Kerry Candlelight
Duagh 2020
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Another Listowel Business Closure
Kerry Wool in Church Street is closing shortly.
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Christmas in John Paul 11 Cemetery, Listowel
Here are some more of the many many Christmas floral tributes to the good souls buried in John Paul cemetery.
Gone but not forgotten
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Ard Churam
Building work is already underway at the dementia care centre at the Ard Chúram site.
I took these photos on January 8 2020.
Pride Comes Before a Fall
Paddy Power on Twitter at 6.31 on Feb 2 2019:
“Anyone know a company that can take a few big billboards down within 8 minutes?
Asking for a friend. “
Smug arrogance is never a nice trait. I hope Paddy Power has learned a lesson.
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Signs of Spring
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Now and Then on Church Street
Oyster ( a mobile phone shop) and Glamour (now relocated to the Square) are now a sweet shop and Kerry Wool Shop.
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Hanging Out at the Tennis Courts
Photos; Danny Gordon
Listowel’s young people have always hung out at the tennis club. These youngsters in 1987 are watching a game in progress. Cyril Kelly remembers 1955 when the game wasn’t’t the only attraction on the courts.
Cyril’s essay was broadcast on Sunday Miscellany in 2018
SLICED BACKHAND CROSS-COURT LOB Cyril Kelly
Every year, when the Wimbledon circus rolls round, still vivid recollections came churning up from deep in the corduroy folds of memory. Far from the sophistication of strawberries and cream, these memories have a mossy redolence rising from Feale river stones, smells of fehlerstrom, buachalán buí and crusty cow pats, all the embalmed odours of the Cows Lawn, that commonage on the edge of town where the Listowel Lawn Tennis Club had its two grass courts, plus a dilapidated railway carriage which went by the exotic moniker of The Pavilion. The tennis club was like an exclusive compound of the Raj; it was enclosed by a chicken wire fence which separated the lower caste, namely urchins like myself, from daughters of merchants, bankers and ne’er-do-wells. Unfortunately, in such a setting, togged out in durable brown corduroy jacket and short corduroy pants made by my redoubtable milliner mother, pubescent infatuation was incapable of negotiating an invulnerable passage through the layers and feverish strata of puppy love.
In the nineteen fifties, mothers possessed an infallibility which was every bit as dogmatic as that of Pope Pius XII. And if a boy had the temerity to question this God given right, such a heresy could always be dealt with by use of the wooden spoon, an implement of enlightenment which was often administered with ecclesiastical zeal. So, if a mother decreed that the local tennis club was off-limits, needless to mention, an explanation was neither asked fornor offered….. The ball alley was fine, and fishing for white trout was also deemed a healthy pastime, but the tennis court, where gorgeous young ones in tennis whites might be loitering, was, for mysterious maternal reasons, not granted an imprimatur.
Therefore, on this particular evening, as I stood at the perimeter fence of the local den of iniquity, clad in my corduroy get up, I felt the giddy pleasure of the miscreant. My eager little heart was going pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat as I stood there, my face meshed to the chicken wire while I watched Patricia, the Maria Sharapova of the day. A year older than myself, Patricia had that prepossessing, pouting beauty which playfully clawed young boys’ hearts, toyed with them, and then, with feline disdain for their wellbeing, cast them aside.
Imagine that same eager little heart when, out of the blue, Patricia called me into the enclosure and thrust one of her friend’s tennis racquets at me.
Now, she called over her shoulder as she swaggered to the other side of the net. Love all.
And tossing the white fluffy ball into the air, left hand tapering gracefully aloft for a split second, right hand coiled behind her, blonde hair uncurling loosely onto her shoulders, she was, for one unearthly moment, a veritable Venus, poised on the opposite baseline. But then, with what seemed like satanic intent, she unleashed a swerving serve that flashed past my despairing lunge. Fifteen love, she piped that precious word once more as she sashayed to the other side and served again.
How I scurried around, like a manic mongrel, trying to return her shots which were whizzing past me. Unwilling to cry halt, I persisted until, panting and perspiring, they invited me into The Pavillion. As Patricia towelled her temples daintily, her Pekinese bitch snooped around me, sniffing my sandals disdainfully.
I like your style, Patricia said and suppressed laughter tittered from her friends. Standing there awkwardly, I admitted that it was my first time playing tennis.
I don’t mean your tennis, she scoffed, pointing. I mean your trendy trousers.
Amid an eruption of laughter, I looked down and noticed, for the first time, the chocolate brown bands of corduroy where my pragmatic mother had let down the legs of last years faded pants.
I never ventured near the tennis court for the rest of that season.
And this year again, as I set my television aversion aside and tune in for Wimbledon, I know that as I watch some poor bewildered bloke scrambling to retrieve a viciously sliced backhand cross-court lob, I will suddenly be waylaid once more by the memory of those mortifying moments from the summer of fifty five, when the Sixth Commandment, with all it forbade and all it decreed, sat severely aloof on the umpire’s chair.
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Footballers of Tarbert Comp.
David Kissane who trained this team posted the photo and caption on Facebook
Thirty years ago…The Tarbert Comprehensive School senior ladies Gaelic football team who won three county championships, two Munster championships and contested two All Ireland finals in the late 1980s. A privilege to have been your manager, ladies.
Stag in Killarney National Park (Jim McSweeney)
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Elizabeth Dunn, Newly elected Chairperson of Listowel Writers’ Week
The reason that this essay is accompanied by a photo of both Liz and Jim Dunn is because Jim, through his work on the Athea mural is well known to my blog followers. Liz is his talented and hard working wife. In taking on the role of Chairperson of Writers’ Week, Liz is cementing her love of Ireland and her love of literature as she (and Jim) continue to contribute to the cultural life of their adopted home.
Who is Liz Dunne?
Here is the answer in her own words
Seventeen years
ago Jim and I were house hunting for our retirement home in France. We had
taken our daughters on holiday there on a regular basis and the lifestyle,
language and culture appealed to us greatly; as did the slim possibility of
meeting past pupils from our former lives as teachers.
Today, I sit at
my desk being congratulated on my election as Chairperson of Listowel Writers’
Week for 2016. How on earth did THAT happen?
My background is
that of teaching; my first and only choice of career (apart from a brief desire
to be a ballet dancer or vet).
In search of
‘free’ accommodation, I took posts in independent schools in the U.K. As many
such schools provide boarding facilities for their pupils, most of my teaching
posts involved being ‘in loco parentis’ and residential. As a result, I lived a
kind of ‘Downton Abbey’ existence in many beautiful locations with gardeners,
handymen, cooks, cleaners, matrons and assistant staff. The only downside,
forgive the pun, was that my accommodation was ’ in lieu’ of the very demanding
job of looking after the children morning, noon and night on both weekdays and
at weekends. This of course involved annual agonising over dormitory
arrangements, staff rotas, evening and weekend activities and the inevitable
mountain of paperwork now involved. I could regale you with tales of my charges
and their many adventures but in this day and age I have to protect the
innocent (and the not so innocent) and I can’t afford to be sued!! I did toy
with the idea of creating a board game to enlighten those who think working in
a ’posh’ school is a wheeze, nothing could be further from the truth but I
loved it.
As the thought of
retirement loomed, Jim and I realised that our ‘Downton Abbey’ style of
accommodation was drawing to a close and that, never having owned a house, it
was time to start house hunting in France. Friends who had already purchased a
home here encouraged us to visit Ireland before we disappeared to France for
good.
We docked at
Rosslare on a grim February evening with a grumpy teenager and little idea of
where we actually were; not helped by the weather conditions that meant we
couldn’t actually see where we were!
Jim suffered
Guinness poisoning on the first night and the weather (like the teenager’s
mood) showed little improvement over the long weekend. On our last day we
ventured into Abbeyfeale and casually looked into the window of Jerry Flynn,
saw a cottage, went to look at it, fell in love, put in an offer, had the offer
rejected, realised we were dealing with a different currency so upped the offer
and won ownership of our ’forever’ home (I did all this whilst Jim still
suffered. It wasn’t until three months later that he actually set foot inside
the house!)
In 2009 with both
of us facing yet another mountain of paperwork and stress as we each faced yet
another school inspection, we decided enough was enough and decided to retire
to Ireland permanently.
Going from a very
busy life to the quiet of the Irish countryside was marvellous for us both but
it wasn’t long before I needed an outlet. We had left family behind in the UK
and our beloved daughters had both moved to Switzerland. I needed to be needed.
Suffice to say
that the annual invitation for volunteers by Listowel Writers’ Week that
October tempted me, filled the void and the rest, as they say, is history.
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Ladies Day at Listowel 2015
The style at Listowel Races on Ladies Day 2015 was such that I had to drip feed it in here over time. Here are a few last photos I took later on on the day.
It is in the nature of a day at the races, that one wanders about mixing and mingling with different sets of friends. Inevitable that means that I have taken some people more than once in different combinations. It does not denote any favoritism on my part.
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The late Garda Kennelly of Moyvane
A few weeks ago I told you about the tragic drowning while on duty of Garda Michael Kennelly of Knochanure in 1934.
Garda Michael Kennelly is featured in the
‘Gardai 1930’ photo, seated extreme left. He hailed from Newtownsandes
(now Moyvane) Co. Kerry and lived in Aillebrack with his wife Alice
McHale-Kennelly. He was killed ‘on duty’ in January 1934 when he and
his colleague Sergeant Forde, were returning to Maam Garda Station
after escorting a female patient to Ballinasloe Mental Hospital. On
driving through Galway the hackney car in which they were travelling
left the road and entered the River Corrib at Woodquay. Garda Kennelly
was drowned along with the others in the car. (Clifden 2000)
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Newly refurbished and ramped Plaza
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Listowel’s newest shopkeeper
In the centre of this photo is Katie Heaton, flanked by her grandmother and father. Katie opened her new shop, Kerry Wool, in Main Street Listowel on Monday October 12 2015. The shop will sell knitting and sewing supplies as well as hand knit garments. In opening this shop, Katie is following in the footsteps of her grandmother, who has years of experience in the knitting yarn and craft business.
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