The man only gradually became aware of the cat when he felt that SOMETHING was watching him . He had been half-sitting , half-lying , on a comfortable cushion of moss and dead leaves in the afternoon sun . The sun shone through gaps in the tall trees and the man was almost nodding off to sleep .
He had set out earlier in the day with his companions , his son , his daughter-in-law and his older brother . They had parked their car close to the sign that marked the beginning of the trail up the mountain , which would eventually lead to '' spectacular views of the surrounding countryside '' at the top.
Shortly after crossing a 'rustic' bridge and starting to ascend the trail , he realised that this excursion was not for him , so , slightly embarrassed (after all his brother WAS older than him), and not wanting to spoil the outing , he had suggested that he would find a comfortable spot , near a stream to sit and read his book and they could 'pick him up ' on their way down.
As they made their way to a likely place they passed some signs declaring '' Beware of Bears and Mountain Lions '' . He had laughed , saying that these signs were there just to add spice to the visiting tourists and that the likelyhood of these wild creatures being anywhere close to a road , was remote . He even told the old vaudville joke , '' I have a spray that keeps wild elephants away ''. The stooge answers '' But , there aren't any elephants around for THOUSANDS of miles '' , joker replies '' Yes , very effective , isn't it .''
But there was no humour in him now . The big cat ,( mountain lion ?, cougar ? ) was crouched nearby , having apparently crept out of the woods shortly after the sound of voices ceased and the man was alone .
He had looked into the eyes of big cats before , on his visits to the zoo , usually in winter-time when he was one of few visitors . He had marvelled at the design of the creatures , and the wildness in those eyes , wondering what they were thinking....
But then he had had thick iron bars separating him from the animal....
This was different , the lion ( or was it a lioness ?) was so close that he could smell the creature .
The man didn't panic or move , after all he was already an old fart with a bad heart and none of that would help . He considered shouting but as all around him was deadly quiet , because when the big cat came on the scene all the other woodland creatures , mammals , birds and even insects had gone silent , almost as if they had formed a viewing circle around the man and the cat and were awaiting the outcome , a sudden shout might cause the big cat to pounce .
What should he do ?
On the way up he and his companions had been discussing , jokingly , what one should do if suddenly confronted by a wild bear , his daughter-in-law said the 'rule' was ....stand absolutely still , the bear can't see you if you aren't moving , his brother said , no,no no,, ...if confronted by a bear ...run .., run like blazes ...bears can't run very fast .......But his son said they were BOTH wrong ....you must run AT the bear in an agressive manner the bear will ( probably...PROBABLY ), run away because he is not expecting an attack....
Even in his present predicament the man could hardly supress an hysterical giggle thinking of his response , that he would write all these suggestions down in his note-book and refer to it if attacked by a bear....
He had thrown his back pack and his greasy stetson beside the stream ...too far to reach without serious movement , not that they would be of much help if the lion attacked , his arse was growing numb , despite the moss/leaves cushion....he had to do something.
Was the cat a lion or a lioness ? , he could'nt see ...unless it turned over ....and even if it did he probably would'n t know anyway.....lionesses were more agressive , particularly if they had cubs ....no sign of cubs ...thank God for that , what he didn't need now was a brace of cubs scrambling around and putting mum more on edge.....
The big cat lowered itself , about to jump , a perfect killing machine ,the man looked deep into the yellow,wild, merciless eyes. The man was not afraid of death . Like most men of his age he had peeped surreptitiously around the corner of life and death had no real fear for him .
But the process of DYING was different .
He had expected when that happened it would take place in a warm bed surrounded by a loving family.
Not in the open at the mercy of an animal , red raw in tooth and claw , just as he had seen his own domestic cat hunting in the garden at home where small birds and field mice were the prey...
Now HE was the prey , HE was the expected meal ...
The big cat curled its lips and and spat just like his own domestic cat , only twenty ( thirty ?) times bigger.....this was it !!!!
Suddenly he got angry and started to shout ''GET AWAY YOU BITCH .......I'M NOT AFRAID OF YOU.........I'M NOT WORTH EATING , I'M OLD , CRUSTY AND I'LL PROBABLY TASTE AWFUL''.....
He closed his eyes and put his hands over his face and waited for the pain....
Nothing.....he opened his eyes....the beast was gone
The cowardly woodland creatures started to make their noises again and in the distance he could hear the faint sound of human voices as his companions made their way down the trail....
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Friday, October 8, 2010
Podger and Tony
Not many people know this , but school teachers have a secret benefit-in-kind , especially primary school teachers . Most children remember all their lives , their first teacher . The first person they came to know after their parents and immediate family .
Larkfield School on Clareville Road in Dublin was my primary school , between 'babies's' school and the Primary Cert.
Our Headmaster was Mr. Sheehan , and of course , as all headmasters have , he had a nickname ....Podger . He would stand in the entrace hall , underneath the school clock each morning as we arrived , dressed in a neat three-piece suit , his waistcoat straining against his pot-belly , checking his turnip warch against the school clock for accuracy .
He had neat glasses , a pork-pie hat with front brim turned up slightly , balancing on his heels , ocasionally flexing the bamboo cane behind his back as he rapped out instructions on behaviour and appearance to each of us as we trooped in . He had a tiny trimmed moustache and rolling eyes . For all the world like Agatha Christie's description of her famous detective Hercule Piorot .
It was a well run school and although Podger was easy to characture , he was well respected .
My class teacher was a Mr. Taaffe , nicknamed 'Tony' ( it may have even been his true christian name ). A brilliant teacher , dealing with a class of about 40 ,twelve or thirteen year old boys , and still finding time to encourage youngsters to advance their education to second level ( which was by no means the norm at the time ) and even to consider third level which was unusual at the time except for the very well off .
He ran a 'tight ship'and although corporal punishment was order of the day , he seldon had to use his bamboo cane ' although I clearly remember a daywhen a note was being passed around the class with a rude word on it , the note was unfortunatly in my possession when Tony swooped . Outside , in the corridore , a few serious words of censure from Tony followed by a few 'biffs' from the bamboo cane , I seldom used rude words following that ( however with the chaos in our society at the moment I have started to use those words again ) He used tecniques well ahead of the times to encourage and motivate his pupils and advised myself at the time of the Primary cert to consider teaching as a career ( advice which I did not take , however ).
Tony often charactured Podger , but in very good humour ( Podger's son was actually in the class ).
I remember these men very well and appreciate the interest and guidance they gave all of us .
They are both probably long gone now but men like these have given a legacy to the country that is beyond measure . God Bless them.....
Larkfield School on Clareville Road in Dublin was my primary school , between 'babies's' school and the Primary Cert.
Our Headmaster was Mr. Sheehan , and of course , as all headmasters have , he had a nickname ....Podger . He would stand in the entrace hall , underneath the school clock each morning as we arrived , dressed in a neat three-piece suit , his waistcoat straining against his pot-belly , checking his turnip warch against the school clock for accuracy .
He had neat glasses , a pork-pie hat with front brim turned up slightly , balancing on his heels , ocasionally flexing the bamboo cane behind his back as he rapped out instructions on behaviour and appearance to each of us as we trooped in . He had a tiny trimmed moustache and rolling eyes . For all the world like Agatha Christie's description of her famous detective Hercule Piorot .
It was a well run school and although Podger was easy to characture , he was well respected .
My class teacher was a Mr. Taaffe , nicknamed 'Tony' ( it may have even been his true christian name ). A brilliant teacher , dealing with a class of about 40 ,twelve or thirteen year old boys , and still finding time to encourage youngsters to advance their education to second level ( which was by no means the norm at the time ) and even to consider third level which was unusual at the time except for the very well off .
He ran a 'tight ship'and although corporal punishment was order of the day , he seldon had to use his bamboo cane ' although I clearly remember a daywhen a note was being passed around the class with a rude word on it , the note was unfortunatly in my possession when Tony swooped . Outside , in the corridore , a few serious words of censure from Tony followed by a few 'biffs' from the bamboo cane , I seldom used rude words following that ( however with the chaos in our society at the moment I have started to use those words again ) He used tecniques well ahead of the times to encourage and motivate his pupils and advised myself at the time of the Primary cert to consider teaching as a career ( advice which I did not take , however ).
Tony often charactured Podger , but in very good humour ( Podger's son was actually in the class ).
I remember these men very well and appreciate the interest and guidance they gave all of us .
They are both probably long gone now but men like these have given a legacy to the country that is beyond measure . God Bless them.....
Mrs.English
My Grandparents lived in a small terrace of houses in Terenure and as a child I used to visit them frequently after school . Myself and my brothers played with the children of our neighbours but as the people who lived in the terrace were mostly retired tramdrivers there were very few children of our age .
The elderly couple who lived next door to our grandparents had children of about our age , we were six or seven years old at the time . The couple were Mr. and Mrs. English , he a quiet gentle man but his wife was not so friendly ....in fact we were afraid of Mrs. English .
A very severe woman , with steel-rimmed glasses , brownish hair streaked with grey , tight-lipped , dark eyebrows and a mole on her cheek with hair growing from it .
On the occasions when we called to ask her son to come out to play she usually glowered at us and told us to go away . We were very much afraid of her .
One day on coming home from school , to visit our grandparents , as we approached the steps leading to the terrace , we saw a group of neighbours gathered around someone sitting on the steps . The person sitting there was Mrs. English . She was weeping inconsolably .Her hands were over her face , her hair was in disarray . We could not believe that this woman , of whom were so frightened , was capable of such grief .....
My sister explained to me sometime later , Mrs.English's son had just been taken from her . Mr and Mrs. English used to foster children , I recon from about toddler age to the age of say eight or nine . When the child reached the appropriate age the child was taken from his foster mother and returned to ...the orphanage of possible another foster home .
Mrs. English loved her foster children and her heart was broken when the time came to give him/her up....As far as I know she fostered a number of children and presumably suffered the same trauma when the child was subsequently taken back ...
We , as children , didn't notice that the children were too young to be the elderly couples children . The they were so loved and so well cared for by this wonderful lady and obviously when she saw us it just reminded her that some day she would have to hand over her little ones .
This was over sixty years ago and I still clearly remember that day when I learned that you can't judge a book by its cover....
The elderly couple who lived next door to our grandparents had children of about our age , we were six or seven years old at the time . The couple were Mr. and Mrs. English , he a quiet gentle man but his wife was not so friendly ....in fact we were afraid of Mrs. English .
A very severe woman , with steel-rimmed glasses , brownish hair streaked with grey , tight-lipped , dark eyebrows and a mole on her cheek with hair growing from it .
On the occasions when we called to ask her son to come out to play she usually glowered at us and told us to go away . We were very much afraid of her .
One day on coming home from school , to visit our grandparents , as we approached the steps leading to the terrace , we saw a group of neighbours gathered around someone sitting on the steps . The person sitting there was Mrs. English . She was weeping inconsolably .Her hands were over her face , her hair was in disarray . We could not believe that this woman , of whom were so frightened , was capable of such grief .....
My sister explained to me sometime later , Mrs.English's son had just been taken from her . Mr and Mrs. English used to foster children , I recon from about toddler age to the age of say eight or nine . When the child reached the appropriate age the child was taken from his foster mother and returned to ...the orphanage of possible another foster home .
Mrs. English loved her foster children and her heart was broken when the time came to give him/her up....As far as I know she fostered a number of children and presumably suffered the same trauma when the child was subsequently taken back ...
We , as children , didn't notice that the children were too young to be the elderly couples children . The they were so loved and so well cared for by this wonderful lady and obviously when she saw us it just reminded her that some day she would have to hand over her little ones .
This was over sixty years ago and I still clearly remember that day when I learned that you can't judge a book by its cover....
Monday, August 23, 2010
Joe goes to.......London
I haven't been to London very often , having spent some years around that city during the ''swinging sixties'' I thought I'd had enough ...but when an opportunity arose recently I jumped at the chance to re-visit .
On arrival at Heathrow I was whisked by train almost to the door of my destination the Hilton Hotel in Paddington . Remembering Agatha Christie's '' 4.50 from Paddington '' , which became , thanks to Margaret Rutherford , '' Murder she said '' which in turn became '' Murder she wrote'' with Angela Landsbury the mainline station seemed to have changed very little from the sixties .
The Edgeware Road was almost like a different country , many of the people on the street wore traditional middle-eastern dress , the pubs and cafes had alfresco seating and many of the male customers smoked the hookah pipe . It all made for a very colourful scene enhanced by the famous black taxies and red London buses .
Strolling up to Marble Arch , which was much smaller than I remembered ( or did I grow BIGGER ?) I walked around Hyde Park and while resting on a park bench reading I gradually became aware of the traffic passing by and that almost ALL of the cars , with the exception of the black taxies were Beemers or Mercs....all looking brand new and shiney . Later on when I became familiar with the Congestion Charge I realised that probably only the very wealthy could afford to use the roads in that part of London .
The weather was good and following the dry spell the grass in Hyde Park was a light brown in colour.
Not being able to afford the Hilton I stayed in a very nice B&B , called the Tudor Court
Later , while sitting at a coffee table in the foyer of the Hilton waiting for my daughter , a waiter approached me and asked if I would like to order a drink.....well I thought 'why not ?' , so I ordered a Bailey's Cream . '' With or without ice Sir ?''....'' No ..no ice thank you '' sez I
When he arrived back with the drink , in a whiskey glass , the liquid barely covered the bottom of the glass ....a bare dribble ...so little that I was afraid to swirl the liquid around in case it might all stick to the side of the glass and disappear altogether .'' That will be £7.50 , Sir '' sez the waiter , I muttered something about how the ice would have made it look more , '' would you like ice Sir ''sez he .....As I paid up (plus a tip of .50p ) , I reckoned that that hotel must get about
£180 to £200 dribbles out of one bottle of Baileys ....if Ireland exported nothing else we could solve our economic problems on BC alone....
As I was about to sip my drink , my daughter arrived ( eventually...) and said '' Ah ,I see you have finished your drink Dad , let's go !''..... I gulped down the precious liquid , licked the glass , and galloped out after her .....
On arrival at Heathrow I was whisked by train almost to the door of my destination the Hilton Hotel in Paddington . Remembering Agatha Christie's '' 4.50 from Paddington '' , which became , thanks to Margaret Rutherford , '' Murder she said '' which in turn became '' Murder she wrote'' with Angela Landsbury the mainline station seemed to have changed very little from the sixties .
The Edgeware Road was almost like a different country , many of the people on the street wore traditional middle-eastern dress , the pubs and cafes had alfresco seating and many of the male customers smoked the hookah pipe . It all made for a very colourful scene enhanced by the famous black taxies and red London buses .
Strolling up to Marble Arch , which was much smaller than I remembered ( or did I grow BIGGER ?) I walked around Hyde Park and while resting on a park bench reading I gradually became aware of the traffic passing by and that almost ALL of the cars , with the exception of the black taxies were Beemers or Mercs....all looking brand new and shiney . Later on when I became familiar with the Congestion Charge I realised that probably only the very wealthy could afford to use the roads in that part of London .
The weather was good and following the dry spell the grass in Hyde Park was a light brown in colour.
Not being able to afford the Hilton I stayed in a very nice B&B , called the Tudor Court
Later , while sitting at a coffee table in the foyer of the Hilton waiting for my daughter , a waiter approached me and asked if I would like to order a drink.....well I thought 'why not ?' , so I ordered a Bailey's Cream . '' With or without ice Sir ?''....'' No ..no ice thank you '' sez I
When he arrived back with the drink , in a whiskey glass , the liquid barely covered the bottom of the glass ....a bare dribble ...so little that I was afraid to swirl the liquid around in case it might all stick to the side of the glass and disappear altogether .'' That will be £7.50 , Sir '' sez the waiter , I muttered something about how the ice would have made it look more , '' would you like ice Sir ''sez he .....As I paid up (plus a tip of .50p ) , I reckoned that that hotel must get about
£180 to £200 dribbles out of one bottle of Baileys ....if Ireland exported nothing else we could solve our economic problems on BC alone....
As I was about to sip my drink , my daughter arrived ( eventually...) and said '' Ah ,I see you have finished your drink Dad , let's go !''..... I gulped down the precious liquid , licked the glass , and galloped out after her .....
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Joe goes to ......Zurich .
My first reaction to being told of my birthday present of a trip to Zurich .....was ..nonplussed...
After all I'd heard of the difficulties of air-travel , what with the volcanic ash problem and strikes and rumours of strikes I thought I'd be better off at home .
But I went rather than upset the givers ...
It turned out to be a marvellous experience .....no hassle at Dublin Airport , the AirLingus flight left on time and was very comfortable , arriving at Zurich Airport approximetly two and a quarter hours later . Having no bags to collect I was whisked by the shuttle to the main concourse , passed through customs and immediatly met my son and his fiancee at arrivals , to be driven straight away to their new apartment in about 20 mins.
It was a beautiful summer evening and as I stood on their balcony relaxing , the neighbours on adjoining balconies and flat rooves were also discreetly enjoying the sunshine . It reminded me of the film ' Rear Window ' , where , if one was nosy enough , you could follow part of the lives of those living around you through , balconies , flat-rooves and curtainless windows .
The first day was a bank holiday in Switzerland so my hosts were able to introduce me to the city .
The public transport system was the the first pleasant surprise , my hosts had provided me with a 7 day run-around ticket whiich cost the equivalant of € 30 but covered all modes of transport , trams , busses , local trains ( including the 'orange' train that takes people to the ' top of Zurich ') , the scenic boat trip on the Zurich- See lake , which , by the way , even on a hot summers day can be very cold , being fed by the melting snow from the Alps .
On the first day of my visit my hosts introduced me to the city , we travelled from the station Banhof Enge by tram to the Zurich See lake on took a boat trip on a ferry around the lake , then on to Rapporswill overlooking the city
The trams can take one almost any where in Zurich , and if the passenger mistakenly boards the wrong tram ( as I did occasionally ) he can be literally back on track in minutes .
There are no barriers or ticket checking , once you have your ticket , you are free to travel whereever you wish , in the seven days I was there , travelling frequently each day , I was not asked ONCE to present my ticket , either to a human or a ticket-checking machine . Trust is absolute , I would guess , however , that the penalties for deliberatly trying the system would be severe ...but the system is so efficient that only a foolish person would try to cheat .
On the second day of my visit I was on my own , my son and his fiancee having returned to work . My self -imposed project for the day was to find the grave of James Joyce . I have read ' Dubliners ' of course , almost struggled through ' Ulysses ' but have not even attempted reading 'Finnigan's Wake ' but I am a Dubliner myself and even grew up near one of the many places where Joyce lived in Rathgar .
My son , having checked the Internet , told me that I should start my search at The Zoo near the final stop of the 13 tram .So I got off the tram at the final stop , as instructed , walked up the hill toward the zoo , made inquiries at the hotel half-way up , they seemed to know very little of the whereabouts of Joyces grave and suggested that I make further inquiries at the zoo offices .
Skipping the queues of parents and children I asked for directions from the person in charge who having checked HIS computer told me I would have to go back to the city ......anyway as I was about to give up I discovered the tiny private graveyard A FEW HUNDRED YARDS down the hill from the zoo .
The man in charge of the graveyard took me to the grave of Joyce . In a special area , on a raised area accessed by steps beside a lifesize bronze statue of the famous writer I sat for a while in the warm summer sun , apologised for not finishing Ulysses , not starting Finnigan's Wake , for referring to his statues in North Earl St. as 'the pratt with the hat ' or the ' p*ick with the stick' and for getting Nora Barnacle mixed up with Nora Batty......I also asked for a few literary favours ...I spent about two hours walking about in the sun and admiring the colourful flowers and shrubs .....its a lovely place to visit...
More of Zurich later.....
On following days I visited Uetliberg , the top of Zurich , almost literally walking in the clouds above the city , standing on a high platform viewing the Alps (granted , not the ideal place for a seventy-year-old man with vertigo to stand alone ) , listening to the tinkle of the bells on the Alpine animals , I also travelled on a cable car at Santis de berg , again above the clouds , and saw the mist burn away to see the beautiful valley appear below ....
A visit to the cinema and a stand-up comedy show ( Rich Hall and Ed Byrne ) lovely meal s and a trip to St.Gallas , where we came across Zurich's version of a stag celebration for a young man about to get married , hot coffee liberally laced with schnapps handed out to all comers .....great days laid on by my hosts
I love Zurich , its public transport system , the best in the world , its clear pure air and water , magnificent views , its accessability from the airport , in shops , restaurants , in the streets , although the local language is Swiss /German , most people understand English...
Goobye Zurich for now , I'll be back.....
After all I'd heard of the difficulties of air-travel , what with the volcanic ash problem and strikes and rumours of strikes I thought I'd be better off at home .
But I went rather than upset the givers ...
It turned out to be a marvellous experience .....no hassle at Dublin Airport , the AirLingus flight left on time and was very comfortable , arriving at Zurich Airport approximetly two and a quarter hours later . Having no bags to collect I was whisked by the shuttle to the main concourse , passed through customs and immediatly met my son and his fiancee at arrivals , to be driven straight away to their new apartment in about 20 mins.
It was a beautiful summer evening and as I stood on their balcony relaxing , the neighbours on adjoining balconies and flat rooves were also discreetly enjoying the sunshine . It reminded me of the film ' Rear Window ' , where , if one was nosy enough , you could follow part of the lives of those living around you through , balconies , flat-rooves and curtainless windows .
The first day was a bank holiday in Switzerland so my hosts were able to introduce me to the city .
The public transport system was the the first pleasant surprise , my hosts had provided me with a 7 day run-around ticket whiich cost the equivalant of € 30 but covered all modes of transport , trams , busses , local trains ( including the 'orange' train that takes people to the ' top of Zurich ') , the scenic boat trip on the Zurich- See lake , which , by the way , even on a hot summers day can be very cold , being fed by the melting snow from the Alps .
On the first day of my visit my hosts introduced me to the city , we travelled from the station Banhof Enge by tram to the Zurich See lake on took a boat trip on a ferry around the lake , then on to Rapporswill overlooking the city
The trams can take one almost any where in Zurich , and if the passenger mistakenly boards the wrong tram ( as I did occasionally ) he can be literally back on track in minutes .
There are no barriers or ticket checking , once you have your ticket , you are free to travel whereever you wish , in the seven days I was there , travelling frequently each day , I was not asked ONCE to present my ticket , either to a human or a ticket-checking machine . Trust is absolute , I would guess , however , that the penalties for deliberatly trying the system would be severe ...but the system is so efficient that only a foolish person would try to cheat .
On the second day of my visit I was on my own , my son and his fiancee having returned to work . My self -imposed project for the day was to find the grave of James Joyce . I have read ' Dubliners ' of course , almost struggled through ' Ulysses ' but have not even attempted reading 'Finnigan's Wake ' but I am a Dubliner myself and even grew up near one of the many places where Joyce lived in Rathgar .
My son , having checked the Internet , told me that I should start my search at The Zoo near the final stop of the 13 tram .So I got off the tram at the final stop , as instructed , walked up the hill toward the zoo , made inquiries at the hotel half-way up , they seemed to know very little of the whereabouts of Joyces grave and suggested that I make further inquiries at the zoo offices .
Skipping the queues of parents and children I asked for directions from the person in charge who having checked HIS computer told me I would have to go back to the city ......anyway as I was about to give up I discovered the tiny private graveyard A FEW HUNDRED YARDS down the hill from the zoo .
The man in charge of the graveyard took me to the grave of Joyce . In a special area , on a raised area accessed by steps beside a lifesize bronze statue of the famous writer I sat for a while in the warm summer sun , apologised for not finishing Ulysses , not starting Finnigan's Wake , for referring to his statues in North Earl St. as 'the pratt with the hat ' or the ' p*ick with the stick' and for getting Nora Barnacle mixed up with Nora Batty......I also asked for a few literary favours ...I spent about two hours walking about in the sun and admiring the colourful flowers and shrubs .....its a lovely place to visit...
More of Zurich later.....
On following days I visited Uetliberg , the top of Zurich , almost literally walking in the clouds above the city , standing on a high platform viewing the Alps (granted , not the ideal place for a seventy-year-old man with vertigo to stand alone ) , listening to the tinkle of the bells on the Alpine animals , I also travelled on a cable car at Santis de berg , again above the clouds , and saw the mist burn away to see the beautiful valley appear below ....
A visit to the cinema and a stand-up comedy show ( Rich Hall and Ed Byrne ) lovely meal s and a trip to St.Gallas , where we came across Zurich's version of a stag celebration for a young man about to get married , hot coffee liberally laced with schnapps handed out to all comers .....great days laid on by my hosts
I love Zurich , its public transport system , the best in the world , its clear pure air and water , magnificent views , its accessability from the airport , in shops , restaurants , in the streets , although the local language is Swiss /German , most people understand English...
Goobye Zurich for now , I'll be back.....
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Gambling , in Rathgar in the rare 'oul times ..( and some namedropping from Mrs.Joe Blogs)
It appears , nowadays , that all teenagers / adolescents , indulge in activities 'frowned -on' by adults ;
drink , drugs , sex etc...( what is the ' etc ' ...I wonder ?
When I was a teenager we didn't have any of the above ( well we did have , but innocents like us didn't KNOW about them ). Our particular vice was.... gambling .
When we were still at school we started playing PONTOON , or twentyone as it was sometimes called ....pennies became half-crowns , half-crowns became pound notes as we got older ( and started getting pocket-money or part-time jobs ).
This eventually led on to Poker - schools ....playing mostly draw poker at every opportunity .
We , at first , played in different houses , but eventually settled on the home of one of our friends as almost a permanent venue . We were all late teens or early twenties , about 10 or 12 in the school , at various times . We depended very much on the patience and forbearance of pur friend's parents . He lived in a three story house , but the family used , mainly , only the lower floor for day to day living and the top floor as bedrooms . Which meant that the middle floor was seldom used . There steps leading up to the middle floor from outside and the front door was seldom locked . So we could access the front room without having to go through family space .
The large window of the front room looked straight out on to Garville /Rathgar Ave. crossroads , so when a game was in session we were able to see from a distance the late arrivals as they hurried in to join the game , sometimes even having their 'hand' dealth out before they even entered the room .
Games would sometimes start in the early evening , usually on Fridays , and carry on to late at night . On occasion we would change the routine , calling in to the house for a game of pontoon , then heading off to Harold's Cross Greyhound Track until the last race at 9 PM and return to the house to play poker until the 'wee small hours'. At Christmas or Easter when we had more time off and more money , some of the games went on for about 12 hours , early evening to early morning .
Often a weekly wage was lost by one or other of us on a Friday evening , no problem , we could always borrow from the winner until the next payday when hopefully the positions might be reversed .
On Saturdays we of course had to visit the Bookies , even before RTE started showing televised racing , another friend had BBC piped racing , luckily he also lived near the bookmakers shop and we could put on our bet and run quickly around the corner just in time to see the race live on TV .
We also attended race meetings in the Summer , Baldoyle , Phoenix Park , Leopardstown all had evening meetings and were accessable by public transport....
It was great fun while it lasted and over all that period I suppose we ended up even , the fun and the comradery we experienced was the real payoff.....
Since then I have learned a new card game .....Texas Hold'em.... I was taught it by my daughter-in-law , Two-deck -Sal , who was born in Texas and , apparently learned the game in her crib....I can see her now ..green.... eye -shade , dangling Marlboro trailing smoke , snapping out instructions to the less serious players ....as she deals in the no-holds-barred game .......( at one point , when I tentatively queried the hiearchy of winning hands , I was curtly informed by 'the shooter' that we were now playing Texas Hold'em in Fort Worth , Texas in the 21st century and the 'Rathgar Rules ' of a dull 1960's poker school , did NOT apply.....ouch!!!!)
On another subject I have been instructed by my wife to write the following :
'' As a matter of fact my wife , having read all my adventures proceeded to name drop herself .....TO start with as a child she lived in Mill Hill , London , where supposedly the famous playwright Oliver Goldsmith once sat under a beautiful oak tree in her front garden , writing his plays....
Later she was attending a family gathering and was delighted to receive a 10 shilling note from a German gentleman who was the inventor of the '' Thermos flask''.
And guess what ?....one day after school she watched , in awe , as King George VI drove by in his limosene , later she met the Queen Mother IN PERSON , at a local garden fete and curtsied .
And while at college had the pleasure seeing the Queen at close quarters .....she really was beautiful .
But her most EXCITING meeting was in the ITV studios , London .....with Tom Jones...''
end ..
drink , drugs , sex etc...( what is the ' etc ' ...I wonder ?
When I was a teenager we didn't have any of the above ( well we did have , but innocents like us didn't KNOW about them ). Our particular vice was.... gambling .
When we were still at school we started playing PONTOON , or twentyone as it was sometimes called ....pennies became half-crowns , half-crowns became pound notes as we got older ( and started getting pocket-money or part-time jobs ).
This eventually led on to Poker - schools ....playing mostly draw poker at every opportunity .
We , at first , played in different houses , but eventually settled on the home of one of our friends as almost a permanent venue . We were all late teens or early twenties , about 10 or 12 in the school , at various times . We depended very much on the patience and forbearance of pur friend's parents . He lived in a three story house , but the family used , mainly , only the lower floor for day to day living and the top floor as bedrooms . Which meant that the middle floor was seldom used . There steps leading up to the middle floor from outside and the front door was seldom locked . So we could access the front room without having to go through family space .
The large window of the front room looked straight out on to Garville /Rathgar Ave. crossroads , so when a game was in session we were able to see from a distance the late arrivals as they hurried in to join the game , sometimes even having their 'hand' dealth out before they even entered the room .
Games would sometimes start in the early evening , usually on Fridays , and carry on to late at night . On occasion we would change the routine , calling in to the house for a game of pontoon , then heading off to Harold's Cross Greyhound Track until the last race at 9 PM and return to the house to play poker until the 'wee small hours'. At Christmas or Easter when we had more time off and more money , some of the games went on for about 12 hours , early evening to early morning .
Often a weekly wage was lost by one or other of us on a Friday evening , no problem , we could always borrow from the winner until the next payday when hopefully the positions might be reversed .
On Saturdays we of course had to visit the Bookies , even before RTE started showing televised racing , another friend had BBC piped racing , luckily he also lived near the bookmakers shop and we could put on our bet and run quickly around the corner just in time to see the race live on TV .
We also attended race meetings in the Summer , Baldoyle , Phoenix Park , Leopardstown all had evening meetings and were accessable by public transport....
It was great fun while it lasted and over all that period I suppose we ended up even , the fun and the comradery we experienced was the real payoff.....
Since then I have learned a new card game .....Texas Hold'em.... I was taught it by my daughter-in-law , Two-deck -Sal , who was born in Texas and , apparently learned the game in her crib....I can see her now ..green.... eye -shade , dangling Marlboro trailing smoke , snapping out instructions to the less serious players ....as she deals in the no-holds-barred game .......( at one point , when I tentatively queried the hiearchy of winning hands , I was curtly informed by 'the shooter' that we were now playing Texas Hold'em in Fort Worth , Texas in the 21st century and the 'Rathgar Rules ' of a dull 1960's poker school , did NOT apply.....ouch!!!!)
On another subject I have been instructed by my wife to write the following :
'' As a matter of fact my wife , having read all my adventures proceeded to name drop herself .....TO start with as a child she lived in Mill Hill , London , where supposedly the famous playwright Oliver Goldsmith once sat under a beautiful oak tree in her front garden , writing his plays....
Later she was attending a family gathering and was delighted to receive a 10 shilling note from a German gentleman who was the inventor of the '' Thermos flask''.
And guess what ?....one day after school she watched , in awe , as King George VI drove by in his limosene , later she met the Queen Mother IN PERSON , at a local garden fete and curtsied .
And while at college had the pleasure seeing the Queen at close quarters .....she really was beautiful .
But her most EXCITING meeting was in the ITV studios , London .....with Tom Jones...''
end ..
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Name dropping ...in Rathgar in the rare oul times
I remember my mother telling us that she knew A.E. Russell the writer who lived a few doors down from us on Rathgar Avenue and that she had studied Irish under Art O'Griofa , in the days before the Irish language was taught in National Schools . As children we were not quite sure who either of these men were and this was our mother's version of namedropping famous people .
When we grew older we added our own experiences of meeting famous people . One of my brothers worked for a time as a chauffeur for a car-hire firm and met people such as Alec Guinness , Brendan Behan , Patrick Kavanagh , and most of ''The Dubliners'' , my father did gardening for John D. Sheridan ...the famous actress Siobhain McKenna and her husband Denis O'Dea lived on Highfield Road just around the corner from us and we were delighted to see her in such classic films as The Robe ( the Virgin Mary ) and Doctor Zhivago ( Zhivago's mother ?).
Erskin Childers ( later President of Ireland ) lived for a time on Highfield Road also .
My father told us that Michael Collins used one of the houses on Airfield Road as a 'safe house'but of course Collins used many houses around the city as safe houses , also James Joyce lived , for a time , on Brighton Road but just like Collins , James Joyce lived in many houses . Of course Collins reasons for moving around so much was to 'keep ahead of the posse ' , whereas Joyces reasons for moving seemed to be to keep ahead of the landlord ...
When I was about 12 years of age I met Sean Lemass , as I and my friends were involved in distributing election literature for the Fianna Fail party and we were treated to lemonade and biscuits in their election offices and Lemass gave me a half-crown ( a good sum at the time ) , I was not aware who he was , but I can still see the moustache , sleeky hair , the pipe and of course the half-crown , in my mind's eye ....a gentleman ( come to think of it I must be one of the few people who received money FROM Fianna Fail ......in the afternoon of that same day we were discovered distributing literature for the Fine Gael Party and we were all summarily dismissed .....end of my political career...
I attended Secondary School , Westland Row , Christian Brothers and travelled from Rathgar to Westland Row on the no. 47 bus . Each day I would see a distinguished gentleman , dressed entirely in black , bearded turning gray , sitting always in the back seat of the single deck bus . This man also got off the bus in Westland Row , it was only years later that I found out that this was Sean Keating , the famous artist ,travelling from his home in the foothills of the Dublin mountains to the National Gallery in town , almost door to door .
Westland Row was the former school of Patrick Pearse and one day his sister , Margaret , visited the school to unveil a plaque to her dead brothers , we were all introduced to her ..
Mount Argus was one of our local parishes and one could 'get confession ' there at almost any time of the day on request . I was sitting in my seat one day , in an almost empty church when three people entered and sat on the seat almost in front of me .....our , then , Taoiseach Jack Lynch , his wife Maureen ,and (presumably ) his aide-com.....no fuss no bother .....I only wish I had the courage to listen at the confession box......
I met Archbishop John Charles McQuaid at my confirmation of course , when he did'nt ask me a question from the cathechism , but I met him more fore formally when I was chosen as an altar -boy to attend on him when he blessed a new church in Templeogue , Josef Locke the singer lived on Rathgar Road but was more famous locally for the rows at his house than for his singing....the actor with the magnificent voice Denis Brennan also lived locally , although at times the worse for wear he was a very elegant man .
I came across Denis later when our school was one of those chosen to take part in the Pageant of Saint Patrick , produced and directed by Hilton Edwards and Michael Mc Liammamore .I can still remember the rehearsals in the CIE hall in Inchicore (1955 ?) , and McLiammore's brother-in-law the famous Irish-Shakespearean actor , Anew McMaster , who was cast as Patrick , standing on a wobbly kitchen chair , dressed in an old army coat ( rehearsals took place in January in the unheated hall ). McLiammore was the High King of Ireland and Denis Brennan was the narrator . Because of my vast experience as an altarboy I was chosen to lead a procession , swinging a thurible .
A number of us were also chosen to represent Irish peasants in crowd scenes carrying staves with little lights hidden in the top , which we switched on when given a cue by 'St.Patrick'....guess you had to be there....
Many well known people lived around Rathgar at the time , most of them best known for their voices , as radio was the entertainment medium of the day....we might be standing in a queue in the local 'chipper'and suddenly hear a very familiar voice( e.g.Aidan Grinnel ) ordering '' a cod and two bags of chips'' , having previously heard the same voice as Daniel O'Connell or Patrick Pearse on a recent radio play .
I never actually met Napolean Bonapart , no...no....really I did'nt...but in England in the sixties I met a man who was actually born on the island of St.Helena , the lonely island in the Atlantic over a thousand miles from the coast of Africa , where Napolean was held in captivity/isolation.
My friend's name was Hensel Maggott and he was proud of his name and ancestry ( descended from pirates according to Hensel ) , he was also annoyed that the only reason anyone had even heard of St.Helena was because of Bonapart's connection . When Hensel's sons ( their mother was Irish ) were starting school they tentivly asked their dad could they pronounce their surname differently , say Maggoh( soft 'T' ) , ..'.no' said dad '' The name is MAGGOT and you should pronounce it that way and be proud of it .'' As far as I know they did ....and they were .
The reason I remember Hensel after over fifty years , is not just because of his unusual name and ancestry , but because he was a kind and generous man who shared his family life with a homesick migrant , I hope he has had a happy life....
I was introduced twice to Charlie Haughey ( for most people once would be enough ) , I still remember the limp handshake , as the hooded eyes surveyed the room searching for someone more important ....or better looking....
I nearly spoke to Garret Fitzgerald .....he having given a talk in which he included an anecdote about having to resort to reading through the TELEPHONE DIRECTORY one time when he was laid up and could find nothing else to read .....I had intended to say that the telephone directory wasn't much of a book ...lots of characters ....but no story ....alas I lost my nerve and didn't pass on my clever comment....
Even I am bored with this now....but I did meet , Michael Caine ( was made up beside him , and 'shared' a scene..)., Kate Blanchett , unfortunatly I did'nt know who she was ,
I could write pages more about the people I did'nt meet but I'm sure there must be some law there against boring complete strangers to death......
When we grew older we added our own experiences of meeting famous people . One of my brothers worked for a time as a chauffeur for a car-hire firm and met people such as Alec Guinness , Brendan Behan , Patrick Kavanagh , and most of ''The Dubliners'' , my father did gardening for John D. Sheridan ...the famous actress Siobhain McKenna and her husband Denis O'Dea lived on Highfield Road just around the corner from us and we were delighted to see her in such classic films as The Robe ( the Virgin Mary ) and Doctor Zhivago ( Zhivago's mother ?).
Erskin Childers ( later President of Ireland ) lived for a time on Highfield Road also .
My father told us that Michael Collins used one of the houses on Airfield Road as a 'safe house'but of course Collins used many houses around the city as safe houses , also James Joyce lived , for a time , on Brighton Road but just like Collins , James Joyce lived in many houses . Of course Collins reasons for moving around so much was to 'keep ahead of the posse ' , whereas Joyces reasons for moving seemed to be to keep ahead of the landlord ...
When I was about 12 years of age I met Sean Lemass , as I and my friends were involved in distributing election literature for the Fianna Fail party and we were treated to lemonade and biscuits in their election offices and Lemass gave me a half-crown ( a good sum at the time ) , I was not aware who he was , but I can still see the moustache , sleeky hair , the pipe and of course the half-crown , in my mind's eye ....a gentleman ( come to think of it I must be one of the few people who received money FROM Fianna Fail ......in the afternoon of that same day we were discovered distributing literature for the Fine Gael Party and we were all summarily dismissed .....end of my political career...
I attended Secondary School , Westland Row , Christian Brothers and travelled from Rathgar to Westland Row on the no. 47 bus . Each day I would see a distinguished gentleman , dressed entirely in black , bearded turning gray , sitting always in the back seat of the single deck bus . This man also got off the bus in Westland Row , it was only years later that I found out that this was Sean Keating , the famous artist ,travelling from his home in the foothills of the Dublin mountains to the National Gallery in town , almost door to door .
Westland Row was the former school of Patrick Pearse and one day his sister , Margaret , visited the school to unveil a plaque to her dead brothers , we were all introduced to her ..
Mount Argus was one of our local parishes and one could 'get confession ' there at almost any time of the day on request . I was sitting in my seat one day , in an almost empty church when three people entered and sat on the seat almost in front of me .....our , then , Taoiseach Jack Lynch , his wife Maureen ,and (presumably ) his aide-com.....no fuss no bother .....I only wish I had the courage to listen at the confession box......
I met Archbishop John Charles McQuaid at my confirmation of course , when he did'nt ask me a question from the cathechism , but I met him more fore formally when I was chosen as an altar -boy to attend on him when he blessed a new church in Templeogue , Josef Locke the singer lived on Rathgar Road but was more famous locally for the rows at his house than for his singing....the actor with the magnificent voice Denis Brennan also lived locally , although at times the worse for wear he was a very elegant man .
I came across Denis later when our school was one of those chosen to take part in the Pageant of Saint Patrick , produced and directed by Hilton Edwards and Michael Mc Liammamore .I can still remember the rehearsals in the CIE hall in Inchicore (1955 ?) , and McLiammore's brother-in-law the famous Irish-Shakespearean actor , Anew McMaster , who was cast as Patrick , standing on a wobbly kitchen chair , dressed in an old army coat ( rehearsals took place in January in the unheated hall ). McLiammore was the High King of Ireland and Denis Brennan was the narrator . Because of my vast experience as an altarboy I was chosen to lead a procession , swinging a thurible .
A number of us were also chosen to represent Irish peasants in crowd scenes carrying staves with little lights hidden in the top , which we switched on when given a cue by 'St.Patrick'....guess you had to be there....
Many well known people lived around Rathgar at the time , most of them best known for their voices , as radio was the entertainment medium of the day....we might be standing in a queue in the local 'chipper'and suddenly hear a very familiar voice( e.g.Aidan Grinnel ) ordering '' a cod and two bags of chips'' , having previously heard the same voice as Daniel O'Connell or Patrick Pearse on a recent radio play .
I never actually met Napolean Bonapart , no...no....really I did'nt...but in England in the sixties I met a man who was actually born on the island of St.Helena , the lonely island in the Atlantic over a thousand miles from the coast of Africa , where Napolean was held in captivity/isolation.
My friend's name was Hensel Maggott and he was proud of his name and ancestry ( descended from pirates according to Hensel ) , he was also annoyed that the only reason anyone had even heard of St.Helena was because of Bonapart's connection . When Hensel's sons ( their mother was Irish ) were starting school they tentivly asked their dad could they pronounce their surname differently , say Maggoh( soft 'T' ) , ..'.no' said dad '' The name is MAGGOT and you should pronounce it that way and be proud of it .'' As far as I know they did ....and they were .
The reason I remember Hensel after over fifty years , is not just because of his unusual name and ancestry , but because he was a kind and generous man who shared his family life with a homesick migrant , I hope he has had a happy life....
I was introduced twice to Charlie Haughey ( for most people once would be enough ) , I still remember the limp handshake , as the hooded eyes surveyed the room searching for someone more important ....or better looking....
I nearly spoke to Garret Fitzgerald .....he having given a talk in which he included an anecdote about having to resort to reading through the TELEPHONE DIRECTORY one time when he was laid up and could find nothing else to read .....I had intended to say that the telephone directory wasn't much of a book ...lots of characters ....but no story ....alas I lost my nerve and didn't pass on my clever comment....
Even I am bored with this now....but I did meet , Michael Caine ( was made up beside him , and 'shared' a scene..)., Kate Blanchett , unfortunatly I did'nt know who she was ,
I could write pages more about the people I did'nt meet but I'm sure there must be some law there against boring complete strangers to death......
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Rathgar in the rare oul times ( yet again !!!!)
My mother was Kathleen Nolan , daughter of Tom and Kate ( nee Howard ).She had only one surviving sibling , a sister , her brother Jack k.i.a. in the Balkans in Oct.1916 , another sister died of TB .
She had seven children .Although she spent all her married life as a 'housewife' she was always deeply interested in the happenings in Dublin of its day . Because of the large family no matter what happened in the city at the time , one of us was sure to have an inside track on the news of the day , either through direct experience or through a work collegue or a friend or a neighbour .
She had studied the Irish language ( before Irish became compulsary in schools , under Art O'Griofa ,an Croibhin Aoibhinn ) and was proud of her knowledge .
She attended 10 o'clock Mass each day in St.Joseph's in Terenure . Shopping for a big family , after mass each day , before the advent of supermarkets , meant having to visit the butcher ,maybe the pork butcher , or the ''baby beef'' butcher , the fruit and veg shop , the dairy , sometimes the fish and poultry shop and other provisions . This meant meeting friends and neighbours and passing on information ( she never let us use the word ''gossip'').
Bread , milk , and laundry were delivered ( in the earlier days ) by horse drawn vans or drays . So the mid-mornings on Rathgar Ave. were very busy indeed , with women coming home from mass or shopping meeting and greeting one another , the deliverymen knocking at doors , horsedrawn vehicles parked by the roadside , the clanging of trams or some of the newly-arrived motor vehicles roaring past .
When the family came home from work/school in the evenings our meal was ready piping hot , a stew , beef or chicken or even rabbit , ready to eat , followed by maybe , a freshly baked Madeira cake , or hot apple or jam tarts , maybe a huge deep apple pie , with whole cloves of course .
Sometimes we would have pancakes or delicious potato cakes baked on the huge black frying pan on the 'hob', big dollops of REAL butter and mugs of hot , sweet tea (from the best blended tea leaves ....none of your 'owl' teabags )......Let me pause for a moment to savour the past..........
Now where was I ????
I remember many of my mother's sayings , which presumably SHE heard from HER mother , but one of her sayings always mystified me ......If we told her what SHE considered to be a tall story that she didn't believe she would say '' Very like a whale ''. It was only in later years when we were studying ''Hamlet '' in school and we came to Polonious's humouring of Hamlet as they looked at the clouds , Hamlet said something like '' look at that cloud up there it's shaped like a camel '' and Polonious ''yes , indeed it looks like a camel ''and then Hamlet said '' but it is backed like a whale '' and old Po..agreed '' Very like a whale ''.....I guess you had to be there ....
The point I'm getting to is that in my mothers time many many people used lines from Shakespeare , often in daily conversation....maybe due to people like Anew McMaster and his fit ups bringing Shakespeare as well as Irish drama to everyone....
I was married in January 1973 , my mothers younger sister and only surviving sibling , died on Easter Monday of that year , my father's sister died mid year and my mother died on the 18th Dec 1973 , exactly a week before Christmas and two months before our first child was born....
She had seven children .Although she spent all her married life as a 'housewife' she was always deeply interested in the happenings in Dublin of its day . Because of the large family no matter what happened in the city at the time , one of us was sure to have an inside track on the news of the day , either through direct experience or through a work collegue or a friend or a neighbour .
She had studied the Irish language ( before Irish became compulsary in schools , under Art O'Griofa ,an Croibhin Aoibhinn ) and was proud of her knowledge .
She attended 10 o'clock Mass each day in St.Joseph's in Terenure . Shopping for a big family , after mass each day , before the advent of supermarkets , meant having to visit the butcher ,maybe the pork butcher , or the ''baby beef'' butcher , the fruit and veg shop , the dairy , sometimes the fish and poultry shop and other provisions . This meant meeting friends and neighbours and passing on information ( she never let us use the word ''gossip'').
Bread , milk , and laundry were delivered ( in the earlier days ) by horse drawn vans or drays . So the mid-mornings on Rathgar Ave. were very busy indeed , with women coming home from mass or shopping meeting and greeting one another , the deliverymen knocking at doors , horsedrawn vehicles parked by the roadside , the clanging of trams or some of the newly-arrived motor vehicles roaring past .
When the family came home from work/school in the evenings our meal was ready piping hot , a stew , beef or chicken or even rabbit , ready to eat , followed by maybe , a freshly baked Madeira cake , or hot apple or jam tarts , maybe a huge deep apple pie , with whole cloves of course .
Sometimes we would have pancakes or delicious potato cakes baked on the huge black frying pan on the 'hob', big dollops of REAL butter and mugs of hot , sweet tea (from the best blended tea leaves ....none of your 'owl' teabags )......Let me pause for a moment to savour the past..........
Now where was I ????
I remember many of my mother's sayings , which presumably SHE heard from HER mother , but one of her sayings always mystified me ......If we told her what SHE considered to be a tall story that she didn't believe she would say '' Very like a whale ''. It was only in later years when we were studying ''Hamlet '' in school and we came to Polonious's humouring of Hamlet as they looked at the clouds , Hamlet said something like '' look at that cloud up there it's shaped like a camel '' and Polonious ''yes , indeed it looks like a camel ''and then Hamlet said '' but it is backed like a whale '' and old Po..agreed '' Very like a whale ''.....I guess you had to be there ....
The point I'm getting to is that in my mothers time many many people used lines from Shakespeare , often in daily conversation....maybe due to people like Anew McMaster and his fit ups bringing Shakespeare as well as Irish drama to everyone....
I was married in January 1973 , my mothers younger sister and only surviving sibling , died on Easter Monday of that year , my father's sister died mid year and my mother died on the 18th Dec 1973 , exactly a week before Christmas and two months before our first child was born....
Rathgar in the rare oul times....( 1 )
Rathgar in the mid 1940's to mid 1950's was a great place to grow up . Rathgar Avenue , in particular , was a mixture of Georgian terraced houses , some detached old style houses and some ' newly-built ' ( 1920's or 30's ). All had large rooms with high ceilings . The reminders of the previous occupants , who would probably have been the ascendancy , were still there . The three story houses had 'servant ' or tradesman's entrances on the lower level with steps leading up to a grandiose front door ( seldom used by the new occupants ). In the two story houses the kitchen /scullary still had the servants bell- board and the main rooms had bell pulls beside the fireplaces .
Most houses had large gardens front and back .
The neighbourhood consisted of approximately half and half of the old protestant ascendancy business families and newly arrived Catholics , like ourselves , with large or very large
families .
The nearest church and school to our home were Church of Ireland denomination , my best friends included Church of Ireland and some Jewish children as well as Catholics , although we were scarcely aware of our different faiths , even on Sundays .
Playgrounds were few and far between but Palmerstown Park was popular and eventually a children's park and playground was opened at Orwell Bridge on the Dodder ( 50 years later this was still referred to as '' the NEW park''.
But we didn't need parks or playgrounds , the River Dodder itself WAS our playground . We ranged , mainly in Summer of course , on our 'excursions ' , from what is now Bushy Park ,(near Templeogue )then called Shaws Wood , to Milltown beneath the Nine Arches , fishing , swimming , dam-building : catching , pinkeens , minnow , sticklebacks ,and in dark gloomy side-tunnels ..the blind crayfish .
Once we even went fishing with a catapult , a-la Dennis the Menace , and actually caught a trout , stunning it as it rose to snatch , an evening fly-meal .
My father was a former tram driver , now driving buses . He was originally from Cavan and he never forgot his roots , as one of my brothers once remarked '' you can take the man out of the country but you can't take the country out of the man ''. Before he married when he was still working on the trams , each year he would give up his holidays to return to his family home in Cavan to help with the ''MEITHAL'' , in which country tradition , neighbour helped neighbour during harvest - time .
As we had large rooms and no central heating , during the '40's , a constant supply fuel for the open fires in all of the rooms was essential during winter .My father and some of his friends in CIE and the Gardai rented turf-banks or allotments from the state on the Featherbed in the Dublin mountains . As these men all worked irrugular shifts and had days off or early shifts during Summer they travelled up to the Featherbed mountain together on a hired high-creeled lorry from Terenure to '' cut turf ''.As we children got older we were sometimes allowed , school hours permitting , to join the trip .We learned very quickly the basics of '' cutting turf ''.
First the 'bank' was stripped of its surface growth of heather or bracken , opening up the soft mushy turf or peat underneath . Then an instrument called a ''SLANE '' ( basically a sharp spade with a metal '' wing'' welded on to the tip on the right hand side . The cutting started at the top corner of the 'bank', and each sod was sliced out and tossed over the shoulder of the cutter and laid out in neat rows to start the drying process .Some days later the sods were turned and then days later again the turf was '' footed'' , that is , made in to sort of stools , say four or five sods standing up and one or two on top , to allow further drying .
At the end of Summer when all the turf was dry it was then wheelbarrowed over the soggy surface out to the nearest bog-road and stacked neatly for taking away .
The same high-creeled lorry was then hired on an appropriate day and all the turf was loaded as high as safety allowed for delivery all the way down to Rathgar Avenue .
Once or twice as we grew older we were allowed to actually sit on top of the high-loaded lorry as it made its way groaning downhill across the Featherbed , down again steeply past the entrance to the Hellfire Club , around the Devil's Elbow, and eventually to Rathfarnham , by the Yella' House . All the time we who were on top of the heap had to duck under low lying branches or hang on grimly when rounding sharp bends .
So we arrived on Rathgar Avenue early afternoon . Our mother had already organised the friends and neighbours and prepared the house , because , the problem was , our house had no back entrance and the turf had to be carried through the house to our garden in the back.
The lorry pulled up outside our house and deposited its dusty load on the footpath , and partially on the road outside the railings .
Armed with baskets , sacks , trollies etc our family , friends , neighbours carried all the turf through the house and again stacked it neatly in our shed . All over and done with by evening time . A wash up , lemonade and biscuits for the helpers and our winter heating was sorted .
I never learned what our more posh neighbours thought of the ''turf circus'' , but many times over the years we were able to provide some of them with fuel....
A blazing fire in a bedroom at night is a wonderful sight , although nowadays health and safety would not permit , and as we drifted off to sleep on cold winter nights we could remember the Summer mornings helping our Father to save turf on the Featherbed mountain....
..even MORE to come....
Most houses had large gardens front and back .
The neighbourhood consisted of approximately half and half of the old protestant ascendancy business families and newly arrived Catholics , like ourselves , with large or very large
families .
The nearest church and school to our home were Church of Ireland denomination , my best friends included Church of Ireland and some Jewish children as well as Catholics , although we were scarcely aware of our different faiths , even on Sundays .
Playgrounds were few and far between but Palmerstown Park was popular and eventually a children's park and playground was opened at Orwell Bridge on the Dodder ( 50 years later this was still referred to as '' the NEW park''.
But we didn't need parks or playgrounds , the River Dodder itself WAS our playground . We ranged , mainly in Summer of course , on our 'excursions ' , from what is now Bushy Park ,(near Templeogue )then called Shaws Wood , to Milltown beneath the Nine Arches , fishing , swimming , dam-building : catching , pinkeens , minnow , sticklebacks ,and in dark gloomy side-tunnels ..the blind crayfish .
Once we even went fishing with a catapult , a-la Dennis the Menace , and actually caught a trout , stunning it as it rose to snatch , an evening fly-meal .
My father was a former tram driver , now driving buses . He was originally from Cavan and he never forgot his roots , as one of my brothers once remarked '' you can take the man out of the country but you can't take the country out of the man ''. Before he married when he was still working on the trams , each year he would give up his holidays to return to his family home in Cavan to help with the ''MEITHAL'' , in which country tradition , neighbour helped neighbour during harvest - time .
As we had large rooms and no central heating , during the '40's , a constant supply fuel for the open fires in all of the rooms was essential during winter .My father and some of his friends in CIE and the Gardai rented turf-banks or allotments from the state on the Featherbed in the Dublin mountains . As these men all worked irrugular shifts and had days off or early shifts during Summer they travelled up to the Featherbed mountain together on a hired high-creeled lorry from Terenure to '' cut turf ''.As we children got older we were sometimes allowed , school hours permitting , to join the trip .We learned very quickly the basics of '' cutting turf ''.
First the 'bank' was stripped of its surface growth of heather or bracken , opening up the soft mushy turf or peat underneath . Then an instrument called a ''SLANE '' ( basically a sharp spade with a metal '' wing'' welded on to the tip on the right hand side . The cutting started at the top corner of the 'bank', and each sod was sliced out and tossed over the shoulder of the cutter and laid out in neat rows to start the drying process .Some days later the sods were turned and then days later again the turf was '' footed'' , that is , made in to sort of stools , say four or five sods standing up and one or two on top , to allow further drying .
At the end of Summer when all the turf was dry it was then wheelbarrowed over the soggy surface out to the nearest bog-road and stacked neatly for taking away .
The same high-creeled lorry was then hired on an appropriate day and all the turf was loaded as high as safety allowed for delivery all the way down to Rathgar Avenue .
Once or twice as we grew older we were allowed to actually sit on top of the high-loaded lorry as it made its way groaning downhill across the Featherbed , down again steeply past the entrance to the Hellfire Club , around the Devil's Elbow, and eventually to Rathfarnham , by the Yella' House . All the time we who were on top of the heap had to duck under low lying branches or hang on grimly when rounding sharp bends .
So we arrived on Rathgar Avenue early afternoon . Our mother had already organised the friends and neighbours and prepared the house , because , the problem was , our house had no back entrance and the turf had to be carried through the house to our garden in the back.
The lorry pulled up outside our house and deposited its dusty load on the footpath , and partially on the road outside the railings .
Armed with baskets , sacks , trollies etc our family , friends , neighbours carried all the turf through the house and again stacked it neatly in our shed . All over and done with by evening time . A wash up , lemonade and biscuits for the helpers and our winter heating was sorted .
I never learned what our more posh neighbours thought of the ''turf circus'' , but many times over the years we were able to provide some of them with fuel....
A blazing fire in a bedroom at night is a wonderful sight , although nowadays health and safety would not permit , and as we drifted off to sleep on cold winter nights we could remember the Summer mornings helping our Father to save turf on the Featherbed mountain....
..even MORE to come....
Friday, February 19, 2010
Rathgar in the rare 'oul times.....
Late forties and early fifties , when we still had trams , travelling into Dublin City Centre ( an Lar ), was not only convenient but also exciting for children .The whining of the engine , the clanging of the bell and the crackling and sparking of the overhead cables as the trams swung around corners , was an adventure in itself , even before arriving in the heart of the thriving , bustling city .
I always remember my mothers story of her experience when travelling on a tram during our Civil War . As a young teenager she had been sent into town to collect fresh eggs which had been sent from a country relative by train . When she had collected the eggs and was on the tram heading homeward , to Terenure , an outbreak of shooting took place , between the two opposing sides , across the street . The tram was stopped and the passengers instructed to lie on the floor . In the process , the precious eggs were broken and my mother's abiding memory of the incident was , not the gunfire , which was a fairly regular occurance at the time , but the fact that she had to dispose of the remains of a basket of farm-fresh eggs , up a Dublin allyway .
Both my father and my maternal grandfather were tram drivers , and when The Dublin United Tramway Company ( a private company , the forerunner of C.I.E. ) , closed my grandfather and his collegues were given a small pension , and retired to their small terraced cottages . In my grandfather' s case this was a cul-de-sac in Terenure known as Rathmore Villas , or more commonly known as 'Tram' Villas .
These little houses consisted of , two bedrooms , a main living room , with an open fire/range , a kitchen /washroom/ scullary . In a small yard outside was the toilet and other washing facilities, a covered-in area for a 'mangle'( for drying clothes ) , and clothesline . There was also a bicycle shed and even a tiny garden space . The front door opened onto the communal pathway of the terrace and the back yard opened on to a laneway which in turn led on to the main thoroughfare of Terenure . Most of my grandfather's neighbours were , like himself , retired tram-men . So each family had their privacy and if they wished could share gossip and reminisences . All requirements , shops , post office , church , garda station were within a short distance .
My grandfather's only son was killed in action in 1916 , not in Ireland but in Greece in the '' war to end all wars ''. Jack was only 18 years of age when he was k.i.a. ( as they say ). He had volunteered two years previously , when he was only 16 ( pretending he was 17 ). One of Jack's first assignments , was to Cork to assist in the collection of bodies washed up on the beaches following the sinking of the Luisitania . An horrific job for such a young man , described in a letter to his parents , read to me by my mother in later years .After that he volunteered to be sent to the'front' and his commanding officer wrote to my grandparents to inform them that because of his age ( they must have discovered his true age ) , they would not allow him to go but if he volunteered a second time they would allow him to go . He did volunteer again . He was sent to the front.So it came to pass that :
18890 Acting Coporal John (Jack) Nolan
6TH Battalion ,
Royal Dublin Fusiliers ,
Killed in action , Balkans , 03/10/1916 ,
I never did get an opportunity to talk to my grandfather Tom Nolan , about his son , what he thought about how , after the Easter Rising , those young men who volunteered , and died in the Balkans , were vilified by some in our society .
My grandfather could have driven the tram that carried the volunteers to the GPO on Easter Monday 1916 , while his son was fighting overseas.....what did he think , how did he feel , old Tom Nolan kept his thoughts to himself......
more later.....
I always remember my mothers story of her experience when travelling on a tram during our Civil War . As a young teenager she had been sent into town to collect fresh eggs which had been sent from a country relative by train . When she had collected the eggs and was on the tram heading homeward , to Terenure , an outbreak of shooting took place , between the two opposing sides , across the street . The tram was stopped and the passengers instructed to lie on the floor . In the process , the precious eggs were broken and my mother's abiding memory of the incident was , not the gunfire , which was a fairly regular occurance at the time , but the fact that she had to dispose of the remains of a basket of farm-fresh eggs , up a Dublin allyway .
Both my father and my maternal grandfather were tram drivers , and when The Dublin United Tramway Company ( a private company , the forerunner of C.I.E. ) , closed my grandfather and his collegues were given a small pension , and retired to their small terraced cottages . In my grandfather' s case this was a cul-de-sac in Terenure known as Rathmore Villas , or more commonly known as 'Tram' Villas .
These little houses consisted of , two bedrooms , a main living room , with an open fire/range , a kitchen /washroom/ scullary . In a small yard outside was the toilet and other washing facilities, a covered-in area for a 'mangle'( for drying clothes ) , and clothesline . There was also a bicycle shed and even a tiny garden space . The front door opened onto the communal pathway of the terrace and the back yard opened on to a laneway which in turn led on to the main thoroughfare of Terenure . Most of my grandfather's neighbours were , like himself , retired tram-men . So each family had their privacy and if they wished could share gossip and reminisences . All requirements , shops , post office , church , garda station were within a short distance .
My grandfather's only son was killed in action in 1916 , not in Ireland but in Greece in the '' war to end all wars ''. Jack was only 18 years of age when he was k.i.a. ( as they say ). He had volunteered two years previously , when he was only 16 ( pretending he was 17 ). One of Jack's first assignments , was to Cork to assist in the collection of bodies washed up on the beaches following the sinking of the Luisitania . An horrific job for such a young man , described in a letter to his parents , read to me by my mother in later years .After that he volunteered to be sent to the'front' and his commanding officer wrote to my grandparents to inform them that because of his age ( they must have discovered his true age ) , they would not allow him to go but if he volunteered a second time they would allow him to go . He did volunteer again . He was sent to the front.So it came to pass that :
18890 Acting Coporal John (Jack) Nolan
6TH Battalion ,
Royal Dublin Fusiliers ,
Killed in action , Balkans , 03/10/1916 ,
I never did get an opportunity to talk to my grandfather Tom Nolan , about his son , what he thought about how , after the Easter Rising , those young men who volunteered , and died in the Balkans , were vilified by some in our society .
My grandfather could have driven the tram that carried the volunteers to the GPO on Easter Monday 1916 , while his son was fighting overseas.....what did he think , how did he feel , old Tom Nolan kept his thoughts to himself......
more later.....
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