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

Tag: Aoife McKenna Page 1 of 4

On Nana Duty

John R.s, part of Listowel Christmases for 3 generations.

Kildare Village

There are two places where I spend a bit of time when visiting my grandchildren. Both places are called a village and neither is a village. The places are Kildare Village and Ballincollig.

Kildare Village was looking festive when I visited.

Weather again this year was against us.

We went in The Head Plan shop because Mammy wanted to buy her journal for 2025. The lovely shop assistant spotted a bored child and invited Aoife to be her assistant in the personalisation section.

Aoife “assisted” by standing and looking bewildered. It seems that was enough for she was rewarded with stickers and praise.

Personalisation done, and Aoife was allowed to share the credit.

We tried the new place, new since my last visit anyway, for our elevenses.

Look at this and tell me is this is what a three year old finds inviting in a café.

The excellent service, passionate baristas, pretty pictures and good conversation failed to impress Aoife who found nothing to her liking except the posh overpriced crisps, which made her thirsty and they had no drink suitable for her either.

Come to think of it, it’s a bit rich to claim good conversation as one of the selling points of your coffee shop since the customer has to provide this himself.

Christmases of Yore in West Kerry

Image and text from Facebook

This is St. Vincent’s Church in Boulteen, Ballyferriter in Kerry on a Christmas Night 

MEMORIES OF CHRISTMAS IN GORTA DUBHA

by Maurice Brick

                            There was a touch of frost, enough to stiffen the grass but it limbered with the noonday sun. The grown ups were in good humor and we were very sensitive to that. The farm work was done and only the cows needed tending. There was an easiness. 

A great day was when Mam and Dad went to Dingle to bring home the Christmas. Dad had rails on the cart. We were bursting with excitement upon hearing the cart coming with its iron band wheels which could be heard for miles. They had a sack of flour, a sack of yellow meal, various foods, wellingtons, some clothes, decorations and most important, sweets and biscuits and icing clad Christmas Cakes. They also had several bottles of Sandiman Port which were presents from Dingle merchants in appreciation of their custom through the year. 

Searching for discarded jam jars which we would wash and fill with sand to hold the candle we put in each window of the house. Holding the ladder for Dad as he retrieved some ivy from the gable end of the house. Going to the Reen, a field on our land that was reputedly a Fairy Fortress and had some scattered Holly Bushes. The house would be spotless and there was a silent buzz as we went about our chores. The turf fire was blazing and added to the glow. 

On Christmas Eve for dinner we had Langa (Ling), a long stringy fish that had hung for weeks from the ceiling. It was salty and boney but Mam’s white sauce with onions, pandy (potatoes mashed with generous helping of butter) and spices made it palatable. After, there was lashings of Christmas Cake with inch thick icing and we made short work of that. 

Going to Midnight Mass to St. Vincent’s in Boulteen was a treat. We went up the Tóchar a Bohereen and pathway through the fields. Dad had a lantern and led the way. At one point we climbed a few steps to climb over a claí (an earthen stone fence that separated fields) and on top you could see all the houses in the Parish with candles in the windows and it was like a glimpse of Tír Na nÓg (Land Of Youth) if such a place ever existed. 

The Church was small and comfortable. It was full and the smell of molten wax permeated the air. And there was a quietness. My Dad sang in the Choir and his cousin Paddy Brick, Riasc played the violin. It was magical listening to them, performing for us a hauntingly soft rendition of Oíche Chiuin (Silent Night) in honor of the Birth of the Baby Jesus. I remember now, I will never forget, Dad singing his heart out & Paddy Brick his cousin on the violin, watching one another with sideway glances making sure each of them was putting out the best. 

After Mass all the people greeted one another and offered Christmas Blessings. All was done in hushed and calming voices and that has stayed with me down through the years. My friend Pad accompanied us once going home by the Tóchar and he was given to speeching all the way. When we passed by the Cemetery he proceeded to name everyone who died in Gorta Dubha for the past fifty years. I shifted closer to Mam and Dad for the rest of the journey. 

At home, we put up our stockings for Santí and reluctantly went to bed. Dad went to the haggard and pulled a gabháll (bunch) of hay which he spread at the front door to feed the Donkey that was bringing the Holy Family for a visit to our house on Christmas Night. 

After a fitful night’s sleep we arose with excitement and checked our Santí stockings. We compared what we got and though at times it wasn’t much we were happy. Off we went running to every house in the the village. We’d get a piece of sweet cake or a bun and sometimes, even a sip of lemonade. We joined the other children and traipsed about joyfully in and out of the houses. It was Gorta Dubha and all the houses were ours. NOLLAIG SHONA……..HAPPY CHRISTMAS.

Continuing my supportive tour of Grandchildren

Róisín in pale green, fourth from right.

Billy Elliot was this year’s Coláiste and Gaelcholáiste Choilm TY musical. It was an excellent show, produced to professional standards.

German Christmas Treats

I am a member of a bookclub in Ballincollig library. Our newest member is Rebecca, who is on a gap year from Germany.

She made us eiserhornchen, which her grandmother taught her to bake, for our last meeting.

They were delicious.

In case you were wondering, the book was The Stationery Shop of Tehran by Marjan Kamali. It got a lukewarm reception from our club.

Our next book is Politics on the Edge by Rory Stewart, which promises a look inside British politics by a disillusioned Tory. Wouldn’t be my first choice for Christmas reading.

More New Businesses Opening in my Absence

I turn my back for one minute and the town is changed utterly.

Least said, soonest mended in regard to my opinion of this one

New tattoo shop opening soon on William Street.

A Fact

In 1951 10,000 turkeys were flown by Aer Lingus from Ireland to England.

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Remembering Listowel

Finesse Shane MacGowan tribute window. The Friday evening Revival concert of 2024 featured a tribute to Shane.

Remembering and Connecting

This is Margot McElligott, formerly of Bridge Road and now living in Paris.

Here is the story;

Listowel to Paris 

Recently, I reached out to Mary Cogan, hoping she could help me reconnect with a long-lost friend from my teenage years, Marie O’Halloran (O’Connor). In our exchange, Mary suggested that I contribute to the Listowel Connection blog, sharing a bit about my life today and some cherished memories from the past.

My name is Margot McElligott, daughter of Richard and Nóra, from the Bridge Road. I left Listowel in 1981, embarking on a new chapter in Paris shortly after completing my Leaving Cert. That move was inspired by a school trip to France during my first year of secondary school—a trip that left such an impression on me that I vowed to make France my home. My career has since taken me on a journey through various industries, from the Aerospace press to Communications in Aerospace research, followed by various leadership roles in the Pharmaceutical sector. I am mother of three adult children—a daughter and two sons.

As a small child, my world revolved around Bridge Road and Woodford, where my beloved aunt and cousins lived. Before I even began school, I spent many summer days with my cousin Neil Brosnan, who was nothing short of a hero in my young eyes. Neil devoted countless hours to teaching me about nature, turning every moment into an adventure. He fueled my imagination and created memories that I continue to treasure to this day.

L to R: Margot McElligott and Ann Dowling (a school photo from Junior Infants class…then known as Babies)

My closest friends were my immediate neighbours, and together we created a tapestry of simple yet unforgettable memories. Around the age of six or seven, I began learning to play tennis under the patient guidance of Roly Chute on the courts situated in what was then known as the Cows’ Lawn. Those tennis courts became the epicenter of our world, especially during the long summer holidays. We spent countless days and evenings there, playing tennis with other children from the town until one of our mothers would call us home through the twilight. When we weren’t on the courts, we would picnic or stroll along the riverbank, or even stage our own “Eurovision Song Contest” on the steps behind the typing pool on Bridge Road—though our singing careers never quite took off!

Like many girls in Listowel, my school years were spent at the Presentation Convent, where I was welcomed by the kind and smiling Sister Consolata. I have fond memories of my time there (mostly), and used to love running errands for the nuns !  School also meant broadening my circle of friends, meeting for the first time the girls from the town and surrounding villages. 

Another cornerstone of my childhood was partaking in “The Tops of the Town,” directed by Danny Hannon, which brought together the Bridge Road and the Square. I have a faint memory of a production involving Danny dressed as a scientist or professor in a white coat, some sort of infernal machine, and a creative rendition of “Old McDonald” at the end (sung by me). If anyone remembers that performance, I’d love to know more about it!

Sundays often meant a trip to Ballybunion, a highlight of my week. After dutifully visiting my two aunts who lived there, we would spend time on the beach, enjoy a 99 cone, and top it off with a spin on the bumper cars. Other vivid memories include the Listowel Races, which filled me with childlike excitement. I still recall the thrill of seeing the massive trucks rumbling up Bridge Road, bringing all the amusements to be set up in the marketplace. I would count down the days until the festivities began. The Fleadh Cheoil was another event that captured my imagination, with tents dotting the Cows’ Lawn and the sound of foreign languages filling the air—perhaps my first exposure to French!

Kieran Moloney’s photograph of Margot at work

As a teenager, I worked at week-ends and during festivals at Moloney’s Bar in the Square. By then, I had become fairly fluent in French (at least by secondary school standards), and word quickly spread among the festival-goers that a French-speaking barmaid was working at Moloney’s. This drew a large group of French regulars to the bar for the duration of the festival.

An important part of my secondary school experience was being on the debating team under the guidance of Tony Behan (English teacher). It wasn’t until years later that I fully appreciated the incredible opportunity this was and the profound impact it had on my career—particularly in public speaking and constructing well-articulated arguments. Looking back, I’m struck by how a small town like Listowel in the 1970s provided such a wealth of opportunities for growth in sports, culture, and education. These experiences played a pivotal role in shaping the professional I would become.

Sadly, my mother passed away in 1986 and my father in 1997, and with their passing, my ties to local life and people faded. Yet, my memories remain vivid and deeply cherished. Though I have lived in France for 43 years, I have always proudly retained my Irish nationality, forever proud of my roots and my connection to Listowel.

Playing Board Games

A feature of holidays in Nana’s has always been board games. Aoife, at three, is just learning to take turns. She is enjoying the joy of winning but she is also learning that when there are winners there are also losers.

Aoife in Nana’s garden in August 2024

Playing Animal Lotto

Dirty Washing is a simple children’s game loved by my grandchildren when they were very young.. When you draw a card with a “dirty” garment you get to shout “Dirty washing” and you get to put it through the slot into the washing machine. Great fun, if you are three!

Advice for Parents in a Poem

“Do not ask your children

to strive for extraordinary lives.

Such striving may seem admirable,

but it is the way of foolishness.

Help them instead to find the wonder

and the marvel of an ordinary life.

Show them the joy of tasting

tomatoes, apples and pears.

Show them how to cry

when pets and people die.

Show them the infinite pleasure

in the touch of a hand.

And make the ordinary come alive for them.”

The extraordinary will take care of itself.

~William Martin

A Fact

Starfish do not have brains. Special cells on their skins gather information about their surroundings.

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A Wet Summer

In the wildflower meadow in Childers’ Park in August 2024

In the Playground

Aoife brought a towel to the playground on Saturday, August 24 2024.In summer 2024 a girl has to be prepared for wet conditions.

Maybe it’s a combination of Kildare and Listowel influences but she loves a ride on anything resembling a horse.

She dried the slide before having a go.

She did her best with the swing but, by now, the towel was saturated.

She loved this musical instrument. Wet or dry this functioned.

Best Dressed Lady

Maria Stack of Listowel took the title of Best Dressed at Limerick show at the weekend. Maria made her own hat.

In the Paper

In Saturday’s Irish Examiner there is a section for readers’ photographs. In that section on last Saturday was a reader’s photograph of our own Matt Mooney whistling away, oblivious of the camera, at the recent fleadh in Wexford.

Drunk

The Demon Drink

I was having a drink many moons ago in the IFI social club in Lamberton, Arklow and a man came in enquiring if his friend was on the premises. The barman told him that he was gone, and our man asked if was long gone. The barman’s response is still stored in my memory bank. Well, he said Johnny was nearly gone when he came in, but he went home before he was fully gone. That was his way of saying that Johnny was fairly drunk or ar meisce when he arrived but left before he was fully polluted.

Isn’t it absolutely amazing how many ways you can say that a person was drunk like maith go leor or he was stocious or legless or footless, langers, out of his/her skull, fluthered or just locked. In answer to questions about what state people were in after a few bevvies people could say s/he was three sheets in the wind, twisted, staggering, in the staggers, all over the place or legless.

These were moderate terms for peoples whose alcohol infused brains had upset their equilibrium a bit but then you can go up the scale and describe people as twisted, jarred, pissed, half cut, polluted, scuttered, ossified

Then you can go into the upper stratosphere of drink and drunk terminology when you say a person was paralytic, shit faced, rat arsed, bollixed.

I think I heard a lot of terms as I grew from boy to man. There was a certain bravado in saying you were drunk, buckled, locked, plastered, or whatever other endearing term was used for being maith go leor and that you didn’t remember anything from the night before. Little did we know what damage we were doing to our brains and general body health. There wasn’t the same awareness of health and the damaging relationship with alcohol. It was the rite of passage to go out for a night and get polluted.

Nowadays there is a much greater awareness of fitness and health and healthy living which are improving the quality of lives and living standards. Younger people are more attracted to gyms, sports arenas and the café culture preferring the skinny latte to the pint of beer.

The pub culture is no longer as popular as it was. I was listening to the radio today and they were speaking about the staggering fact that nearly 2000 pubs had closed in the past 20 years. They also referred to the statistic that alcohol consumption was at its lowest level in Ireland for 35 years and that we have turned into a wine consuming nation. There is also a far greater acceptance of zero alcohol drinks and drink driving is frowned upon. Worryingly there is an increase in the use of social drugs.

We are known all over the world for our love of the jar, and our pub culture but it sure seems to be changing. The takeaway is cheaper than the pub. Everything is getting more expensive from groceries, cars, fuel and housing. All these are putting pressure on people’s wallets and an increasing number of people are putting the demon drink well down the priorities on the shopping list. We will be a better off, healthier people because of this change in culture and lifestyle. Let’s hope it continues.

Mick O Callaghan

A Fact

Between 1880 and 1916, the legal time in Dublin was set at Dunsink Observatory and called Dublin Mean Time. This time was 25 minutes 21 seconds behind Greenwich Mean Time (GMT).

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A Friday Miscellany

Courthouse Road

The Horseshoe

Looks like this eatery is about to have something added to its facade.

Paddy Glavin Remembers The Feale

Moments of Reflection

Listowel printing Works at Tannavalla

Paul Shannon printing up another iteration of my book…exciting times.

Moments with Aoife

Aoife and her Nana on Charles Street

Happy days with a bubble wand

Little Known Kerry Writers from The Newspaper Archives

New York NY Irish American Advocate 1916-1918

Mr. James J. O’Neill, Librarian of National University of Ireland, in a series of monthly lectures at the Carnegie Library, Listowel, Co. Kerry, read an interested paper on some distinguished Kerrymen.”

Mr. O’Neill after a rapid survey of Ireland’s ancient scholars, and their merits said that Kerry had Just cause to be proud of its place in its countries roll of fame —————–

Kerryman prominent among the writers of that literature. Hugh Kelly, the Kerry dramatist was born in Killarney in 1739. At an early age he removed to Dublin closed his career, and he died in 1777 at the early age of 38.

——– Richard Cantillon, the political economist, sprang from a Kerry family He was born at Ballyheigue about the beginning of the 17th century .

Among the writers in English we have the names of Bartholomew Dowling, Mrs. Mary Downing and Maurice O’Connell.

Mrs. Mary Downing was the daughter of Daniel MacCarthy of Kilfadimore, near Kenmare. She contributed many pieces of prose and poetry to the columns of the Cork Southern Reporter under the pseudonym of Christabel.

The O’Donoghue of the Glens, a leading figure in Irish politics from 1858 to 1868, was another distinguished Kerryman.

Lest we forget, Thomas Moore’s father was a Kerryman. Dr. Douglas Hyde, the great father of the Gaelic League, also has ‘Kerry blood in his  veins. To Irishmen the name of O’Connell is synonymous with their redemption.

Harman Blennerhasset the talented, but unfortunate son of Conway Blennerhasset of Castle Conway, Killorglin. He sailed toAmerica in 1726, and settled down to the life of a country gentleman, with his bride, the beautiful and accomplished Miss Margaret Agnew. After a few years he had the misfortune to meet the notorious Aaron Burr.

Mr. James Franklin Fuller, of Gasnacree, is another artist of whom Kerry may feel proud.

A Fact

In 1830 Sarah Josepha Hale wrote the well known nursery rhyme, Mary had a Little Lamb. She based it on an experience of her own when she was teaching in Newport, New Hampshire in the U.S. A pet lamb followed one of Hale’s students to school and refused to leave. The lamb waited until it was reunited with “Mary” at close of classes.

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Visitors

Roses at the Courthouse in June 2024

Aoife loves Watering

Little Aoife came for a Kerry visit on the June weekend.

When you are watering Nana’s flowers it is essential to test the temperature of the water with your hand.

Doesn’t seem to be much growing here but a spot of watering might bring it on.

Can’t open the tap but easy to refill a watering can from Nana’s one.

Now the best part, making a puddle for stomping in. Peppa made me do it.

Joy Unconfined

First European athletics gold since 1998.

The Irish 4×400 metres relay quartet of Chris O’Donnell, Rhasidat Adeleke, Thomas Barr and Sharlene Mawdsley finished 0.77 seconds ahead of Italy with the fancied Netherlands team led by Femke Bol having to settle for bronze.

The Pain of Emigration

by Martin Coffey

‘My mother’s heart was broken

My father’s heart was too

The day I walked out through this door

And bade a fond adieu

I was only sixteen years of age

And thought I knew it all

The world it was my oyster

And I had heard the call

To take the boat to England

And sail the Irish Sea

To seek out fame and fortune

And notoriety

The streets were paved with gold I’d heard

And work was everywhere

I’d fill my pockets to the brim

With coins of every fare

So off I set that very day

The weather warm and mild

My parents standing at the door

As they watched their only child

My mother’s tears ran down her face

Like raindrops in the night

My dear beloved father

He held her close and tight

And soon enough I landed

On England’s rugged shore

I was looking for a place to stay

I knocked on every door

All the rooms were taken

I stood and wondered why

Then I saw a sign that read

No Irish need apply

As time went by I found it hard

To try and make ends meet

Without a bed to lay my head

I slept out on the street

I sent a letter once or twice

To my dearest darling mother

I told a lie that things were good

And then I told another

For many years things just got worse

And then I took to drink

I lost all sense of place and time

My life went down the sink

And then one day it happened

I decided to go home

I’d step onboard the boat once more

And sail across the foam

I couldn’t wait to see the smile

Upon my mother’s face

To see my father’s cheery grin

And to feel his loving grace

The journey back it took no time

I soon stepped off the boat

The air was chilled with Irish mist

I then put on my coat

I walked along the country road

Where I had walked before

I couldn’t wait to hear the knock

Upon my mother’s door

It was then I met a neighbour

Who lived way up the lane

His frame had aged his hair was grey

His face was filled with pain

He looked so sad and so forlorn

As he gently came my way

He said he was so sorry

For those who’d passed away

He said my darling mother

Died from a broken heart

My dearest father also went

With her he couldn’t part

He said he sent a letter

To a priest in Cricklewood

To tell me what had happened

To find me if he could

It was then I saw this little house

All broken and forlorn

The window in the room was broke

The room where I was born

I walked up very slowly

And knocked upon the door

Imagining that I could hear

My mother’s voice once more

I then walked to their graveside

That was placed upon a hill

Teardrops rolling down my cheeks

The air was quiet and still

And there they lay so peacefully

My parents meek and mild

As here I stood with a broken heart

Their one and only child…’

The Boy who Kicked the Nun

Mick O’Callaghan made me a gift of his recently launched memoir. Mick grew up in Tralee and now lives in retirement in Gorey.

In a very full life, growing up in Tralee, playing in John B. Keane plays, boxing, involvement with local organisations, walking and writing, Mick ‘s tale is an engaging one.

I had a lovely chat with Mick and his lovely wife, Margaret.

The book is available in Woulfe’s. I’d highly recommend it

A Fact

King Charles 111 banknotes went into circulation on June 5 2024. His image is on the £5, the £10, the £20 and the £50.

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