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
Yesterday I shared with you Kathleen Reynolds’ great uncle’s first hand account of a spectator at that match.
Photo from the internet
Here is an extract from Kathy’s email;
The game was attended by 34,500 including my father’s uncle, Mike Fitzmaurice, who had left Moybella South, Lisselton around 1910 for Waterbury, Connecticut.
Notes (Irish Independent & Wikipedia)
The Artane Boys’ Band also travelled to New York to play before the match.
Michael O’Hehir broadcast a radio commentary from New York. O’Hehir noticed that broadcasting delays would bring the radio link down five minutes before the final had ended. He later recalled his plea:'”If there’s anybody along the way there listening in, just give us five minutes more, and I kept begging for five minutes more” The link stayed open.
Kerry — D O’Keeffe; D Lyne (capt), J Keohane, P Brosnan; J Lyne, W Casey, E Walsh; E Dowling, E O’Connor; E O’Sullivan, D Kavanagh, B Garvey; F O’Keeffe, T O’Connor, O Kennedy.
Subs: W O’Donnell for Dowling, M Finucane for Walsh, T Brosnan for O’Donnell, G Teehan for Kennedy
Score 2-11 to 2-7
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There was a North Kerry man on the team.
The last surviving member of that Kerry team, Ballydonoghue man , Mick Finucane passed away in 2016;
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People I met in Town
I met Paud Pelican and Mary Hanlon at Listowel Credit Union
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A School in Mourning
I visited Scoil Réalta na Maidine to photograph their beautiful piece of Paddy Fitzgibbon’s artwork.
I was jolted back to harsh reality by the lovely shrine underneath.
On the week that Paddy Fitzgibbon passed away, the boy’s school lost someone dear, a beloved member of the school community, pupil,
Pádraig Beasley.
Padraig Beasley R.I.P. with his school principal Kieran Quirke and Padraig’s mother Maeve
Padraig’s family have strong links with the school. His mother, Maeve is a teacher there and his grandfather, Cathal is a past principal.
Padraig passed away on Jan 6 2023. Go dtuga Dia suaimhneas síoraí dó.
Frosty Listowel in December 2022… photographs by Chris Scott
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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 Cuchlainn, 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 abd 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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More Photos from Garda Centenary on Nov. 30 2022
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Listowel Widows Association
Photo shared on Facebook by End Bunyan
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Folklore from Listowel
The following is from the schools collection and was collected by Bryan MacMahon in the 1930s.
If you bought bonhams and put them all together throw two buckets of sour milk on top of them to keep them from fighting. I saw Dan Shea of Clievragh doing it. It isn’t sour milk at all sir, it’s porter you should throw in their eyes. I saw Mick Stokes of Market St. doing it. 8. If you kill a goose, or a cock, or a cow and put your fist on the back of his neck and press he’ll make the noise he made when alive. (9). If you want to make a starling talk split his tongue and put his beak up to a rack (i. e. a comb) – and he’ll speak. (10). My mother (Mrs Doyle Slievecahel) told me that a man was coming home from Castleisland one night and he saw a lovely city inside in a Glen. He went in and there was nothing there only rocks. It was the reflection of a town in Australia. (11). My mother said they used use pointy sticks before as forks. They used have a pointy stick as a Knife and a gabhlóg as a fork. (12) People long go used go to no Mass but they used put a pot on another man’s head and hit it with something and that’d be by-the-way the bell. One night the pot fell down and they couldn’t pull it off and they had to break it to knock it off. 13. When I received my first Holy Communion in Ballyduff, after the priest made the sign of the cross with the Holy Communion I saw a little baby in the priest’s arms. 14. Jack Joy told me that Paddy Ferris of the Gaire made a cake a’ Christmas time with 5 lbs. of flour and it took him 5 hrs to make it. 15. St. Synan’s Well is in “Souper” Connors land (Protestants) and they got water out of the well to boil the Kettle and it wouldn’t boil at all so they had to throw it out and get other water. 16. Daniel O’Connell was at a feast one time and poison was put in his glass. One of the sewart-girls was by the way singing a song [?] in Irish and thus she warned him and she blew out the candles and he changed glasses. with some other one. She sang “A Dhomhnall Ó Conaill, a dtuigeann tú Gaedhilg? Tuigim a’ coda (a chodlad, a chiota) agus a’ chuid eile Gaedhilg, Tá an ionad den salainn á chuirfead sa dtae dhuit, Múcfad-sa an solas agus cuir cúcha féin é”. (T. Kennelly from mother who is from Glenbeigh)
This weekend I was at two Michael D. events, two book launches, MS busking and the Eucharistic procession. I took tons of photos. It will take a while to process them, to tell the story and to drip feed some of the best of them into blog posts. This week I’m busy with Writers’ Week so please be patient. There will be lean days yet and I’ll post the pictures for you.
VIP visitors, Michael D. and Sabina Higgins with Listowel VIPs, Julie Gleeson and Mary Hanlon.
Hard working Listowel/North Kerry M.S. Society volunteers with Ballybunion musicians and singers at their annual busking day in Listowel on Friday May 24 2019.
Joe Hanlon can’t wait to read his copy of Under the Bed…. Robert Pierse’s autobiographical work launched on Friday May 24 2019.
John Devoy signs his book, Quondam for Limerick visitors in Woulfe’s bookshop on Saturday May 25 2019.
Annual Eucharistic procession at Convent Cross on Saturday May 25 2019
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Picturesque Adare, Co. Limerick
I stopped recently on my way home from Kildare. Adare is such a beautiful little town.
Adare Manor is a no-go area but otherwise the town is charming and welcoming.
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Ballybunion Street Names
Remember I told you all about the palaver Listowel had over street names?
Well we could take a leaf out of Ballybunion’s book. They used a very simple method, e.g. if the road leads to a doon call it Doon Road. If it leads to a sandhill, call it sandhill Road
Here are just a few examples I snapped while I was in town last week
All self explanatory but wait……..
A few roads are named after famous Ballybunion people but that’s understandable.
and
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Two More Sleeps to Opening Night Writers Week 2019
I have a granddaughter who loves to hurl. Here she is giving it a lash on the beach in Ballybunion on Sunday October 30 2016.
It was like a summers’ day. The children were having a ball.
There were swimmers and surfers in the water, some of them without wetsuits!
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Moyvane ICA’s Time Capsule
photographs by Elizabeth Brosnan
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The Best of Billy Keane
This book is a new departure for Billy Keane. It is not a novel. It is not a sports biography. In a way, it is a bit of both and more.
Journalism, by its nature is throw away writing. Colour pieces like Billy’s weekly columns in the Irish Independent are to be read and discarded. That is the nature of the beast.
Every now and again someone recognises that writing of this calibre is more relevant and lasting than yesterday’s newspaper and thus a collection is born.
The Best of Billy Keane is a curated collection of Billy’s columns in The Irish Independent and The Kerryman.
I am a fan of this genre. Among my all time favourites is the late great Con Houlihan, the chatty Maeve Binchy, Tom Humphries, Olivia O’Leary and Miriam Lord. So you see what I like; a well turned phrase, an unexpected analogy, but most of all a keen observation of people with a hint of the eccentric, the entertaining.
Billy Keane’s writing is all of the above. At times he wears his heart on his sleeve. His essay can be a mixture of self revelation, self deprecation, occasionally a bit of self indulgence, a moment to wallow in grief, or sorrow or regret. He writes about the people he admires and the people he loves. Who will forget his recent articles following the death of Anthony Foley?…..too late for inclusion in this anthology. Rarely, does he get on his hobby horse and indulge in a rant. He sometimes wanders into a bizarre world of tall tales and overwrought imaginings.
One thing I love about Billy’s writing is the randomness of it all. When I open my Irish Independent on a Monday, after I’ve read the headlines and done the Soduko I head for Billy Keane’s column. It’s like opening a surprise present from a favourite giver. Very often it is a local issue, maybe a story or a death that has caught Billy’s fancy.
Didn’t Homer make the Iliad out of a local row, according to Patrick Kavanagh? Like Kavanagh, Billy Keane has that ability to take the local and make it universal.
I have laughed and cried reading Billy Keane. I have learned a bit, mainly about sport or the lot of the rural publican. I have been uplifted, amused and sometimes plunged into despair by the power of his writing. I have always, always been entertained.
I welcome this anthology. I will keep it handy beside my collections of the writing of Con Houlihan and my Windharp Poems of Ireland. I think I’ll ditch The Life Changing Magic of Tidying (unread) to make room.
Billy Keane has always encouraged me in what I do. He has often told me of his high regard for my late husband. Billy was in one of the first classes that Jim taught when he came to Listowel. Before the principalship of Diarmaid OSuilleabháin, St. Michael’s more often then not employed past pupils. Billy told me that Jim was like a breath of fresh air.
When Jim died and I was finding it hard to find motivation to continue with my blog, Billy was among the many local people who encouraged me to keep going. I remember what he said when I met him one day in the small square. “We need chroniclers.” So, from one chronicler to another,
Go néirí go geal leis an togra nua seo. More power to your elbow. May you continue to entertain us for many years to come. Is ag dul i bhfeabhas atá tú.
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Some Humans
Jean, Neil, Mary and Mary on the Cliff Walk, Ballybunion
I love donkeys. This John Hinde one is a lovely specimen, young and energetic yet placid enough to be handled by children. This postcard photo has been in the news recently since the death of Paddy Lydon, who was photographed as a young boy with his sister, Mary, bringing home turf in Connemara. I have heard words like romantic and even idyllic used to describe the image.
I know better. There was nothing romantic about tramping through boggy ground, stooping and rising to fill two creels with turf and then coax a stubborn ass to plod his way back to the cottage. Once Paddy and Mary had unloaded the turf, they would set off straight away for another load.
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This is one for all you amateur genealogists
Judy
Walkman, a professional genealogy researcher in southern California , was doing
some personal work on her own family tree. She discovered that Senator Harry
Reid’s great-great uncle, Remus Reid, was hanged for horse stealing and train
robbery in Montana in 1889. Both Judy and Harry Reid share this common
ancestor. The only known photograph of Remus shows him standing on the gallows
in Montana territory.
On the back
of the picture Judy obtained during her research is this inscription: ‘Remus
Reid, horse thief, sent to Montana Territorial Prison 1885, escaped 1887,
robbed the Montana Flyer six times. Caught by Pinkerton detectives, convicted
and hanged in 1889.’
So Judy recently e-mailed Senator Harry Reid for
information about their great-great uncle. Believe it or not, Harry
Reid’s staff sent back the following biographical sketch for her genealogy
research:
“Remus Reid was a famous cowboy in the Montana
Territory . His business empire grew to include acquisition of valuable
equestrian assets and intimate dealings with the Montana railroad. Beginning in
1883, he devoted several years of his life to government service, finally
taking leave to resume his dealings with the railroad. In 1887, he was a key
player in a vital investigation run by the renowned Pinkerton Detective Agency.
In 1889, Remus passed away during an important civic function held in his
honor when the platform upon which he was standing collapsed.”
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Teampall Bán
About a half kilometer from town is a famine burial ground called An Teampall Bán.
Day one of the Tar Abhaile adventure was Sunday April 7 2013. I had arranged to meet the Red Pepper crew at Teampall Bán to do a recce for filming the next day. This was as near to the workhouse as we could get since there is nothing of that old building left.
The ever so hard working and obliging Mary Hanlon of the Tidy Town Committee prepared the place for our visit and it was a credit to her and the other volunteers.
The Red Pepper advance troops, Martain, Michelle, Áine and Tom chat to Mary and Joe Hanlon.
Tom checked out the oratory. It looks beautiful.
John Pierse brought a pot of paint and a brush and Martain, who was an artist in a previous life, put the finishing touches to an inscription.
Some curious cows in the neighbouring field kept watch over it all.
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The Irish Times glowing review of Pilgrim Hill
A myth still permeates that Irish
cinema is a little too concerned with the rural and the miserable. Quite the
opposite is now the case. We don’t see nearly enough about disenfranchised
agricultural communities on our screens.
The extraordinary debut feature
from youngGerard Barrett, a determined Kerryman, sets the record straight in stirring
style. Shot in unhurried, cautious fashion – making occasional gestures to the
mock documentary genre – Pilgrim Hill offers a quietly devastating
portrait of Jimmy Walsh (Joe Mullins), a bachelor farmer eking out his life in
a lonely farm on a windy outcrop. He spends his days taking care of the cattle
and tending to the needs of his ailing, unseen father. At night, he allows
himself the occasional pint at a distant pub.
There are shades of the great
French documentary Modern Life, a study of farmers in the Cévennes, in
the sequences where Jimmy talks directly to the camera. But the film gets at a
very Irish class of misery: the wretchedness of being stranded with the
previous generation while one’s contemporaries surge into the modern world.
None of this sociological
observation would matter if Pilgrim Hill lacked cinematic juice. As it
happens, Ian D Murphy’s cinematography has a limpidity that soaks up the damp
landscapes to beautiful and mournful effect.
Barrett choreographs the slow march
towards an expected catastrophe with rhythms that are positively Russian in
their leisurely grace. The decision to hold back on non-diegetic music until
the final searing denouement speaks of an impressive degree of maturity (and restraint)
from a young film-maker.
Barrett is also to be congratulated
for drawing such a disciplined performance from his lead. A farmer and
occasional amateur actor, Mullins has a steadiness and commitment that cannot
be easily faked. But it takes real talent to make effective use of such
authenticity. The moment where Jimmy speculates about dying and meeting the
“person he could have been” fairly takes the breath away.
Don’t let Pilgrim Hill pass
you by.
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Yesterday was confirmation day in town.
The confirmandi had done a great job in decorating the church. I’ll bring you the fruits of their hard work over the next few days.
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One of the many iconic images emerging from Boston overnight.
Listowel Connection has many friends and followers in the Boston area. Our sympathies are with them and with everyone affected by the awful tragedy.
In an example of the triumph of hope over experience, the London marathon will go ahead on Sunday.
