Listowel Connection

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

A Panto, A Rally, A Popular Recitation and a Farewell

By

On January 12, 2024

In Listowel

Killarney on January 6 2024

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Listowel Pantomimę 1974

David O’Sullivan found the date and a Kerryman account of Hansel and Gretel.

Kerryman, January 11 1974

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Some more Convent Pictures

Some photos of the congregation at the the last mass in the convent chapel in August 2007.

Photos were taken by the late John Pierse.

May those no longer with us rest in peace.

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Another great Robert Service Poem ideal for Recitation

The following poem was memorised and recited by many young men over the years.

The Shooting of Dan McGrew

BY ROBERT W. SERVICE

A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Malamute saloon;

The kid that handles the music-box was hitting a jag-time tune;

Back of the bar, in a solo game, sat Dangerous Dan McGrew,

And watching his luck was his light-o’-love, the lady that’s known as Lou.

When out of the night, which was fifty below, and into the din and the glare,

There stumbled a miner fresh from the creeks, dog-dirty, and loaded for bear.

He looked like a man with a foot in the grave and scarcely the strength of a louse,

Yet he tilted a poke of dust on the bar, and he called for drinks for the house.

There was none could place the stranger’s face, though we searched ourselves for a clue;

But we drank his health, and the last to drink was Dangerous Dan McGrew.

There’s men that somehow just grip your eyes, and hold them hard like a spell;

And such was he, and he looked to me like a man who had lived in hell;

With a face most hair, and the dreary stare of a dog whose day is done,

As he watered the green stuff in his glass, and the drops fell one by one.

Then I got to figgering who he was, and wondering what he’d do,

And I turned my head — and there watching him was the lady that’s known as Lou.

His eyes went rubbering round the room, and he seemed in a kind of daze,

Till at last that old piano fell in the way of his wandering gaze.

The rag-time kid was having a drink; there was no one else on the stool,

So the stranger stumbles across the room, and flops down there like a fool.

In a buckskin shirt that was glazed with dirt he sat, and I saw him sway;

Then he clutched the keys with his talon hands — my God! but that man could play.

Were you ever out in the Great Alone, when the moon was awful clear,

And the icy mountains hemmed you in with a silence you most could hear;

With only the howl of a timber wolf, and you camped there in the cold,

A half-dead thing in a stark, dead world, clean mad for the muck called gold;

While high overhead, green, yellow and red, the North Lights swept in bars? —

Then you’ve a hunch what the music meant. . . hunger and night and the stars.

And hunger not of the belly kind, that’s banished with bacon and beans,

But the gnawing hunger of lonely men for a home and all that it means;

For a fireside far from the cares that are, four walls and a roof above;

But oh! so cramful of cosy joy, and crowned with a woman’s love —

A woman dearer than all the world, and true as Heaven is true —

(God! how ghastly she looks through her rouge, — the lady that’s known as Lou.)

Then on a sudden the music changed, so soft that you scarce could hear;

But you felt that your life had been looted clean of all that it once held dear;

That someone had stolen the woman you loved; that her love was a devil’s lie;

That your guts were gone, and the best for you was to crawl away and die.

‘Twas the crowning cry of a heart’s despair, and it thrilled you through and through —

“I guess I’ll make it a spread misere”, said Dangerous Dan McGrew.

The music almost died away … then it burst like a pent-up flood;

And it seemed to say, “Repay, repay,” and my eyes were blind with blood.

The thought came back of an ancient wrong, and it stung like a frozen lash,

And the lust awoke to kill, to kill … then the music stopped with a crash,

And the stranger turned, and his eyes they burned in a most peculiar way;

In a buckskin shirt that was glazed with dirt he sat, and I saw him sway;

Then his lips went in in a kind of grin, and he spoke, and his voice was calm,

And “Boys,” says he, “you don’t know me, and none of you care a damn;

But I want to state, and my words are straight, and I’ll bet my poke they’re true,

That one of you is a hound of hell. . .and that one is Dan McGrew.”

Then I ducked my head, and the lights went out, and two guns blazed in the dark,

And a woman screamed, and the lights went up, and two men lay stiff and stark.

Pitched on his head, and pumped full of lead, was Dangerous Dan McGrew,

While the man from the creeks lay clutched to the breast of the lady that’s known as Lou.

These are the simple facts of the case, and I guess I ought to know.

They say that the stranger was crazed with “hooch,” and I’m not denying it’s so.

I’m not so wise as the lawyer guys, but strictly between us two —

The woman that kissed him and — pinched his poke — was the lady that’s known as Lou.

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World Class Motor Racing coming to our Doorstep

This photo was released by Motorsport Ireland as Tralee was announced as one of the three Irish hubs selected to host FIA World Rally Championship for 2025 to 2027.

It’s a huge boost for the region and we should all benefit.

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We’re All Off to Dublin in the ……Black and Amber

Scoil Realta na Maidine shared this photo of their boys sporting their Emmetts colours ahead of the all Ireland club final in Croke Park on Sunday.

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A Fact

75% of artificial vanilla produced in the world is used for ice cream and as a flavouring for chocolate.

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An Old Recitation Poem

By

On January 11, 2024

In History, Listowel, Poem

Killarney from the Flesk Cycleway, January 6 2024

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First Horsefair of 2024

Photo and caption: Moss Joe Brown

Enjoying a nice morning at the Listowel January horse 🐎 fair were Liam Flaherty, Jonathan Russell,Ted McCarthy, Sean O’Leary and Tom Egan.

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Memories, Memories

Many is the grown man who could recite this classic. What a party piece!

The Cremation of Sam McGee

BY ROBERT W. SERVICE

There are strange things done in the midnight sun

      By the men who moil for gold;

The Arctic trails have their secret tales

      That would make your blood run cold;

The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,

      But the queerest they ever did see

Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge

      I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.

Why he left his home in the South to roam ’round the Pole, God only knows.

He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;

Though he’d often say in his homely way that “he’d sooner live in hell.”

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.

Talk of your cold! through the parka’s fold it stabbed like a driven nail.

If our eyes we’d close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn’t see;

It wasn’t much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,

And the dogs were fed, and the stars o’erhead were dancing heel and toe,

He turned to me, and “Cap,” says he, “I’ll cash in this trip, I guess;

And if I do, I’m asking that you won’t refuse my last request.”

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn’t say no; then he says with a sort of moan:

“It’s the cursèd cold, and it’s got right hold till I’m chilled clean through to the bone.

Yet ’tain’t being dead—it’s my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;

So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you’ll cremate my last remains.”

A pal’s last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;

And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.

He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;

And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn’t a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,

With a corpse half hid that I couldn’t get rid, because of a promise given;

It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: “You may tax your brawn and brains,

But you promised true, and it’s up to you to cremate those last remains.”

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.

In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.

In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,

Howled out their woes to the homeless snows— O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;

And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;

The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;

And I’d often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;

It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the “Alice May.”

And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;

Then “Here,” said I, with a sudden cry, “is my cre-ma-tor-eum.”

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;

Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;

The flames just soared, and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;

And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn’t like to hear him sizzle so;

And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.

It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don’t know why;

And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;

But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;

I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: “I’ll just take a peep inside.

I guess he’s cooked, and it’s time I looked”; … then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;

And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: “Please close that door.

It’s fine in here, but I greatly fear you’ll let in the cold and storm—

Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it’s the first time I’ve been warm.”

There are strange things done in the midnight sun

      By the men who moil for gold;

The Arctic trails have their secret tales

      That would make your blood run cold;

The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,

      But the queerest they ever did see

Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge

      I cremated Sam McGee.

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A Sad Goodbye

Photo; John Pierse R.I.P.

The parish choir with Sr. Consolata pictured outside the convent on the occasion of the last mass in the convent chapel in 2007.

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A Fact

The tallest known snowman was taller than a 12 story building.

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Memories of Christmas Past

By

On January 10, 2024

In History, Listowel, Personal, Poem

Pit stop on Flesk Greenway, Killarney on January 6 2024

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Inchydoney at Christmas

A kind of temporary madness infected my grandchildren at Christmas. People who wear wetsuits on mild summer days went into the freezing sea in swimming togs in December.

Their Dutch visitor, Lotta, joined in the madness.

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A Moving Christmas Farewell

Sean Carlson shared with us his poem in memory of a famous Boston Irishman.

Here is the poem and the introduction from the online literary magazine Trasna

A Celtic Sojourn

For over twenty years famed Boston radio host Brian O’Donovan spread holiday cheer with his annual production of “A Christmas Celtic Sojourn.” From an oversized, red chair, O’Donovan presented to American audiences the Christmas traditions of Ireland through a mix of music, dance, poetry, and storytelling.

Born and raised in Clonakilty, Cork, O’Donovan emigrated to Boston in 1980. Six years later, he joined GBH radio and began producing a weekly radio show featuring traditional Irish music – A Celtic Sojourn. The three-hour show became a Saturday afternoon staple to GBH listeners across New England; and it made O’Donovan a beloved public figure. In 2017, then-Mayor Marty Walsh declared 14 December Brian O’Donovan Day, “in recognition of his contributions to immigrant communities in Greater Boston.” 

O’Donovan died on 6 October after a long battle with brain cancer. This year, as we mourn the voices lost, let us fondly remember a man who brought so much of Irish music and culture to those in his adoptive home of Boston. He was indeed ‘a man you don’t meet every day.’

To our readers and writers, we wish you happy holidays and all the best in the new year. We leave you with this fine poem by Seán Carlson.The Sojourn

in memoriam: Brian O’Donovan, 1957-2023

The seat on stage sits empty

before the reels and ringing

bells, alert to remembrance

brief light of emigrant song

Snow swirls in wind sweeps

salt spread on sidewalk ice

a knit vest, unwound scarf

drape of red curtain lifting

His book opens to Bethlehem

the nativity laid, refuge within

bursting breaths of concertina

tension found in fiddle string

My father played the melodeon

My mother milked the cows—

Touches of Kavanagh haunt

the theatre halls of memory

on the wireless in Boston

West Cork, the world

Window candles flicker there

stables set with summer’s cut

wrenboy clamors at the door

ghosts now around a table

That voice echoes, beside me

my mother, my father

and the drift of one

into another, then

We listen to the eulogy on radio

grace the night already fallen

with a child’s Christmas still

on the tip of our tongues:

I said some words

to the close and holy darkness,

and then I slept.

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The Night of the Big Wind

(Post on Facebook by The Painter Flynn)

It’s that time of year when people look back. Here is another account of the fateful night in 1839 which lived long in the memory of people who lived through it.

Today in 1839  the Night of the Big Wind, “Oíche na Gaoithe Móire”, the most damaging storm in 300 years, sweeps across Ireland, damaging or destroying more than 20% of the houses in Dublin, 4,846 chimneys fell, and waves topped the Cliffs of Moher,  The wind blew all the water
out of the canal at Tuam.
It knocked a pinnacle off Carlow Cathedral and a tower off Carlow Castle.
It stripped the earth alongside the River Boyne, exposing the bones of soldiers killed in the famous battle 150 years earlier.

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Kanturk, My Hometown

Kanturk is in the diocese of Cloyne. Unlike the practice in the Kerry diocese where all the priests of a parish live together, in Cloyne each priest has his own house. The Canon, or parish priest lived in a lovely old house across the road from the church in Kanturk. He had an orchard beside his house and a wood just up the road. The name, The Canon’s Wood has stuck. Nowadays it’s a small amenity with artwork and plants. It has a place to shelter in a downpour as well.

These two “boars” are the work of a local artist. Legend has it that the last wild boar in Ireland was killed outside Kanturk and that is how the town got its name. In Irish Kanturk is Ceann Tuirc.

That box high on a pole is a starling nest box.

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A Fact

Girls have more taste buds than boys do.

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January Blues

By

On January 9, 2024

In History, Listowel

Detail from mural on Flesk Cycleway, Killarney, January 6 2024

This magnificent mural celebrates the flora and fauna of the surrounding countryside. It is the work of artist Curtis Hilton assisted by Magda Karol.

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Panto Time

Once upon a time pantomimes were a feature of January in Listowel. I dont have a year for this one but the names of the cast give a bit of a clue.

May all of those local people who brightened lives with this, and who are since gone too their eternal reward, rest in peace

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Kanturk Postboxes

Christmas is a time for connecting with the family. Here I am in Kanturk with some of my brother’s gang and some of mine.

My sister in law took me for a bit of a spin to check out a few postboxes.

Thank you to Susan Hickey for alerting me to this one at the entrance to St. Patrick’s place. It dates from the era of George V. His rule ran from 1910 to 1936.

This one at Glenlohane has the royal cypher sheared off. This type of vandalism was rife during The Troubles. This box is no longer in use.

This one in Castlemagner is actually in use, although in need of a little TLC.

It is the An Post replacement for this Edward VII one in the wall nearby.

Edward the 7th was king from 1901 to 1910.

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The Convent

While doing a bit of a clearcut I came upon an envelope of photographs which the late John Pierse gave me years ago. I am not sure if he took all the photos himself of if some are the work of his friend, the late Timmy Griffin.

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Old Friends

Danny O’Connor sent us this.

Hello Mary ,

When I lived abroadI always looked forward to meeting the late great Danny Hannon for coffee or sometimes lunch in the Listowel Arms on my visits home .

Danny truly loved Listowel and everything about it and the conversation was always flowing . 

This photo was taken on Dec. 27th 2018 at the Listowel Arms Hotel . 

(I am seated 2nd to left ). 

Unfortunately some of the people in the photo are no longer with us . 

RIP (  Danny Hannon , Pat Scanlon and Frank Greaney ) . 

Kind Regards ,

Danny O’ Connor 

Gurtinard Listowel . 

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A Fact

Googol.com is named after the number googol, a one followed by 100 zeros.

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January 2024

By

On January 8, 2024

In History, Listowel, Poem

Simon and Carine on the Flesk Cycleway, Killarney, January 6 2024

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Greetings to January 2024

New Year 2024
New year 2024 has dawned.
We’ve had January 1,2, 3,4
Relentless rain has fallen
Lashing on the windowpanes.
Streaming down the roof tiles
Gurgling down the drainpipes
Gurgling up the gully traps
Choking drains already blocked
Water gurgling up through manholes.
The lawn too has a well-watered look
With ponds appearing at every nook
Patio paving flags are well washed down.
Roads are flooding, edges muddying.
Dangerous conditions for driving
Weather forecasts are dreary.
Weak troughs, low depressions
Announcing rain followed by downpours
Falling in thunderous volumes
Yellow and orange weather warnings announced
Alerting us to more windy days ahead
This is now the Irish weather norm
With the odd tornado thrown in as well
Leitrim roofs and buildings damaged.
Trees are falling nationwide.
Fields are flooding far and wide.
Sporting pitches water logging
Clouds are darkening, the sky is weeping.
All is drabness.
With sickly dreary darkness
Kids are tetchy, bored, and gloomy.
Confined to houses, some not too roomy.
Too much screen time
No outdoor healthy playtime
With boredom thresholds
And patience levels lowering.
Too many treats on offer
From stressed out weary parents.
Trying to bribe them with sweetie presents
We hope for fine weather soon.
To clear the winter gloom and doom.

Happy new year Mary
Mick O Callaghan January 2024

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The Dream Lives On

Maeve Binchy believed that everyone should have something to look forward to. She always had an airline ticket in her desk.

Listowel Emmetts have booked us all a ticket to Croke Park.

Result; Emmetts 1-11 Laherdane 0-3

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The Night of the Big Wind

(This account and image comes from a Facebook page, Ireland and Peg’s Cottage.)

Storm at Fanad…photographer name not recorded

It happened on a Saturday. It was January 6th, 1839, and heavy snow had fallen overnight. All over Ireland people awoke to a strange calm. As the morning went on the temperature rose until it was well above the average for the time of year. While children played in the quickly melting snow, mothers and fathers were inside their homes preparing for the festivities of Little Christmas, the feast of the Epiphany. By mid-afternoon it had become so unnaturally calm that voices floated between farmhouses more than a mile apart. Something was going on, but no one knew what.

A deep depression was forming in the north Atlantic. As the warm front moved eastwards and rose in the atmosphere, it was replaced by a cold front which brought high winds and heavy rain.

The rain began before noon. It started in the west and spread slowly eastwards. By late evening wind speeds had increased and temperatures had plummeted. By 9 pm the wind had reached gale force and still it carried on increasing. By midnight it had reached hurricane force and it stayed at that level until 5 am the next morning. All along the west coast people made their peace with God, convinced the end of the world had come. There was a terrifying rumbling noise throughout the storm and it got louder as the gusts increased. The wind blew out lanterns and candles and it was impossible to see what was happening outside, except when streaks of lightning occasionally illuminated an area or when the sky cleared briefly and the Aurora Borealis could be seen lighting up the northern sky with a mantle of red.

On Monday morning the sun rose over a wasteland. Familiar objects were unrecognisable. Landmarks had gone and nothing was where it should be. The people were dazed and exhausted from lack of sleep.

As well as homes, historic buildings had either been destroyed or badly damaged, never to be restored. Tombstones were flattened, dry stone walls were toppled and roadways were rendered impassable.  Sea water had been carried inland by the force of the storm and flooded houses there. Seaweed had been carried for great distances and fish were found miles from shore. One of the most abiding memories of the night and its aftermath was the smell of salt. It lingered for weeks.

Given the storm’s ferocity the death toll was miraculously low. Perhaps 250-300 people lost their lives, most of them at sea in the disastrous wrecks. RIP.

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My First Fact of 2024

The Wat Pa Maha Chedi Temple in Thailand is also known as TheTemple of the Million Bottles. It is constructed using Heineken and Chang beer bottles.It is a kind of Buddhist reuse recycle project.

Collection of the bottles began in 1984. The temple took 2 years to build. The monks had collected so many bottles that they added extra wings to the original plan.

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