The Kildareshire Observer (Clandestine Edition)

2011-11-13T20:50:00.003Z

Going for the liferaft

2010-04-26T00:27:00.002+01:00

It is now only a matter of time.

Given the crap at the Passport Office, I finally bit the bullet and after twenty years procrastination took out a British Passport.

The politics here have been binned and others have now taken over the responsibility of running the local Fine Gael branch.

Two less planks holding me here are now gone.

Whose Republic?

2009-10-30T23:33:00.004Z

The dust has settled on the Yes vote for Lisbon II and the Irish Government, after a shaky moment a few weeks ago, looks somewhat secure. But come the hour, come the reckoning. Once again the small man and woman of Ireland is being weighed for any surplus fat that can be trimmed off by the mandarins of Merrion Street, in order to keep our masters in comfort.

Today's Sunday Business Post carries a lengthy article by one Cathal O'Loghlin, bylined as a former assistant secretary of the Department of Finance and a former director of the International Monetary Fund. No doubt Mr O'Loghlin lives in some comfort, because he is advocating the wholesale pillage of the rest of us. "Bluntly, society's leaders need to generate public acceptance of new measures in Budget 2010, which will make a big hole in the existing €20 billion plus deficit". Pay reductions, both within and outside the public sector are advocated. Mr. O'Loghlin parrots the ESRI's line that the paycuts experienced already by us in the private sector haven't really happened. He advocates the wholesale slashing and burning of other benefits to the elderly, such as free travel and electricity allowances. Welfare needs further cuts. And so on.

I ask a simple question here. Cui Bono? Who Benefits?

I will ask one more question, which follows on from the last.

Who owns this Republic? It would appear that for those of us who took pay cuts and those of us who lost our jobs, and those who built this country up through the long hard years, that it most certainly does not belong to us.

See you in Sainsbury's in Newry.

Lies and the lying liars who tell them

2009-09-13T19:23:00.001+01:00

The Barbarians are trying to shut the gates of the Big Nasty World again on us, with the frankly sinister Cóir doing the running at church gates and on lampposts all over the country.

Never mind that for fifty years of independence after the Treaty we never developed a fishing fleet capable of lifting more than the contents of a catering box of Fish Fingers out of the Atlantic, the ultra Right are beating the anti EU and by default, the anti Furreners drums.

Instead lies qualified by questionmarks double up as campaign slogans. No-one ever went broke underestimating the intelligence of the general public, and unless those with a bit of cop pull their fingers out of their backsides, we will be in the second division of Europe along with a Euroskeptic Britain run by the Tories in 2010.

Hint: it is very much high time that Coir's leading proponents are laid bare for what they are - far right "Catholic" fascists who have no repect whatsover for the human rights wrested in the cultural wars here in the 1980s or 1990s. If you are a woman with an unwanted pregnancy, a gay man, a user of contraception or in a second relationship after a failed marriage you are a non person to these people, and that message needs to be hammered home hard and fast in a very basic way. If you are not a conservative catholic of the deepest hue you need to inform yourself about just how unsavoury these people are and just how nasty the people they have associated themselves with.

So far the closest is a coy poster of a woman with a speech bubble declaring that she is safer in Europe. She is. Not good enough folks. The price of liberty is eternal vigilance.

Christ Recrucified

2009-05-24T18:27:00.003+01:00

Bertie Ahern, not for the first time, is an utter disgrace.

Ahern is congratuating himself about what a wonderful thing he did in cutting a deal between the Government of Ireland and the Religious Orders, limiting their liability in the abuse cases as a quid-pro-quo for the preparation and publication of last week's report. In fact, he goes so far as to state the squalid deal as one of his "achievements" as Taoiseach. Jesus wept.

The Irish state was utterly impoverished after independence. Previously, the British government had got the Irish Catholic Church on side during the nineteenth century and this was the era where the Church set up schools and hospitals. This was a particularly sweet deal for the new Irish state after 1921 because the Religious did not draw a full salary.

In addition, the Catholic professional middle class were afraid of the poor and with good reason. The civil war after independence resulted in a great deal of damage to the country's infrastructure and early on Soviets were briefly set up in some factories. Both the winners in the Civil War (the Cumann na nGaedheal government under Cosgrave from 1922 to 1932) and the losers (the Fianna Fail government under DeValera from 1932 onwards) were anxious to stay in with the Hierarchy as their Religious educated the poor and kept them in a subservient position where they could not agitate for social change.

In the meantime, the new Catholic elite who formed the bulk of the Civil service and bank management were Ultramontanes, often members of orders like the Knights of Columbanus, who admired Franco and Salazar and encouraged an environment where for example the poorest children ended up committed in these hell holes and young women had their sexuality controlled by the threat of the Magdelene Laundries.

The Irish Catholic Church was complicit in this. So was the whole of the Irish establishment. Prophetic voices like Hubert Butler were shouted down as troublemakers in the 1950s. Even now Bertie Ahern is congratulating himself on what a wonderful deal he did in getting this report out, by silencing those who suffered and replacing a proper compensation by both the State and the Orders responsible with limited liability and anonymity.

The Dogmatists and those who love conformity will shrug their shoulders and brush the whole thing off with comments about the past being another place. I won't.

Frank Carson joins UKIP

2009-05-17T10:05:00.003+01:00

Frank Carson, the grotesquely unfunny Northern Ireland comedian has endorsed the UK Independence Party - one MEP is just out of the slammer and another MEP may well be detained at Her Majesty's Pleasure some time soon due to even dodgier business than the expense claims trumpeted by the Daily Telegraph this week.

The UKIP is the middle class version of the British National Party. Simple as. In fact, anyone who hates the EU hates it because it enforces rights. The right not to be exploited. The right not to be discriminated against. The right to a maximum working week.

All anti EU campaigners are little Irelanders and little Englanders who want to ride untrammelled over everyone else without let or hindrance.

Fr. Patrick Comerford's Blog

2009-05-17T00:15:00.003+01:00

As someone who has struggled for years with my gut feeling that the Church of Ireland is fully Catholic and my loyalty to my family's traditional Irish Catholicism, can I recommend Fr. Patrick Comerford's blog as a great and practical source of spiritual and intellectual nourishment? So much Catholic content on the net is highly partisan and deeply conservative, but Fr. Comerford's work draws deeply on his work as Director of Spiritual Formation at the Church of Ireland Theological Institute, but also on his experiences in the broader Church Catholic with the broader western Church and Orthodoxy.

Follow the links across.

So, what's this Anglo Catholicism lark about then?

2009-05-16T20:22:00.003+01:00

This might explain some of it, and by extension the wide diversity of churchmanship in the Anglican Communion and in particular the CofE.

http://www.stmarymagdalenoxford.org.uk/anglican_catholicism.cfm

Good Friday

2009-04-14T20:26:00.003+01:00

Here in Kildrought every Good Friday at noon the Catholic and Anglican Churches hold a joint service. Once the Eucharist is out of the way until late on Easter/Holy Saturday evening, the usual roadblocks to holding an ecumenical service fade away for the most solemn day in the Christian calendar.

It is fair to say that I am a very unenthusiastic member of the Roman Catholic Church and especially my local parish. The laity who get stuck into the organisational side recycle ultra conservative EWTN material for the parish newsletter and the (to me, highly dubious) Divine Mercy devotion is a mark of the parish. If you are, as I am, single, childless and have a questioning turn of mind then Kildrought is most certainly not the church for you. The local Catholic schools process the next generation of casual attendees who in turn will turn up unquestioningly at Masses in order to get a school place. And the sausage machine grinds on.

Good Friday was different. Here, in the Catholic Church, the Rector and her Curate wore their cassock albs and stoles, along with one of the Catholic Curates. The service consisted of ten lessons sandwiched with hymns. The first half was in the Catholic Church and the second half, after processing up the Main Street, took place in the Church of Ireland. The only sour note was the almost complete lack of singing by my side of the house - for some reason adult Irish Catholics lose the ability to sing in Church sometime after puberty and never regain it. This adds to the joyless nature of our worship and often the most visibly devout and most regular attenders stand mute like statues, reinforcing that Irish Catholicism is a matter for personal piety only. God forbid that the reckless joy that so many Irish people can have should ever be shown in the House of God.

For the first part of the service, the Church gradually filled up in a refreshingly casual way. The service began roughly ten minutes after twelve and for the first half an hour the readings and hymns followed the way of the Cross. Then, we processed up the Main Street with the empty Cross and landed at the Church of Ireland. The little church filled up quickly and we stood at the back by the font.

Church of Ireland churches in my experience are a little self conscious island of careful via media Anglican spirituality, telling the story over the generations of a small community that has made a huge impact on Irish society, in a very quiet and unobtrusive way. Memorial plates to long deceased benefactors, the neatness and order, the nooks and crannies even in the smallest parish churches, the beauty of well designed late Victorian Gothic and the lovely air of stillness and timelessness characterise Kildrought Church of Ireland and perhaps hundreds of others throughout Ireland. Because of the numbers today, the exclusivity that I often perceive exists when visiting an Irish Anglican church, perhaps unfairly, is absent. Many years ago, when I was deeply in love with a Church of Ireland girl, I crossed the barriers and felt then, and still do, that there is so much to offer in the Anglican tradition in its careful subtlety in blending Catholic tradition, reason and Holy Scripture and have felt at home there, but for the watchful cultural monsters that sit on the shoulders of so many of us in Ireland.

Still, the hymn singing is only marginally better, but at least on the last, when Amazing Grace is sung, fittingly, at the very end, voices rise and we leave in a wonderfully positive frame of mind, shaking hands with the RC and Anglican priests and with an invitation for coffee and hot cross buns ringing in our ears. Would that we could be more pourous than we are and not feel barriers in our hearts. Often I feel the weight of the barriers that we have imposed, both Catholic and Protestant, in Ireland as a whole have meant nothing. But, as CS Lewis cannily observed, Nothingness is very strong.

Ladies and Gentlemen, To Whom it May Concern..

2009-04-03T00:22:00.000+01:00

The Plank has walked as host of the Late Late. Thank Christ for small mercies.

John McGuirk of Libertas fame is doing something right for once, he's organised a Facebook campaign to get 10,000 Facebook members backing the utter Ledge George Hook as Late Late Show host. Frankly, there's only a very outside chance of that happening. The four frontrunners for the position are so stuck up the posterior of the Fianna Fail establishment that either would be a shoo-in.

That would be a tragedy. The Late Late Show was important once. Not now, and not with any of the names mentioned as serious contenders.

Oh dear God, no, not Ryan Tubridy, not Miriam O'Callaghan (despite her magnificent decolletage) and definitely not Marian Finucane or Gerry Ryan. Fianna Fail would never ever be held to account and RTÉ’s crawling apology to the Government Press Office over Cowangate would be the template for the next twenty years. Tubridy isn’t half as cool as he thinks he is, seeing as he is woven into the warp and weft of the Government.

At least with George Hook things would be unpredictable and could be explosive for the next crucial few years while the rotting carcass of the Celtic Tiger infects the ordinary people of Ireland with unemployment and reduced expectations.

The Late Late should be roasting those in power. Ryan Tubridy, Miriam O’Callaghan, Marian Finucane and Gerry Ryan are far too close to those who rode us roughshod while we were too busy working to take notice that we were being had by the Irish Establishment.

The Pensions Scam

2009-03-29T13:28:00.001+01:00

I've suspended my pension because the moneys paid in were €6,933.44. The statement value as at 10 March 2009 was €3,913.83, a drop of €3,020. I am forty three years of age and now will never pay into any kind of ponzi scheme like this again. It would have been more efficient if my employer had paid tax and PRSI on a gross figure to fund a net amount which in turn could have earned half of one percent in the Post Office Savings Bank.

If this happened to any other fund or savings paid into, this would be theft and a matter for the Garda Siochana. Instead, we were all played for fools. All the old guff about "getting your pension sorted" was just flannel to get the plain people of Ireland to bail out the banks and the stockbrokers at a time when the financial markets were on the turn.

Thoughts on Ireland and the Commonwealth

2009-03-28T00:50:00.003Z

In a lot of our little country anglophobia appears to be well stuck in, and in the younger generation in particular. Whatever your views on Europe, and I would be strongly in favour of Ireland being at the heart of the EU and believe Euro membership has saved us in the Republic from being another Iceland, much of the younger agegroup have brought into an isolationist vision for Ireland. The "no" vote to the Lisbon referendum, in my opinion, was motivated in very strong part by a very narrow nationalism, in my opinion.

It is regrettably no coincidence then that those who want to destablise the "normal" life we have strived to create in both Northern Ireland and the Republic have stepped up their activities. The easy money that so many young men have had access to through the building industry has dried up and in my opinion we are in very grave danger of reaping a whirlwind of reaction in the form of armed dissident republicanism.

You would think by much of the wilfully ignorant online commentary that I have seen on just Politics.ie and Slugger O'Toole this week that Commonwealth membership would effectively involve the Republic rejoining the United Kingdom. There is no sense that the Republic would remain a sovereign nation, part of the United Nations and the European Union and merely recognising a dimension to its existence that anyone inside or outside Ireland can see - that we are part of the Anglosphere, we speak English, use British models for our administration and culturally have huge ties that cannot be ripped asunder with the United Kingdom and the Commonwealth. Even without Commonwealth membership we are most assuredly not foreign to our friends and families in the United Kingdom and have a closer, more intrinsic relationship with the UK than any other nation, even other members of the Commonwealth, which is fully recognised in UK and Irish legislation. Thank God our "patriots" can't stop me watching the BBC and reading the Guardian and the Observer!!

There is a case for a pluralist United Ireland - it will be impossible to make it in the future if our administrative masters in the Republic keep looking over their shoulders at those who by definition want no compromise, and by whose actions in reality rip the Orange out of the national flag. Ireland if it means anything as a Nation breathes on two lungs. If one lung is not permitted to be used by those who want to deny the reality of Irish identity across the island, then we can have by all means a twenty-six county Republic in perpetuity.

Art for Art's Sake?

2009-03-28T00:49:00.001Z

Bobby Ballagh is so overrated he's beyond parody.

Only a protege of the Squire Hockey could be thought of as being right on by Sinn Féiners, Fianna Fáilers and the myriad and motley collection of far left folks in Ireland.

Firstly, anyone who lets his bollocks out on view in any self portraits is exactly that. Half the population have a pair. Get over it.

Secondly, if our more literate members have had a mosey recently in Easons or Hodges Figgis or anywhere that sellls more than girly novels then the cover of "Sinn Féin and the Politics of Left Republicanism" will have been noted.

Mr. Ballagh sits swivel headed between two impassive and quite dead looking figures of Padraig Pearse and James Connolly. As the two patriots appear to have been copied from existing well known pictures of them, Pearse and Connolly are not looking at anyone in particular, especially not each other and certainly not the figure of the artist, who puts himself (not for the first time) in the centre of the picture and creates the only dynamism in it.

The other message that the picture conveys is that Pearse and Connolly have said it all already and nothing needs to be said more. It is irrelevant therefore that they are dead, they remain in charge and only the living in the form of the artist needs to move in response to them and them only.

It isn't that much of a jump then to the Republican Sinn Féin model and their vision of an Ireland determined by the votes of the long dead of 1918 and the irrelevance of any contemporary belief in the shaping of the Ireland of the present.

Marmite

2009-03-20T01:14:00.000Z

Marmite. Toast. Lightly spread..what's not to love?

Unless of course you have Guinness Marmite. Mmm.

For those about to dig in, we salute you. :)

Response to this weekend's events.

2009-03-08T23:47:00.003Z

Time to air the beds in the Curragh.

2009-03-08T22:13:00.003Z

2009-01-30T22:33:00.000Z

Hello folks from the new home for the blog.

This is going to be a pretty challenging year for most of us. However I hope to be able to keep posting some lateral thinking and frankly silliness every so often here. As ever, I will be keeping to my own idiosyncratic path and whatever happens, will happen.

Crusty Burke and myself have had a brainwave today, the legendary Bleach Boys will be playing in Berlin again after Easter and we have kicked around the idea that we will travel by train from London to Berlin and back. In addition, I plan to drive down to London for a couple of days around Paddy's and liberate a semi-retired stereo from Crusty's attic, plus perhaps meet up with a lady codenamed Liza Radley for the purposes of this blog. ;)

The opus maximus for 2009 is to get to Canada. This wholly depends on the Chuckle Brothers continuing to employ me as their beancounter and my tenants staying put in Capdoo but the slush fund for the trip is already being put together.

Any road, I plan to keep my body down like a Larne Catholic but rest assured my head remains resolutely stuck in the clouds. Like I'd do anything else.

Welcome to the new blog

2009-01-29T22:16:00.000Z

Hello all, welcome to the new home for the contents of the Kildareshire Observer which is in the process of being moved over to here.

Stena Line's two fingers to Rail passengers

2009-01-23T20:26:00.000Z

Readers may not be aware that a relatively new International Terminal has been launched in Dublin. Britain has St. Pancras International, many of Paris' magnificent railway termini have international connections but Dublin has broken new ground in its very own and brand new terminal.

Westmoreland Street, part of the City's North - South axis hosts Dublin's new Terminal. It's genius is in it's simplicity. In front of the amusement arcade and nestling about a foot or so between two adjacent bus stops, one for Dublin Bus and the other for Aircoach, is Morton's Bus Stop. A newly applied sticker proclaims the stop as being the one for the 0715 bus to Dublin Ferryport and Stena Line services.

Every expense has been spared in bringing this new terminal to the streets of Dublin. The stark minimalism of the bare metal pole with the plain sign on it stands in contrast to the late Victorian Pearse Station, once the origin for boat trains to Dun Laoghaire and its design ethos can be thought of as a paradigm for the more straitened times that we live in. Nothing as elaborate as a train is needed for seamless connections off the ferry that connects with Europe's railways at Holyhead, in fact, any old crap will do for Dublin and the Irish.

It's existence is owed to an apparent spat between Stena Line and the Dun Laoghaire Harbour Company where the HSS is currently out of action until early February. However, on its return the HSS will only sail once a day each way, arriving in Dun Laoghaire at 12.30pm and leaving at 1.30pm. The main trains to and from Holyhead and London now only connect with the Stena conventional ferries to and from Dublin Ferryport and another consequence is that no early bird train to Dublin can now connect with the 08.20am ferry to Holyhead. One could be forgiven for assuming that Stena wants to kill Irish Sea foot passenger traffic stone dead.

Eyeless in Gaza

2009-01-17T22:40:00.000Z

Most Irish commentary or protest marches to date over the Gaza issue have given Hamas a completely free pass. Instead, we burn Israeli flags on Irish streets and have children dressed up as Hamas fighters.

The Irish government should have our diplomats and politicians on side from the North selling talk rather than war in the solution of the existence of both Palestine and Israel. Israel's survival depends wholly on being able to peacefully co-exist with its Palestinian neighbours in control of their own destiny and to my mind the road map is talking to Hamas and Fatah, ensuing the rapid independence of Palestine comprising Gaza, Judea and Samaria and the total dismantlement of the Israeli settlements in Judea and Samaria (the West Bank). Agreement to share Jerusalem with guarantees for access to the Holy places for Islam, Judaism and Christianity are essential. Perhaps some form of joint administration of Jerusalem may be possible.

Either there will be a rapid, active and effective peace process that leads to the creation of a stable State of Palestine in parallel with Israel, or Israel will continue to be under siege.

Pity that Egypt, Syria and Jordan carved up what could have been a viable State for Palestine in 1948 - the original UN motion splitting the half of British mandated Palestine left after the formation of Transjordan into two states, one arab, the other jewish if it had been allowed to stand would have been ideal. Instead the imperative to a) attack Israel and b) carve up what was left, lead to the instablity and paranoia that characterises the middle east today.

What I perceive as structural weaknesses in Ireland

2009-01-11T01:10:00.000Z

This comes from Machine Nation, where I occasionally post on politics and current affairs since I gave up politics.ie.

This is based purely on my own perception and experience.

Ireland is a country of what was described by Scott Peck of Road less Traveled fame as "Rugged individuals". We have an extremely weak perception of any responsibility to our fellow citizen and we don't do the shared citizenship thing at all, really. I've been involved in local politics for ten years and the most common thing that I hear at the door is "What will they do for me?". I didn't go into politics for porkbarrelism but that's the way an awful lot of people think. I have drawn my own conclusion about the ability of any of us to effect structural change here. Not possible.

Irish Nationality is strongly felt but it is defined as being on football terms. "We are Irish and we are great" could be one way of summing it up. Terence Trent D'Arby inadvertently caught it in one though when he was a tax exile and blew his career by making a great but incredibly self indulgent album by stating that "Ireland is the world's smallest country with the world's biggest ego". Most of us really believe that the world is on standby waiting to hear our every word.

In addition, groupthink is engendered here. Witness politics.ie currently working itself into a lather over Israel and Palestine. One poster has appointed themselves as the thought police for everyone else, and intends to go into shops next Saturday to "educate" the shoppers and owners if they have even the smidgen of Israeli produce there.

As for the recreation of the Irish language as the real first official language of this country, we are wasting our time. No amount of teenage gaelgoirs slapping "Gaeilge Anois!" stickers on road signs will change this. It is an annoyance and an utter waste of time. We would be better off consolidating as best we can those places that do use the language in reality, shore it up and rethink the whole project. Irish language and culture are worthwhile, but Irish is not and never will be the spoken language of this nation again.

Our relative size mitigates against us in trying to create a more egalitarian and fairer society. In a small country with a small population, we cannot stand by ourselves and create a welfare state and a just society, we need the backup of a larger entity like the European Union. However, our own little Irelanders have slapped Europe in the face and no one outside Ireland that I can think of with any intelligence or without an ultra left wing agenda understands the frenzy we whipped ourselves into over imagined conscription or military alliances, as if the military was the only industry of any size in say France, Germany or Britain and was the driver of the European Union.

Irish freedom was a great thing but inevitably our own Gombeen men took over. It is more than disingenous to think that only those on the Pro treaty side sold out the Revolution. There is a long and inglorious history of small business people who exploited the hell out of their workers in the long years between independence and prosperity. Most of those were eating the altar rails and provided most of those who lorded it over the ordinary people of Ireland in the civil service, the teaching profession, the medical profession and the police. In turn, as Kevin O'Higgins noted, we were the most conservative revolutionaries ever to succeed in overthrowing a government. Look at just how hard the oldest generation are. No loans, no softness or no comfort ever informed their lives and they would virtually cut each other's throats for the smallest of reasons. There is a long hard tradition behind the land hunger that still created the property bubble. We didn't lick it off the stones, our great grandparents and grandparents and parents created the road map that we followed religiously.

There is a remarkable intolerance for difference here. I am reminded of the comment made to me once that the English father of someone who was very important to me once upon a time. "Marjorie's people have been here for three hundred and fifty years and the locals still think of them as blow-ins". We do not tolerate the "stranger" in reality and our recent immigrants will have had plenty of chance to see the iron behind the bull of "Cead Mile Failte". Unless you keep your head down and don't cross those who see themselves as the pure ones you will have a hard life. No wonder there is a sean-fhocail of "Whatever you say, say nothing". Cuteness and smartness rules the roost and a great survival tactic here is never, ever wear your heart on your sleeve if you ever break any of the cosy consensus rules that keeps this small place on the edge of the Atlantic going.

English, Anois!

2009-01-07T22:41:00.000Z

A few Gaelgoirs have taken it onto themselves to put stickers with "Gaeilge, Anois!" on roadsigns in different places North and South that do not have the first official language on them. Some of the more zealous stickers placed these over a few Yield signs which shockingly did not have "Géill Slí" in beautiful melliflous Gaeilge on them.

Irish Rail's latest commuter trains now also have incredibly longwinded announcements in both official languages reminding the groggy morning punters for the last two and a half miles into Heuston to take their bags with them on leaving the train, and that presumably contrary to their expectations that there are buses, trams and taxis to facilitate their ongoing journey.

As an antidote to all that political correctness, there are alternative stickers to be found useful on all occasions when your school Irish for some reason has somehow slipped your mind.

Google "English, Do you Speak it". :D

Ice Cold

2009-01-06T21:04:00.000Z

Cold. Freezing cold by our standards, though certainly not the minus forty degrees in Winnipeg, Manitoba last night.

Looking back at the rubbish year that was 2008 for me, and with the certain knowledge that 2009 can and will be a damn sight worse, the only hope is to try and keep the spending to a minimum and hope I can accumulate enough money to get to Canada for a holiday this year. There are still books to read and places to go.

Absolute Power Corrupts Absolutely

2008-10-19T23:16:00.000+01:00

The events of the last few days prove positive the dictum that governments are like underpants. If you don't change them often enough, they stink. In addition, it also points up vividly that our administrative masters, the Sir Humphreys of the Department of Finance, have no connection whatsoever with the people that they effectively rule.

The government faced into this Budget with the same crises that every other government is facing right now, declining revenues as a result of the banking system logjamming over toxic debt. On the face of it, the Irish government's move a few weeks ago to guarantee deposits in the banks trading in the Republic first seemed a radical step, as canvassed by David McWilliams in his columns and on his website .

As those of us in the dismal profession of accountancy know, there is a price for everything, and everything has its price. Guaranteeing the Irish banks has come at a price and in the budget, before the people of the Republic had a chance to draw breath that price was laid down with a piledriver. 1% levy on all incomes up to €100,100. 2% over that. Deposit interest taxation up to 26%. Increases in Capital Gains tax and an acceleration of preliminary tax for limited companies. The almighty kick in the balls for the Plain People of Ireland, however, was the abandonment of the automatic right of the over 70s to a medical card.

Now, those of you in the UK or Canada might well be a bit flummoxed at this. Surely everyone should have free access to medical services in a massively prosperous country (up to now) like Ireland? Well, no. The right of the over 70s to free doctor consultations and prescriptions has only been in place since 2001, and that was only done as a bit of a scam in advance of the 2002 elections, which saw Fine Gael more than decimated and Fianna Fail confirming yet again itself as the party of Government in Ireland. Job done, you might say.

The truth is that the medical profession and senior civil servants have made sure that the Republic of Ireland remains a country safe for private medicine with a veneer of public access to health services. One of the reasons for the effective demise of the Progressive Democrats, Ireland's so-called Liberal Party has been Mary Harney's enthusiastic tenure as Minister for Health, creating the Health Service Executive as an autonomous state body, so that the Minister cannot be held responsible in Dáil Éireann to the People for its actions in running the health service into the ground. In addition, the Department of Finance, left to its own devices under an inexperienced minister in the shape of Brian Lenihan Jr. has reverted to mean minded type and has decided to crucify the over 70s in the removal of their automatic entitlement to a medical card.

Finance since the 1920s has been the driving force for much of the reactionary twaddle that successive Irish governments since independence have fallen into as a default position. Even under Ken Whittaker, the visionary (relatively speaking in Irish terms) secretary of the Department of Finance, it took until the late 1950s for Finance to realise that Irish markets needed to be open in order to make any money to prevent the massive haemorrage of people that characterised Ireland right up to the 1970s and became the norm again in the 1980s.

Bizarrely, for anyone with any degree of grounding in reality, the very people who left in their thousands in the 1950s and came back in an earlier, brief, boom at the start of the 1970s, are the very people who have benefitted from the 2001 granting of the medical card, and now have to face into a means test, irrespective of whatever shoddy deal the government make with the Irish Medical Organisation.

Fair enough if you are part of the permanent underclass in Ireland. You will be looked after, as you have been since time immemorial. If you are an underwriter of Fianna Fail, as in a retired business person or their spouse, who always knew what side their bread was buttered on, you will be fine as well, as you will be able to afford private medical care.

However, if you were one of those who worked hard all their lives and have something small to show for it at the evening of your days, you are fucked. You may well fall under the income thresholds, but the mandarins will screw you over for having either savings or property. No amount of spin from the Bolands Building idiots will cover this.

In particular, the Kildareshire Observer's beady eye is stuck on three people who should know better but who can't resist making cheap political points.

Martin Mansergh, Mary Coughlan (no, not the cool Mary Coughlan, the grotesquely uncool one from Donegal South) and Noel Whelan.

Google is your friend. These three are proof positive that when you are in a hole, stop digging. For once, I actually hope that the scheduled protest on Wednesday will be loud, noisy, ugly and actually dangerous to the health of those who blithely assume that the people will take any old shit that is thrown at them by their administrative masters.

Why the Allies beat Germany in WWII

2008-10-04T00:33:00.000+01:00

Finance, bailouts and my own small corner of the world

2008-10-03T23:30:00.000+01:00

This week even those of us who try to keep their heads down and get on with their lives can't help but notice that there is serious trouble abroad.

Firstly, let me state that I really, seriously do not give a damn about what financial system I live under, as long as I get paid something reasonable at the end of the week for giving the best years of my life to the organisation that I work for. The personal relationships are good there, by and large. As regular readers of me know, my inner life has at best a tangenital relationship to my working life and one of the compromises that we all live under is that there is a trade off between the quality of life that we have and the means by which it is provided. I was in Kilkenny City last Sunday and in one of the bookshops there I browsed Frank McDonald's latest book, about the men who were behind a lot of the commercial and residential development in Ireland over the last ten years. Unlike my own lot, the men profiled were dull, unimaginative men but men who had the knack of making money without actually having a personality.

The Irish government's guarantee for the banks has been given some stick elsewhere but I recognise it for what it is - we are a small country and so many jobs are interwoven with keeping the financial system afloat. Were we to take a purist view of capitalism and allow the market to dictate what was to happen here in the next short while, I am sure that a handful of economics students in University would be pleased but the rest of us would be scrabbling in the dirt to pay our mortgages. In any case I've never had much time for dogma of any kind and I'm not likely to start now.

2008-09-13T22:45:00.000+01:00

I'm watching BBC Three's Most Annoying Songs and M People's Moving On Up is at Number 71.

Sorry folks, but lets remind ourselves of the focal/vocal point of M People - ladies and gentlemen, Ms. Heather Small.

Heather Small could sing the theme from In the Night Garden and it would make grown men melt. Plus, she's gorgeous.

Case Closed..

Johnny Cash and June Carter

2008-09-13T00:01:00.000+01:00

Before I continue with describing my travels, including the unfortunate women who brought cheap scent and almost cleared one whole end of a train carriage, I'm watching Johnny Cash on Sky Arts performing at Montreaux. He's promoting the American Recordings album so it's around 1994. Late into the concert June Carter comes on to sing Jackson and Will the Circle be Unbroken. The lift given to an already great show is something else and it's compelling watching both of them in action together after all the years together. Do yourself a favour and go Youtube for them both.

Rambles in Eirinn

2008-09-05T23:56:00.000+01:00

There's nothing I like better when I have to drive any distance to indulge in a bit of creative routing. Much like the criticism of Baedeker in EM Forster's A Room with a View I enjoy going off the beaten track to see what I can find, while at least notionally travelling efficiently towards my destination. Ireland is a much more diverse place than most of us realise and the hidden corners are every bit as worthy of our attention as the more celebrated bits.

Last Sunday, I was driving back to Kildrought from Inishowen's Kerrykeel and on my usual whim decided to veer off the main road at Muff.

Iskaheen Mountain is the heart of the old Catholic Parish of Iskaheen and Upper Moville and its very fine little Church and ancient graveyard is worth a detour for anyone interested in the history of the ordinary people of this little bit of North Donegal. St. Patrick's is a pre-Emancipation chapel and like the oldest and best churches elsewhere has aged organically with its people down through the last two and a half centuries. There is a wonderful tangle of small roads that leads down to the Rock Bar on the Muff to Burnfoot Road and then travel almost diagonally across towards Lenamore, the borderlands between Derry and Donegal. A well appointed riding stables and the Sonas centre mark this area.

Travelling along the backroads I reach Bridgend. Sixty years ago my father and my grandfather were loading and unloading lorries at the old railway station just over the border from the North that gave this crossroads existence. My father tells me stories about himself working with his father that make us both laugh out loud.

About five miles from Bridgend, past Burt is the turn off for Carrigans, St. Johnston, Lifford and Raphoe. When my father was fourteen or fifteen he worked in Raphoe for a time, a world away from the comfortable life that I grew up with. The flip side of this was the freedom that he had and the independent person that he became, massively contrasting with the overprotected lives of teenagers today whose every waking hour seems to be accounted for, with no room for spontaneity whatsoever.

Raphoe Cathedral is a very fine example of a rural Irish Anglican Cathedral. Its square tower with its clockfaces and nave and chancel stand out as the distinctive feature of this extremely fine small Ulster town. The classical style Presbyterian Church and its near twin on the Diamond, with the early twentieth century Catholic parish church and the general air of importance about this little place mark it as the main town in its fertile part of Donegal called the Laggan. Next along after Raphoe on the road to Stranorlar is its near twin of Convoy, an important place for the former County Donegal Railway and with its little Congregational Church, fine Anglican Parish Church and air of importance, marks it out as another fine village with pride and industry about it.

I decide to detour towards Castlefinn, rather than go through the long ramble through Barnesmore Gap between Ballybofey and Donegal Town. Castlefinn is now mostly bypassed by the main Lifford- Stranorlar road, the N15, but retains its Diamond and air of importance. Crossing the River Finn, which ultimately flows into Lough Foyle, I head towards Castlederg and County Tyrone.

Why I'd rather armwrestle than post on P.ie anymore

2008-09-05T19:50:00.000+01:00

P.ie isn't worth my while going near anymore. It used to be fun around the time of the 2004 local and European elections but it has gone so far off that I won't be going back there again.

Threads now fall into a lot of the following categories, with much flaming of those who break the consensus of the thread starters:

1. Immigration is evil.
2. The Republic is full of West Brits. West Brits are evil and should be ridiculed out of existence.
3. The EU is the EUSSR.
4. Orangemen are Apes.
5. Irish culture is dying and its all the West Brits fault.
6. Heroism of Irish Republicans, every else are bastards.
7. Endless conspiracy picking over events that happened when most of the thread contributors weren't alive
8. Rewriting of Irish history in favour of rejectionist republicans.

There is an awful lot of giving out about groups of people alien to posters, such as soccer supporters, soap watchers, Orangemen, the British, West Brits infesting the Irish media, etc ad nauseum.

A few posters have a modus operandi of ridiculing perceived opponents or those not "pure" enough for them. I suspect, and in one case know, that their public persona is a damn sight less pugnacious than their internet personality, and more than one plays nicer on Slugger O'Toole due to its simple rule of "Play the Ball, not the Man". Instead, p.ie indulges its most frequent posters and rarely if ever moderates the fora at all. More than one of the current inqusitors reduces argument to who blinks first, assuming that when anyone gets pissed off with arguing finer and finer theological points with them that they have "won" the argument. No you haven't, you've simply bored the hole of anyone who innocently thought that they could generate light and not simply heat for heat's sake.

It's only now that I've come to realise the truth of the great Irish-ism, "Whatever you say, say nothing", because as sure as eggs are eggs, some ignorant tosser is going to jump down your throat for the crime of having a different analysis of the country than them.

Robert Frost 1874-1963

2008-08-21T12:20:00.000+01:00

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood,

and I—I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

A mission statement

2008-08-18T00:13:00.001+01:00

For historic reasons, there is a huge gap of the imagination between Christians of different backgrounds and denominations in Ireland.

I commit myself to doing my utmost to bridge that gap, and to pointedly ignore the distinctions between the Christian Churches here, bearing in mind Christ's instruction that where two or three are gathered together in His name, there He is in the midst of them. As we are limited creatures in our ability to comprehend the Infinite, except in our ability to love, then how can we possibly know the mind of God, except in our ability to love? Rules and regulations stifle the infinite in our hearts.

In addition, our brothers and sisters in the Islamic and Judaic traditions are still our brethern in the One Almighty, and a lack of friendship to anyone irrespective of background, belief or lack of belief is a lack of friendship for the Almighty also.

Tuesday and some pleasant meetings

2008-08-14T01:15:00.000+01:00

Tuesday morning and my last full day before going back to Celbridge. R and R's children are with their friend and old childminder D., having a great time and showing off brilliantly their lovely creativity before heading off to the cinema. I drop them off in at the Finchley Cineplex and head off to the Tally-ho in North Finchley. Twenty odd years ago, when I first knew it, it wasn't exactly the best of a fairly poor lot of pubs in the neighbourhood, but thankfully the JD Weatherspoon chain took the pub by the scruff of its neck and turned it into the really nice place with lovely staff it is now.

I meet S. and her parents, A. and R. who are so welcoming and very entertaining. Soon J. and A. join us and we have a great afternoon, with much laughter, story telling and joking. I leave with a big smile on my face and hope that the ladies will visit me in Dublin. After a diversion into town to buy my travel ticket for the next day going back via Euston and Holyhead I go back several years to Wood Green and M, our universal aunt and close friend of our mother since they were children. After chat and rehearsals of the past I head back to R and R, and then swimming at Copthall with my brother's friends, fascinating and interesting men who are great company. And so to bed, with an early start on the road the next day.

None of ye stand so tall - pink moon is going to get ye all

2008-08-14T00:19:00.000+01:00

Sunday fades into Monday and in the normal run of things I'm dragging my ass up in time to get into work to avoid unnecesary grief from The Man.

Not today. I don't get out until nearly half eleven but I do have the use of R's car today. Taking full advantage of it there are two alternative options - one is to go to Oxford and then into the Cotswolds or perhaps as far as the wonderfully demented Hay-On-Wye, a town chock full of second hand book shops just over the border in Wales. The other road is to Little Walsingham in Norfolk. That is the road I chose.

Walsingham is unique. The following may not be suitable for those of a nervous disposition, so don't say you haven't been warned, but this for me was the spiritual heart of my holiday.

Sometime in the eleventh century, a local noblewoman had a vision of Mary, the woman who traditional Christians believe is the Mother Of God through her giving birth to Jesus of Nazareth. In the vision the noblewoman received instructions as to the recreation of the Holy House of Nazareth, the house shared by Mary, Joseph and Jesus in the first century of the Christian Era before His ministry, death and resurrection as those of us with a Christian faith believe. For the next four hundred years Walsingham was the centre of Christian pilgrimage in England, when England was known as Mary's Dowry and devotion to the Mother of God was the hallmark of a lively faith in Yeshua Ben Yusuf as the unique being that was True God and True Man and as Christians believe, the fulfillment of God's Covenant with humanity.

Henry VIII's rupture with Rome leading to his creation of an independent Catholic Church for England, Edward VI's Protestant Reformation, Mary I's reaction and Elizabeth I's attempt to reconcile the previous three reigns positions while being excommunicated from Rome spelt the end to Walsingham's first period as a focus for Christian activity. Three hundred years passed, and two separate events lead to the recreation of Walsingham as a place of Christian pilgrimage, in three quite different and paradoxical ways as will be seen.

In the late 1890s, more than sixty years after Roman Catholic emancipation in Great Britain and Ireland, a local landowner had coverted to Roman Catholicism and reestablished a small chapel around a mile from Little Walsingham as a focus for Roman Catholics devoted to the almost lost cause of Our Lady of Walsingham. The former Slipper Chapel, so called because it was the last chapel within a mile of the former Walsingham Abbey and where pilgrims in the late mediaeval period left their shoes so as to walk barefoot for the last mile, was rebuilt and was then and is now the base for England's RC Shrine to Our Lady of Walsingham. Nowadays there is a modern large Chapel of Reconciliation, devoted to both the ministry of reconciliation but also to reconciliation between English Christians. I visited this peaceful little place for the first time last Monday and found it refreshingly lacking in the tattiness of much official RC devotionalism.

Nearby, the former railway between Fakenham and Walsingham has been converted into a public footpath for the last mile into Walsingham itself, and I followed it through this peaceful small place in North Norfolk. The path ends at the very back of the modern RC parish church in Little Walsingham itself and this lead me into the Friday Market, a three sided village "square". Moving towards Church Street, I went on to the Parish Church. This is an immaculately maintained traditional parish church, with a bright interior, rood screen and immaculate side chapels showing much use. At the side of the church there is a memorial to a remarkable man, Fr. Alfred Hope Patten, the Vicar of Little Walsingham from the 1920s to the 1950s who oversaw almost singlehandedly the reestablishment of devotion in the Church of England to Our Lady of Walsingham.

Fr. Hope Pattens' labours lead to the most remarkable thing of all, the recreation of the Holy House of Nazareth within a new Shrine Church devoted to Our Lady of Walsingham. To those of you who are used to the general Low Church ethos of the Anglican Church of Ireland, the Shrine Church is a shock. To a mystic minded lad like myself, it is a timeless small place of God, and in both my visits so far it has inspired awe.

Now here is the third and seemingly most unlikely thing about Walsingham and yet something that IMHO paradoxically inspires what has the potential to be good fruit.

After what I have described above, those of you who have experienced Christianity in its more purely evangelical form would expect some reaction, and so it has done so. Rev Ian Paisley and other highly Evangelical christians have taken grave offence over Christians from the reformation tradition endorsing what they consider to be "idol" worship and a significant part of what happens in Walsingham at its great feasts is that evangelical Christians often protest in the centre of the village during processions at the great feasts. Walsingham therefore points up the hard and sharp divisions between Christians (Orthodox Christianity has had a presence at the Shrine also since the 1930s) but also the willingness of members of the different strands of Christian belief to bear witness to their beliefs. For that reason, while I am not at all in sympathy with those who want to disrupt the processions, as I am a full believer in the transcendent as a path to belief, yet I admire the willingness of the evangelicals to put their beliefs on the line in public.

Sunday I hear Churchbells

2008-08-13T23:37:00.000+01:00

and so it was the next day. The one thing that needs to be remembered by every visitor to London is that it will always take you fifty percent longer than you think to get anywhere. So it was for me. I was up and running by 9.30am but wanted to get to a choral Holy Communion service. Didn't get out of the house until quarter past ten, which meant that plan A, going to St. Alban's Cathedral wasn't going to happen unless I had got a mini cab. Er, no. I ended up at St. Paul's Cathedral for their 11.30 Choral Communion, sung by an excellent all woman choir whose name escapes me, except that they were singing settings by Vaughan Williams and another contemporaneous composer. A fantastic example of modern chant and slightly dissonant harmony producing an otherworldly effect. The only bum note hit was that I had taken the instruction in the service leaflet literally regarding the non taking of photographs in the interior of St. Pauls during a service. Once the service was finished, I had taken a picture in the transept and was moving towards the Nave to take a picture towards the High Altar. A very English and very upper middle class male voice started passing remarks to his lady partner about the infradig-ness of me taking pictures but without addressing me directly, something that I consider extremely rude, and while I was moving towards the aisle, one of the ushers very politely called my attention to the fact that it was not permitted to take photographs within the cathedral. I felt mortally embarrassed and nearly all the spiritual capital that I had accumulated through singing heartily throughout the service and by taking the Holy Communion nearly but not quite (not His way) disappaited. Feeling like a complete oik I shook the hands of the officiating priests on the way out.

Got lunch in Covent Garden and headed back to R and R's house, who were due to come back from France that day. Dug out their lawn mower and after changing into shorts and tshirt cut the grass and cleaned up. It was delightful to see R and R and S and N, their children and we caught up with what was happening since I had gone back to England ahead of them, and so to bed.

Serendipity - finding something of immense value in an unexpected place

2008-08-13T22:35:00.000+01:00

Saturday morning dawns, and I am unable to sleep properly. The anxiety that I had left behind in Celbridge now comes back and bites, hard. The reason is that today is the day that I had arranged with S. to come along to her friend A's significant Birthday celebrations, and that I will be given a lift by their mutual friend J., a lady barrister who I had met briefly some years ago.

Now, put me in a social situation where I have to simultaneously be at ease with someone I barely know and balance off S's anxiety that everyone arrives in accordance with the day's timetable and you have the recipe for me being stiff and awkward socially.

I need not have worried. J. and I hit it off well IMHO. J's quickness of wit, her easygoing and bubbling sense of humour had me disarmed right from the off and we booted up the A1 to Biggleswade and the side road to Gamlingay and we had already had mighty crack discussing politics, expat Irish peoples' unwillingness to admit that somethings were got right by England and the English and whatnot. J. is one of the finest people that I have ever met and at a time that I have been starved for the company of someone who can follow the twists and turns of my own rather idiosyncratic turn of mind without sending me down their own sidetracks she is one of the very few people that I can ramble off at random with and she can meet me and parry me properly.

We arrived at Gamlingay in South Cambridgeshire fairly quickly. A's Significant Birthday party was being hosted by her friends N and L. N. is Russian and L. is Scottish, and a great combination. Their openness and willingness to share their beautiful house and garden with us was much appreciated but the first job in hand was to get on board the coach to Newmarket Races. Yours truly is the muggest of mug punters but the solution for the afternoon's flat racing was to form a syndicate consisting of myself, S., A., and J. and the four of us would get our heads together and pick four separate horses for each race. As I can get either claustraphobic or bored if I'm stuck in the same place for a number of hours, I ended up as the runner to the Bookies (in reality, the Tote). The Ladies I think made a little money and I was down overall a tenner (GBP) at the end of the day, not too bad really.

We returned to the House in Gamlingay, and as S. wasn't keen to walk back to the house that she was staying in, J. and myself gave her a lift back.

Fantastic. The house is called the Emplins and is run by a husband and wife couple, and dates from the Thirteenth century. I was especially pleased that J. shared my love for old Churches and buildings and while the husband and I got stuck into mediaeval building techniques, J. had already explored the rest of the house and was engaging the wife in discussing camilleas and the art of drawing plants.

To my mind, there would not be a better weekend than to arrive in that village, check into the Emplins, decamp to the local pub for food and beer, and to attend the Parish Church that Sunday.

We went back to the Party House, and I got stuck into the whole roast pig provided and the unidentified fairly hoppy and decent bitter in a keg provided along with wine and lager.

Not too long afterwards, the main entertainment for the party got up and running. A little lady with a huge Soul voice got her motor running and didn't let us down once. Fantastic. A. early on was a bit disappointed in the weather, but as many of us pointed out, the best bet was to ignore the rain entirely and it would go away, which thankfully it did. The usual quota of ladies hit the floor, while all the men stayed away. Fortunately one man broke the duck, so I felt free enough to hit the floor "the auld shlap". I love dancing but can be a bit self conscious about it - as I said to my old man several times, he is Fred Astaire and I'm Fred Flinstone.

The night wore on. A fellow Irishman asked me where my accent was from. This was innocently meant but the desire to categorise is one major thing that I leave Ireland for on a regular basis. It is a source of pride to me that I am not categorisable, by religion, by football team or by location, so on that basis I am not a true Irishman, at least as far as some are
concerned. Truly, their problem rather than mine.

J. and I left around half eleven. We had great chat on the way back as well and I was back in R and R's house well before half twelve. J. dropped me off and so I went my very delighted way to bed.

From Arsenal to Andover..

2008-08-13T22:10:00.000+01:00

Friday, and a pressed shirt later I'm on my way to Waterloo to go to visit my former MD, mentor and all round sound man JM and his partner M. When I decided to have my mid life crisis early in 2004, before my parents' health got a bit ropey, I was the London manager of an Irish company that had cheekily taken a few high profile jobs from under the nose of the British market leader. Our own sense of noblesse oblige sat easily with the customers, City people and our corporate mentor, Sir R. that we looked after and on one memorable occasion I was the host of a dinner in one of the Livery Halls for our friends and supporters, where, to my immense pleasure, a City old hand praised the damn fine claret that I had picked for the afternoon. We were all like Rowley Birkin in the Fast Show by teatime. Anyway, I digress.

As the Beijing Olympic Games were opening that day, J's partner M was at home recording the opening ceremony. We arrived at J. and M's comfortable house and M and her delightful little daughter made me feel very welcome with a nice cup of tea (needed after the fun and games at the GBBF the previous night). Pizza ensued and J and I went to their office later on and we discussed matters of business for enjoyment and mutual small profit. The upshot is that I will be very happily be acting as their agent in the Irish Republic and will be attending at least one of their high profile events later in the Autumn in England.

J and little R. dropped me back to Andover station to go back to London. As I had dug myself in with the Spectator and the (London) Independent the next hour passed comfortably on the train. I bailed out at Clapham Junction as the train was being somewhat delayed and got back to NW London in time to meet my good friends C. and G., a husband and wife team of many years and whose sense of humour and good taste in beer and curry has lifted my spirits many times over the last twenty odd years.

We ended up in Toff's fish restaurant in my beloved Muswell Hill. I had the grilled plaice, an extremely good call, and we chatted about now, then and what their sons were up to. It has been my immense pleasure to host C and G and their sons in Ireland and hope to do so again sooner rather than later. We went back to my brother and sister in laws' house and brewed up coffee and the evening slid to a graceful end before too long.

The Great British Beer Festival

2008-08-13T20:30:00.000+01:00

I know I'm a bit eccentric. You know all that as well. It was in that spirit that as soon as I had dumped my luggage back in R and R's house in London that I sprinted back into town to the Campaign for Real Ale's annual festival which this year was held in Earl's Court. As every other evening on the trip was booked up I headed down after a quick bite to eat.

Yes, there is huge quantities of every different type of British (and Irish, and other) craft beers. However, for me the watchword is Quality. In a couple of hours in the very social and convivial atmosphere created by beer enthusiasts I sampled a very nice selection of some of the finest beers known to humanity. A blues band played at one end, excellent high quality food was available and there was plenty of stalls dedicated to books, beermats, tshirts and what not associated with the wine of the country.

My personal favourites sampled were Greene King XX Dark Mild, Dublin's Porterhouse TSB, the only handpumped ale available in Dublin, and Scotland's Black Isle Yellowhammer Ale. All distinctive and the point being not to get hammered but to enjoy a drink that at its best can be as subtle as fine wine and when crafted properly is worthy of serious attention. I met up with a bunch of Irish postgrad students and a good night was had by all, then safe home.

France Sud-Ouest

2008-08-13T20:16:00.000+01:00

La Teste, when I last visited it in 1990, was a small village not far from the quiet resort of Arcachon, thirty-odd miles from Bordeaux. At that time, my brother R. had just started going out with his lady who became his wife three years later. My sister in law's parents very generously asked me down again several times but it wasn't until this year that I was able to take advantage of their generosity.

Nowadays the whole area to the south of the Basin d'Arcachon is built up with low rise holiday homes, and a very pleasant part of France it is too. To the south is the massive Dune du Pyla, the largest sand dune in Europe and rises several hundred feet into two peaks half a kilometre apart, all sweeping down to the Atlantic Ocean.

On Tuesday night we were entertained to a decent barbeque and on Wednesday we went to the Dune. Later that afternoon we went back to the beach again and as ever I enjoyed being in the water for nearly two hours. Thank God water resistant factor 50 sunscreen exists - in 1990 I had got heatstroke from sunbathing for some hours and nowadays much prefer being in the sea than being on a beach anywhere. Wednesday evening we all went to dinner in a nice family run restaurant called Le Cap in La Molleau, which got me ready for the off again the next morning!

R. dropped me to La Teste station for the 0930 train to Bordeaux. At Bordeaux St-Jean station fortified myself with more coffee and got the 1100 TGV direct to Lille. The Lille train skirts around the edge of Paris, stopping at Orly, Marne le Vallee and Charles De Gaulle, and gets into Lille leaving an hour and a quarter to make the connection back to London on the Eurostar. As it was lashing rain at that time I didn't leave the station to have a look around, and got onto the train for St. Pancras at around 1740. Another hour and a half later I was back in London.

Over a week later, and into the home stretch

2008-08-11T08:19:00.000+01:00

It's been over a week since the last entry and there's been a lot of moving about since.

On Sunday I went down to All Saints in Margaret Street for High Mass. None of your slapdash, boring and uninspiring Irish Catholic style worship here. This is the citadel of Anglo Catholicism, a tiny jewel of a church built in the 1850s and always the one place I go to whenever I visit London. Its vicar, Fr. Alan Moses makes a conscious effort to keep all strands of Anglo Catholic opinion together, no easy task in these contentious times for the Anglican Communion.

Incense? Chanting, including the Gospel? Traditional Hymns sung with gusto by the congregation? Coffee and chats after Mass? Intelligent and challenging preaching that doesn't assume that you are ten years old? All this and more. Not to everyone's taste but to me it is like an oasis. My own local church in Celbridge assumes you have 2.1 children attending the Catholic schools or if you don't, that you are to the right of Atilla the Hun and are into the more bizarre bits of RC devotionalism . It is purely to avoid upsetting my parents that I hang on there.

After coffee and a chat I headed off to Oxford Street for a wander. Picked up a shirt in Marks, and had a wander around Liberty. Liberty specialises in home furnishings but does have a fairly wide choice of other things as well. The store has always been associated with William Morris and the Arts and Crafts Movement of the late nineteenth/early twentieth century and is a half timbered pastiche with the floors arranged in balconies around the central ground floor.

Picked up a Powell and Pressburger box set and the second series of Torchwood in HMV. Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger were the finest British directors in the period from the 1940s to the late 1950s, and their best known films include A Matter of Life and Death, probably my favourite film of all, through The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp, Black Narcissus, The Red Shoes and many others.

Had a wander around Covent Garden and headed back to R and R's house in Mill Hill.

On Monday my longstanding friend S invited me to her Toastmasters meeting in Camden Town. I've done a bit of public speaking before as some of you know but I am always a little bit apprehensive about meeting new people in a different environment. Worked out fine! I volunteered to do a "table topic", where one of the regular members picks an overall theme and eight volunteers are picked at random to get up and speak about some aspect of that topic for a minute or so. S. is the President of the branch and organised the meeting with her usual élan and inclusive flair. I was impressed enough with the format of the meeting and the very interesting mixture of people from all backgrounds who went out of their way to make me feel relaxed and part of the whole thing.

Tuesday morning was a early start. Can you open your eyes at 5.30am and get out the door before six? Yes you can!

Here's the approximate timetable:

0615: Mill Hill Broadway station to St. Pancras (Saint Pancakes, as the scouts of 7th Wood Green used to call it)
0635: Check in at the frankly magnificent St. Pancras International
A bit of breakfast and a read of the papers later and then
0730 Depart St Pancras for Paris Gare du Nord. The new High Speed One route to the Channel Tunnel is a huge improvement on the old route from Waterloo International, and two and a half hours later we arrived in Paris.

Took the Metro to Gare de Montparnasse for the TGV to Bordeaux. Left at 1210 and arrived in Bordeaux at 1525. A big improvement on the old Corail express that took over six hours in 1990. Got the local train to La Teste and met R. at 1645.

Jumped into the Atlantic Ocean less than an hour later!

More soon.

Doing the tourist thing in Edinburgh

2008-08-03T23:30:00.000+01:00

Friday morning coming up, and with a good night's sleep I was up and running for breakfast before nine o'clock. The hotel didn't seem to provide more than a continental breakfast but a coffee and a brace of croissants went a long way to getting me going.

I was out of the hotel by 9.30am. Showered, shaved and ready to go I headed up parallel to Princes Street in the New Town and my first stop was the National Portrait Gallery of Scotland. The building is a classic bit of Victorian Gothic with a frieze around the four walls of the stairwell of various late Victorian Scottish Notable People. Not as naff as it sounds, and it beats the rest of the exhibition rooms hands down.

Moving on across the Georgian elegance of the New Town towards St. Mary's Episcopalian Cathedral. This is Scotland's largest Church and was built at the end of the nineteenth century. Today it boasts Scotland's only all week worship in the Anglican tradition, with daily rounds of Mattins, a midday Mass and Evensong. That is except for the month of August where the Edinburgh Festival takes over and the lunchtime Eucharist is sacrificed for performances. While I was there two exceptionally talented ladies were rehearsing a piece for harp and flute for a lunchtime recital and it was entrancing among the surroundings. I promised that I would be back for Evensong.

Walking between the Castle and Haymarket, past the Conference Centre I passed through a beautiful large park, with one area marked out for a game of Cricket and endless criss crossing walks and cycleways. I was vaguely aiming for the Old Town and the Royal Mile, and joined the Royal Mile just before St. Giles' Cathedral, Knox's High Kirk. Every thirty yards or so you get cards thrust into your hand advertising different comedy acts for the Edinburgh Fringe Festival and I marked one at least for later reference. I was watching out for an Episcopalian Church called Old Saint Pauls, but hadn't brought my A-Z of Edinburgh with me, and like the protagonists of A Room with a View, had left the guidebook at the hotel and followed my nose instead. Finally, I did what I rarely if ever do and asked for directions. I had to ring my brother about something else and got the directions from Canongate to Old St Pauls. The lunchtime Mass had finished but the Church itself is well worth looking at. The story of the Scottish Episcopalians mirrors that of Irish Catholicism in the Penal times and those who held to the reformation, episcopacy and the same form of worship as those south of the border is remarkable and of course wholly unknown in Ireland. The Scottish Episcopal Church is the Anglican Church that so far I have felt quite at home in, its Anglo-Catholicism and toleration of difference makes it very agreeable to me and I am quite sure that it is lost in the headlong confrontation between Scottish Presbyterianism and Scottish Roman Catholicism.

Up another set of steps at the side of Old St. Pauls to the Mitre Pub. At that time of day I certainly don't fancy a drink but food is another matter. Their standard pub menu has an insert showing Scottish favourites so I went for the Arbroath Smokies, two highly savoury fishcakes served in a generous bed of salad. Fired up by the grub I pressed on further up the Royal Mile towards the Castle.

The Royal Mile runs from Edinburgh Castle at one end to the Queen's official Scottish residence of Holyrood House at the other. The main castle courtard at the moment is decked out with temporary stands for the Edinburgh Tattoo, a show put on by the Army and whatever martial guests they have with them, for the month of the Edinburgh Festival. As the queues to get into the Castle put me off, I headed back down the Royal Mile to look into its other attractions.

First up just after the Castle is the Camera Obscura, running since the 1850s at this spot. Pay £7.50, go up five floors and in a fifteen minute demostration watch much of Edinburgh reflected onto a concave table in a darkened room. Good fun and supplemented with the other optical illusions etc in the floors underneath, then you will have spent your money well for the forty minutes or so it takes to go through the exhibitions.

Next port of call was St. Giles's Cathedral. This is John Knox's High Kirk and for only a brief period under Charles I was the church actually the seat of a bishop, the historic diocese being at St. Andrews. After paying my £2 fee to permit me to take photographs, I had a good rummage around. Instead of the Pulpit being the focus, there is a covered communion table as the focus of the transept. A private chapel for prayer has candles, and the chapel that celebrates the Boys' Brigade is a full blown Lady Chapel. The Eucharist is celebrated at least every Sunday here. Highlight is the beautiful late Victorian Chapel of the Order of the Thistle, a small masterpiece of wood carving and panelling. I left the Kirk through the little shop and dodged a few more Fringe promoters at the far end of Parliament Square.

As the day was extremely warm by our current summer standards, halfway down at the top of Canongate I got a lovely strawberry sorbet and cooled down considerably.

The new Scottish Parliament is at the far end of the Royal Mile, opposite the palace of Holyrood House, hence its colloquial name of Holyrood, a similar usage to "Westminster" and "Stormont". It is in an original and striking building designed for purpose and opened in 2004. I took part in a guided tour that took over an hour and learned a lot about the architecture and got to stand on the floor of the Chamber. Unfortunately, by the time the tour ended the shop had closed so I couldn't bring back Parliamentary goodies with me.

It was now a quarter to five and I remembered that I wanted to be back in St. Mary's for Evensong, which was to be sung by the Choir of Coventry Cathedral. Down through Waverley Station I went, along Princes Street, past the fine church of St Johns and the grandeur of the Scott Memorial and the Scottish National Gallery. I arrived in time to get the Order of Service and Prayer Book and took my place. There is a big place in my heart for Anglican chant and services and this did not disappoint, being a great way to conclude my day wandering.

However the night wasn't over yet. Went back to the hotel via Princes Street and picked up a book in Waterstones about the Act of Union in 1707 and the events leading up to it.

Had a quick shower, changed my shirt and headed out again. Pulled into a nearby Italian restaurant and got stuck into the rocket and artichokes, then a Quatro Stagioni pizza.

Of all the flyers, I recognised David O'Doherty, a wonderfully silly Irish comedian who works off songs and stories. He was playing in a small venue called the Stand 4, a temporary venue for the Fringe but near the main Stand, an all year round comedy club. A hilarious hour was the result. As I was tired I went back to the hotel and turned in early enough.

Maybe it was the noise as I had the window open, or maybe I was overtired, but sleep came fitfully that night.

I breakfasted before nine, got the blog updated and went hunting for the nearest post office, which was lurking in the St James Centre. Then checked out, got to Waverley and got on the 10.30am train to London. National Express now have the franchise for the East Coast Main Line, and arrived into Kings Cross for 3.30pm, hopped over to St Pancras and into Mill Hill and my brother and sister in law's house by 4.30pm. Phew!!

From Inishowen to Edinburgh, then London (continued)

2008-08-03T20:38:00.000+01:00

The main reason why I was in Coleraine and Portrush was that I was trying to get my hands on some swimming goggles with corrective lenses but without the time and money factor of going through Specsavers etc. Around eighteen months ago I had brought a pair in an outdoors shop in Belfast and they were a massive improvement on what I had been using before. For the first time I was able to see underwater, and those goggles had got lost earlier this year when I called a halt to my engagement.

No luck in Coleraine, moved on to Portrush. If ever somewhere in Ireland could be Newcastle by the Sea, this is it. It's rougher than a badger's brush and needs a wrecking ball, never mind a coat of paint. Headed back to Magilligan and the ferry and later on went out with one of my cousins to McRorys in Culdaff for a traditional session and then home.

The next day I took M. and P. on a day trip up the North Atlantic Coast via the ferry. Stopped off in Ballycastle for lunch in the hotel on the seafront, then we took the winding coast road to Cushendall. Cushendall is a charming little place, a Nationalist town but architecturally has more in common with its near neighbours on the other side of the North Channel in Scotland. On the way back we needed to get diesel but the first legitimate looking place was in Coleraine. Stuck a tenner's worth in and annoyingly, got stuck in slow traffic all the way to the ferry. I mentioned earlier that the boat only now goes once an hour and we got caught with that.

Northern Ireland drivers fall into two categories, the quick and the dead of the Nicene Creed. Both are a danger to others and at the very least an utter annoyance. I was in such a temper over wasting the hour that we stopped at the very nice Point Inn in Magilligan and had to cool down with a sparkling water. Papa Binge didn't need to remind me about the conversation we had earlier about the Institute of Advanced Motorists and its Advanced Driving Test, if I ever consider going for it I'd want to be in a Zen like state of calm and acceptance first.

P. and I went that evening to the Cabry House in the village for a couple of drinks. The Cabry is very much a local's local but is cosy and is a grand simple but comfortable place. Then got packed and ready for the road again the next morning.

P. drove me on Thursday morning to the Waterside station in Derry for the train to Belfast. There is new rolling stock on the line but the tea trolley was withdrawn last year. I was fortunate enough to find the coffee machine working though and had enough caffeine to last the two and a quarter hour trip, arriving in Belfast Central at 9.40am.

I picked up the Belfast Telegraph and the Irish Times and sat back with a coffee for a while. The next train would have left me too tight for the boat to Stranraer so there was no harm in relaxing there for an hour. Got a taxi from the stand and the really nice and polite driver who called me Sir often (not normally something I like, but it was done so sincerely I couldn't complain) was entertaining and took me to the new Stena Line terminal a good bit out in Belfast Lough. As I had prebooked my tickets there was the minimum of fuss getting through check in and then sat back with another coffee and the Guardian for a while.

We boarded the Stena HSS slightly later than the advertised departure time of 12.20pm. As is usual on my runs on the Dun Laoghaire - Holyhead run, made my way to the Stena Plus lounge, and was delighted to get a free upgrade. Not only that, but when I was asked to go to another area of the lounge as a family were trying to sit together, the steward offered me a free meal. Happy Days! Free coffee, juice and the Scotsman and (London) Times and I was minted.

We arrived into Stranraer ten minutes late. A bit of a nervous wait for my checked in bag, and ran out the gangway towards the railway station. Balls! The two car railcar went sailing out of the station, bang on time without any consideration as to the ship passengers. Needless to say the train was nearly empty. Aargh! The alternative was a cramped Stagecoach bus with no working air conditioning, screaming kids and the inevitable bloke taking up a good lump of my personal space with his elbows and open legs. An hour and half later we got to Ayr and I boarded a Strathclyde local train to Glasgow. As I was due to meet an old workmate of mine later on this wasn't good and time was of the essence.

Here's a sense of it.

16:37 Train leaves Ayr, stopping at most stops south of Prestwick.
17:33 Train arrives at Glasgow Central. I leg it for Queen Street Station. Thank God the bag has wheels and a handle.
17:47 Arrive at Queen Street. Go into Burger King, devour Double Whopper and bottle of water.
18:02 Train leaves Queen Street for Edinburgh Waverley. Nice lady with Tea trolley sells me much needed cuppa Tea.
18:50 Train arrives at Waverley. Up the massive steps with the bag. Not good for the back!
19:10 Checked into Holiday Inn Express at Picardy Place.
19:30 Quick wash later, jump into Taxi to Dalkeith. Dropped at the Maysons Pub, opposite the Parish Church and funny enough, the Masonic.

Met up with my old workmate and two of his friends and we had an uproariously good night. Got the taxi back to the hotel and so to bed.

More later...

Inishowen to Edinburgh

2008-08-02T08:55:00.000+01:00

Good morning from Edinburgh. Here's a recap of the last few days - I'm travelling down to London this morning and should be able to get some photos uploaded if I can get onto my brother's wireless network.

Tuesday was a slowish day, after bringing P. into Sainsbury's in Derry for shopping I didn't get on the road until 2.30pm, with needing to return to base by 7.00pm. So, abandoning the idea of a trip to Belfast went instead to Coleraine and Portrush via the Foyle Ferry that runs from Greencastle at the top of Inishowen over to Magilligan in Co. Londonderry. From September last year, the operating subsidies that were in place from Donegal County Council and Limavady District Council were withdrawn, and as a result the ferry now only operates on a hourly basis, leaving Greencastle on the hour and Magilligan on the quarter hour.

Coleraine is the most un-Irish of Northern Irish towns. There is a very fine Parish Church in the centre of the town, with numerous small churches of the other Protestant denominations, some of which are almost unique to Northern Ireland. The local Congregational Church for example, advertised a mid week talk by its Minister entitled "Don't let Science make a Monkey of You!" The usual riot of Union Flags, Northern Ireland Banners and Scottish Saltires mark the territory.

Will continue later..

From Killarney to Inishowen via Jurassic Park

2008-07-28T16:53:00.000+01:00

We left Killarney on Sunday morning at 11.15am and drove to Tarbet for the ferry to Killimer. The two main towns on the way are Tralee and Listowel. Apart from the usual housing estates and Lidl and Aldi almost opposite each other Listowel hasn't changed much since I was last through it in 1989, however Tralee looks prosperous and has been considerably built up.

There was a fifteen minute wait for the Ferry and the crossing takes around fifteen minutes as well. The single fare is €17 and the ferry was full up with around thirty five or forty cars on board. When we arrived at Killimer in County Clare we took the road right towards Ennis and the contrast between this part of Clare and Kerry is marked. Poor land and scattered housing shows that the Celtic Tiger was more of a Celtic Tigger in this part of Ireland. Outside Lissycasey on the N68 between Kilrush and Ennis we were diverted due to an accident along three miles of back roads which took us at least twenty minutes to navigate. It felt much longer. Finally, around two o'clock we arrived in Ennis and as M. and P. needed to stop urgently we ended up in a branch of O'Briens Sandwiches instead of the West County Hotel. For a hotel that put a lot of effort in promoting itself along the road, once you got to Ennis there wasn't the remotest attempt to signpost it. A classic case of the old Irishism that shure, everyone knows where it is, except of course the visitor.

The road north, the N18 and N17, improved considerably and we made good time, arriving in Bundoran just before six o'clock. We checked into our hotel, which I'm calling Jurassic Park here. I was glad that I had my printed reservation with me, because despite booking online directly with the hotel, the very nice girl on reception was convinced that we had booked one room instead of two. We were sorted out with no fuss however. When M. and P. went to their room, despite it being a non-smoker there was a mild hum of stale cigarettes off it, where no doubt the previous occupants had a crafty smoke in the bathroom or out of the window. Later, we went into the almost empty dining room and had a pleasant meal, I had an old favourite, Chicken Maryland, which came off pretty well. Our waitress was a pleasant and interesting girl originally from County Sligo but who now lived in Bundoran.

On paying the bill, there was an arithmetic error of €50 made by the manager which was again corrected with no fuss but I started to wonder was there an element of cuteness in first trying to foist one room on us and then fattening up a dinner bill.

Then the prize bit. M. and P. love country and irish dancing, which I hate with every fibre of my being. M. as usual was convinced that my personal dislike for this great social ritual for the over fifties was shyness rather than being (rightly) convinced that I would never meet anyone in any way compatible with me at these events. As the evening wore on, the crowd came in, with the youngest considerably older than me. I took refuge in a number of pints of Smithwicks and watched the passing show. At one point, the support act invited the crowd to take the floor "to help their circulation". The music is well performed, however there is a subculture of sixty somethings, mainly women, who dress up for the occasion, usually expensively. The men invariably are quiet and slightly withdrawn, except for the cockier of the dancers. The crowd follow particular acts and know the bands pretty well.

I would be ate alive if I tried to break into that sort of thing. This is a country cute crowd and my slightly posh accent and Irish Times reading is alien to them.

Wrapped things up around 1.45am and went to bed.

Bundoran has come back from the dead in the last twenty years. Until the end of the 1950s, the Great Northern Railway disgorged thousands of holidaymakers from trains running directly from Derry, Belfast and Dublin and after the closure of the railway and as foreign holidays became cheaper and more popular from the 1970s onwards, Bundoran fell into what was very nearly terminal decline. It held its own as a weekend bolthole from the Northern Troubles but only in the 1990s onwards was there any real investment in the place, helped by Irish Government tax breaks.

Nowadays, Bundoran attracts a few distinct types of short breakers. Surfing has taken off exponentially in the last decade, with the coast from Enniscrone to Rossnowlagh taking the bulk of the enthusiasts, who come from all over the world to experience the waves with the necessary help of wetsuits and protective gear. The traditional short breaker from the North still comes, but with some more upmarket tourists who come for the excellent links golf and the good standards of food in most of the hotels. Then the aging Country and Irish crowd come to Bundoran as a mecca for Irish country music every summer.

We left Bundoran at 11.30 and were back in Greenbank for 2.00pm. I had meant to go to the beach today but laziness overtook me and I got the dial up working here instead. The joys of steam powered internet access!

I'm looking forward to meeting a few family and friends here over the next couple of days and will post again soon.

The Victoria House Hotel, Killarney

2008-07-27T00:54:00.000+01:00

I'm about to turn in at the end of our full day here in Killarney, and we'll be going on the road to Bundoran tomorrow evening. The hotel here is a pleasant and smallish family run place, built in the last ten years or so but in a pastiche Victorian style. It is very pleasant and for me is definitely worth a return visit. Clean beds and a small but comfortable room isn't something that I take for granted.

We left Celbridge around 11.30 yesterday morning and joined the M7 beyond Naas after driving through Clane and Sallins. Stopped at Roscrea for lunch and after passing Nenagh we saw the signs for Killaloe. Papa Binge mentioned that he hadn't been there and fancied a look, so we did a U turn and detoured slightly to the very picturesque twin villages of Ballina (in Tipperary North Riding) and Killaloe in County Clare. As regulars know, I'm extremely partial to historic Anglican churches in Ireland and we passed the magnificent (by Irish standards) Killaloe Cathedral. We drove (in my favourite rally stylee) to Ardnacrusha and Limerick City along a scenic enough regional road and then through the the heart of Limerick to the N21 towards Kerry. We had a necessary pit stop at the modern but agreeable enough Rathkeale House Hotel and refreshed ourselves with coffee and biccies before the final hour's driving to Killarney.

I had never been in Killarney before. Essentially, it consists of loads of hotels ranging from the sublime and incredibly expensive former Great Southern Hotel to the dingy Gleneagle. Our comfortable little pitstop is next to the Gleneagle and beats it hands down for comfort and price.

Papa and Mama Binge came here first in 1963 for their honeymoon in a VW Beetle rented for the occasion and commented favourably on everything here except for the Gleneagle. We did go in last night for one of their caberet sessions, featuring the Dublin City Ramblers, who were great fun and worth the collective €75 admission.

Today, after a decent sleep and a nice breakfast, served by friendly and helpful girls here, we headed through the heart of tourist Killarney through Ladies' View and Moll's Gap to Kenmare and Glengarriff. The mountain pass from Cork into Kerry has a two hundred metre tunnel where even with the headlights at full beam it is still difficult enough to see your way through, what with this afternoon being one of the "softest" day's this summer.

We arrived in Glengarriff around 1.30pm and decided to pull into one of the small hotels on the main street for lunch. Not the wisest place as there were big pictures of Dev and Jack Lynch in the main bar and the place revealed itself to be a roaring Fianna Fail house by its slightly shite interior and one of the most so-so chowders that I haven't actually sent back to the kitchen. No bottled Guinness was available for Papa Binge and Mama Binge's salad could probably feed a half dozen starved famine victims but would kill them with indigestion afterwards.

Returned to Killarney. I dropped M. and P. back to the hotel and did my own small bit of exploring. The Church of Ireland Parish Church is a small Victorian gem and I'll upload some photos soon. There isn't much more to the town of Killarney except as a jumping off point for exploring the locality but is busy enough and full of tourists having a nosey around like myself.

The Catholic Cathedral is worth a visit for its own sake. Designed by Pugin but fundamentally reordered during Eamon Casey's time as Bishop of Kerry by stripping out the ornate Victorian plasterwork, it is a curious amalgam of high Gothic and a primitive looking interior. The magnificent high vaulting of the interior is still intact and works under its own rules. I was anxious that the three of us got to Mass this evening so that we could be free to travel at our own time tomorrow and was impressed by the devotion and technical skill of the statuesque lady Cantor in her early thirties who lead the congregation in singing and managed to get the congo to actually sing, no mean feat for those of us who usually prefer the Irish protestant approach to hymn singing, ie, get stuck in and don't be held back by lack of technical ability.

We then went off to Kate Kearney's Cottage for dinner and though the grub was a bit uninspired we were looked after well enough by the friendly staff.

Then to the Holiday Inn for a little bit of music and now me to the upstairs sitting room here with a wifi connection, and now to bed.

A selection of photos here soon!

Good night.

The Starting Gate

2008-07-25T00:42:00.000+01:00

At last, I'm off work from now until the 18th of August. Drove over the M50 at eleven o'clock tonight and after two false starts played "I Feel Free" by Cream on the car stereo. Cheesy of course but it hit home.

Killarney tomorrow, hopefully. Keep you posted. In the meantime, Film4 is showing "Porky's". A wee brandy and ginger and then to bed.

Hallelujah.

Pyjamas on P.ie

2008-07-21T22:54:00.000+01:00

Politics.ie gets increasingly sillier the further away we go from the last referendum.

Here's

a thread on street pyjamas. I couldn't care less one way or the other but the amount of ire raised by the sight of Dublin women in their jammies is amusing to say the least. There is also gratuitous use of the best rude word ever but I'll leave you dirtbirds to find it.