and the Coffeys-
Gentle folk with gentle manners.
And there you’d see old fashioned men
With moustaches like yard brushes
And more of them with beards that big
You’d take them for sloe bushes.
Up there outside the market gate
A matron old and wrinkled
Was selling salty seagrass
And little bags of winkles.
Inside the gate were country men,
Selling spuds and mangolds
While swarthy men from Egypt
Sold necklaces and bangles
And there you’ll find the laying ducks
Or broody hens for hatching,
Creels of turf and wheaten straw,
With scallops for the thatching.
Dealers down from Dublin
Did there set up their stands,
Selling boots and pinstripe suits
Both new and second hand.
Cups and saucers you could buy
Both singly or in lots,
And for your convenience late at night,
White enamel chamber pots.
If you had an ear for music
You could buy a finch or linnet,
And to bring your winter turf home
A Spanish ass or jennet.
And across at Walshe’s Corner
Stood a ballad singing fellow
Selling sheets- a penny each
Red and white and blue and yellow.
He was an old sean nós man
If you ne’er had music in you
He’s stop you in your stride, man
And you’d not begrudge the penny.
For he’d bring you back to Vinegar Hill
And to Kelly from Killane
Or you’d stand again in Thomas Street
And you’d see the darling man.
But woe alas for the singing man
The Dublin dealer and the drover,
The days of catch whatever you can
Are dead and gone and over.
Now we have fleadhs and Writers’ Weeks
And a plethora of rigmarole
But who remembers as I remember
The big fair in Listowel.
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What a picture! What a man!
This moving image from that brilliant photographer, Valerie O’Sullivan, caught my eye in the newspaper.
I went on to read a bit about the man whose funeral it was. Traolach Sweeney was an extraordinary man. As well as his distinguished Irish military career, he served with the elite tactical unit of the Gendarmerie of France, serving as a French interpreter. He also served in the UN forces in The Lebanon. He was Honorary Secretary of The Kerry Way committee. Traolach was a scuba diver, a mountaineer and a violin player. He was a founder of SCC Broadband connecting the Iveragh Peninsula to broadband. R.I.P. Traolach.
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A Definition
from The Devil’s Dictionary
by Ambrose Bierce
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A Fact
Once upon a time, one in every fifty Americans executed for murder had the middle name Wayne.
The big fair day in Listowel, the October fair, was the topic of conversation among the farmers for weeks afterwards. Exaggerations and downright lies were swapped outside the church gates and continued at the holy water font, to the fury of the priest. It finished over a couple of pints in the pub. None of them could be cajoled into giving the actual price, always sidestepping with, “I got what I asked for,” or, “I got a good price.” There were tales of outsmarting the cattle jobbers – an impossible task.
The farmers on our road set out on foot for the seven mile journey at 4 a.m. It was their last chance to sell their calves until the spring. Now nine months old, these calves were wild and unused to the road. Traffic confused them, so their only aim was to get into every field they passed to graze or rest. Each farmer took a helper. Those who had decided to wait until the spring fair would go along later to size up the form.
The battle would commence at the Feale Bridge where the farmers were accosted by the jobbers- men trying to buy at the lowest price. These offers were treated with contempt and a verbal slagging would follow. “You’ll be glad to give them away before evening,” or, more insulting, “Shoudn’t you have taken them to Roscrea?”
(Roscrea was a meat and bone meal processing plant where old cows that could not be sold for meat were sent for slaughter.)
The shopkeepers and publicans in Listowel were well prepared for the influx; trays of ham sandwiches sitting on the counter of each pub where most of the men finished up. The jobbers, being suitably attired, would have their dinner at the hotel and the farmers who wanted to avoid the pubs would go to Sandy’s for tea and ham. The shopkeepers kept a smile on their faces when calves marched through their doors upsetting merchandise and, sometime, leaving their calling card. The bank manager was equally excited, greeting each man as “Sir”. He found this was the safest approach as it was hard to distinguish them. They all looked alike in their wellingtons, coats tied with binder twine and the caps pulled well down on the foreheads.
My father arrived home late. It was obvious he was in a bad mood though he didn’t arrive home with the calves. He said he was cold and hungry and sat in silence at the table, while my mother served up bis dinner which had been kept warm for hours over a pint of hot water. As he was half way through eating his bacon and turnip, he looked at my mother saying, “I’ve never met such a stupid man in all my life.” The quizzical look on her face showed she didn’t have a clue wht he was talking about and didn’t dare ask. It took the mug of tea and the pipe of tobacco to get him started again.
My uncle Dan, my mother’s brother was his helper. Dan was a mild softly spoken man who had little knowledge of cattle. It was a a sluggish fair; prices only fair. My father held out until he was approached by a man he had dealt with often in the past. They followed the usual ritual arguments- offers, refusals, the jobber walking away, returning with his last offer. This was on a par with what my father was expecting so he winked at Dan, which was his cue to say, “Split the difference.” Instead Dan winked back. My father gave him a more pronounced wink. This elicited the same response from Dan. The day was only saved by a neighbor, who, on noticing the problem, jumped in, spat on his palms and shouted, “Shake on it, lads, and give the man a luck penny.”
Over a very silent pint and sandwich Dan mournfully remarked, “If Mike hadn’t butted in, you’d have got a better price for the calves.”
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Lyre, Banteer
This lovely little church, when I called last week, looked very much as it did when my maternal grandparents were married there over a century ago. In a testament to the poverty of the area it has no stained glass, no mosaic tiling and very little marble.
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A Poem for out Times
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A Definition
From The Devil’s Dictionary
by Ambrose Bierce
connoisseur n. a specialist who knows everything about something and nothing about anything else.
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A Fact
In 2010 Finland was the first country in the world to make internet access a legal right.
Niamh (Kenny) Lordan and her husband, Ted, were each finalists in the best dressed competitions at Killarney Races.
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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.
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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.
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A Definition
from The Devil’s Dictionary
by Ambrose Bierce
congratulation, n. the civility of envy
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A Fact
There are more left handed people with IQs over 140 than right handed people.
The lovely 5 year old Kerrie Browne and her dog, Milo, pose for the camera beside Paud Pelican’s skilfully constructed turf stuaics.
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Ballincollig, Supporting Cork, Win, Lose or Draw
The bunting is still up. The pain of what might have been still being felt.
The real winner on Sunday July 21 2024 was hurling. The game was broadcast by the BBC and the reactions of this new audience say so much about hurling as the best game in the world.
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The Big Fair
We have had a very interesting email from Kay Caball.
Mary, your readers might be interested in this significant piece of Listowel history recovered by the Virtual Treasury.https://virtualtreasury.ie/ It is the Licence granted on 13th August 1688 by William [20th] Lord Baron of Kerry & Lixnaw to hold a Wednesday Market, & two Fairs on the Feast of St. Swithin (15 July) & St Luke (18 of October) on the day before each, at the Town of Listowhill.
I am sure many of your older readers will remember the ‘Big Fairs’ that took over the town each May and October.
I don’t have to tell you of the great work being done by the research partnership of the Virtual Treasury recovering and reconstructing, through digital technology many of the records destroyed in the disastrous fire of our national archives in 1922
Kay
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A Definition
From The Devil’s Dictionary
by Ambrose Bierce
circus, n. a place where horses, ponies and elephants are permitted to see men, women and children acting the fool.
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A Fact
In 1981 in Florence, Sebastian Coe set a world record for the 800m. that stood unbeaten for 16 years.
