So I said to him..."Do Not mention Galway to me..."

Last Saturday we had a day of Summer.  In the midst of all this rain, it was balmy, we lunched in the garden and even Mme Pounce was feeling benign towards the baby Blue Tits.  She waved a lazy paw at them as they swooped past her on their way to the new bird feeders.

 

 

 

 

The good weather was obviously having an effect on Himself and he chose right between the second cup of tea and a dish of home grown strawberries to mention a trip to Galway.  Having had a peek at the week to come weather wise, Atlantic gales followed by rain, rain and more rain on Wednesday and Thursday, I issued an ultimatum.  Don't mention Galway unless you have thoroughly checked the forthcoming weather forecast.  We're off to Navan tomorrow instead.  By car. In comfort. Dry. There is an antique store up there that I have a passion to explore.  I need a new desk.  Investigation day in Auctioneer/Antique store #1234,5678,999 coming up.

 

I'm not looking for something ridiculously expensive.  If it has a couple of homely dents in it, so much the better.  When Mme Pounce decides to use it as a sharpening post behind my back, I promise her fan club faithfully I shall not assassinate the hussy for the damage.  I might get forgetful about cuddles though.

 

 

 

 

One of my elderly cousins died last week.  She celebrated 92 years last October, and was hale and hearty living her own independent life until fifteen months ago.  An early breakfast accompanied by cover to cover reading of The Irish Times every morning, followed by daily Mass in the local church, home after a coffee with one or other of the millions of friends she had, and a phone around to all the children [Mondays] grand-children [Tuesdays] and great-grand-children [Wednesdays.  Thursday morning was grocery shopping in the local small supermarket; delivered by "that young lad Seamús" that afternoon.  Seamus was 62 and was in the same swimming club as I was when we were children, but at 92...62 is a baby.

 

Friday was Day Trip day with the Ladies Club and Saturday was housework day.  Sundays were organised around the two children [57 and 63 respectively] living locally and the second and fourth Sundays were Mass at 10 a.m., lunch with newspapers in a local pub and an examination of each issue in the paper with friends.  Evenings spent playing the piano.  In fact, she often made it clear that family life got in the way of book reading, piano playing and setting the world to rights.

 

 

Fifteen months ago she took a bad fall, broke her hip and spent six months in hospital.  This lady who, up to her fall, talked two miles to my home village every afternoon and took the bus back to her own village, hail, rain or snow, was disgusted that following the fall, she had to use a walker and the two mile trip was a thing of the past.  One thing followed another and she began to suffer stomach pains, a thing unheard of in someone with the constitution of an ox.  A tumour developed and was rampant and inoperable before you could say ~Atisshoo~, and on the 19th of this month, she stole away peacefully in the night to join her husband, her closest friend and cousin my Mum, and all the generations of a family of whom she was extremely proud.

I shall miss her dreadfully.  She was my last link to my Mum.  They were almost identical in looks, being cousins and best friends and close as children and adults, listening to her was like hearing Mum's soft gentle voice again.  Edwina [Edie] was wonderful when Mum passed on.  A tower of strength.  Many's the night we talked about their childhood here, where I live. 

Thirty years and some months separated us in age, and, in keeping with family tradition she was the archivist of her branch of the family.  Mum was our archivist.  None of Edie's children ever had the same interest, and I am the last archivist of the family left who actually met a lot of the "older generation".  I have told my girls our history.  YD is the one most likely to continue the tradition, ED will have the written version.

Edie's Grandfather was my Grandfather's favourite brother.  Most alike in looks, mine was the younger, a bachelor until his late 40's, he helped support his brother's ever increasing family financially.  I remember Edie's Grandfather, he used to give me an old 3d on a Sunday "to buy sweeties"; the image of my Grandfather, he is the reason I have a picture in my head of my Grandfather who died in '32 when Mum was three.

 

 



 

 

 

 

Just for to-day Lord

I ask you to stay,

Help me and guide me

on my lifetimes  way,

And when the hour comes Lord

at the end of my day,

I'll go with you Lord

wherever you say.

Amen.

 

 

A prayer Edie taught me as a child.







That was the week that was...and we could've done without it!

I knew it, the minute OH arrived with bunch of roses from the garden in hand. Spotted what was coming a mile off.  Move over Agatha Christie, Agatha Raisin, Jane Marple, there's a new detective eye on the block!

What the heck is she on about, says you, dear Reader.  Well, the sight of a mixture of Peace, Gertrude Jekyll, Iceberg, and Queen Elizabeth roses alerted me to the fact that OH was about to suggest a few days in his home townland.  Sister in law being otherwise involved this month, [she owns the family home] and with the wet and humid weather it didn't take Einstein to work out that we were, he hoped, going down there for a few days to cut the grass, reclaim the lane from the encroaching bushes, and I could cook for him, tidy up, and watch him watch endless football matches.  I hold my hand up.  I have total disinterest in football, be it soccer, gaelic, rugby unless Ireland is playing, then national loyalty kicks in.  So, making the supreme sacrifice [says she with huge grin on face and laughing so hard the keyboard is confused] I said yes before he asked me.  Ahhh! watch his face light up.

By nature, I am one of those individuals who is not intimately acquainted with boredom.  Once I have a book close at hand, life is good.  My survival kit for these sort of visits down to this neck of the woods is a canvas bag containing

• Notebook and four pens [in case the ink runs out] for observation notes
• mobile phone for picture taking
• No less than three books for reading [for a four day stay]and this time the choice was a detective novel, a book on the lives of the Commanche Indians bought at the aforementioned May Farmer's market  and Conor Fitzgerald's "The Dogs of Rome"
• plain paper pad for doodles and other scribbles
• at least two Mozart discs for player - on this occasion Clarinet and Piano concerto's and a jazz cd
• Battery charger for phone
• spare batteries for playing Mozart 
• spare pair of reading glasses
• tin of mixed herbs and jar of garlic granules to spice up the food

We left home on Tuesday morning, bright and sunny at ten a.m., birds singing their little heads off since crack of dawn at 3.30.  Ten minutes down the M50 and oh frabjous day! The heavens opened, think downpour, aquaplaning, and in the far off distance sheet lightning just to bring back some electrifying memories.  

By the time we reach Mullingar, Himself is fidgeting uneasily behind the wheel of the car.  "Always the same" he mutters, "when the place gets overgrown the flippin rain comes to make sure I can't cut the stuff back" and other such encomiums on the weather, the county, gardening in general and the fact that he has been garden-grumpy for most of May and the bulk of this month so far.

We arrive, eventually, despite a washed out road which made skating on thin ice look tame, to a damp house and sub zero temperatures which made Iceland look like the Bahamas.  It is June for God's sake!!

Two hours later, Aga burning merrily, electric blankets warming up the bed, car looking miserable outside the kitchen window, next door's cat lounging droopily in the door of the shed - mice being reluctant to run around in such weather and birds considering it an insult to their feathers to get wet, we have our lunch.

Beloved cheers up when he realises Somewhere is playing Someplace at three o'clock and his afternoon is sorted.  He switches on the TV and sits back prepared to shout for Somewhere when it occurs to him that the blue screen is very attractive in colour but there are no little figures running around a pitch.  He splutters, mutters, stutters and emits non printable words at goal speed.  "Perhaps", I said helpfully, "if you switched on the switch upstairs and plugged in the lead, you might get a signal".  With a loving look in his eye at me, he races up the narrow stairs and two minutes later Someplace scores the first goal.  Insult to injury don't you know!



I retire with Mozart and Maigret to the front parlour, put a match to the fire [having first checked that the chimney is not blocked].  There have been instances when sooty deceased members of the blackbird, sparrow and finch families have graced the parlour and welcomed my poor sister in law with sooty wing prints on the pale grey walls.

Two hours later, several oceans of grey rain falling out of the gutter like a sheet of grey water, and the grey walls, green carpet, and green suite of furniture have displaced the ability of Mozart and Maigret to comfort me, I saunter into the kitchen where Beloved is sulking.  No, not skulking, or maybe a tiny bit, because Someplace has wiped the pitch with Somewhere and of course it was an unfair match, the referee was blind, the players away with the fairies and the ball didn't magnetically race into the proper goal.  By this stage we decide that if the rain continues, sister in law will not need to have a swimming pool put in the front garden...the rain will do it for her.

We dine at eight, open a bottle of vino and sit back and watch a DVD of a well known spy film.  I'm happy as Pierce sorts out the baddies and Himself drifts off to a dream where Somewhere won by 497 goals to 0.  

Wednesday dawns, and more rain.  The bottom of the garden is flooded and Mr Grumpy is threatening, with a shaken fist, the clouds which float past [menacingly] in return.  

By early afternoon, the thunder and lightning has arrived, The Other Place is playing Where d'ja Call It and as the lightning is close at hand he won't risk putting on the TV.  I have, cunningly, brought a LUDO board with me, and have not forgotten the dice this time, and we pass the afternoon outplaying each other.  The humour he is in, well lets just say he tries to wipe me off the board.  Final score Me 3 games, Him 0.  

I'm a LUDO expert in my own mind, my Mum first introduced me to the game as a child.  I was in bed with one of the many ailments that found their way to me, it and books were the foundation of a sane mind. Well, I like to think so anyway.  Things are not improved by Where d'ja call it beating The Other Place.

By seven the rain has stopped and an orchestra of birds begin to sing at the top of their voices, to the accompaniment of the sound of dripping leaves. The waters are slowly seeping away and we meander around the garden.

Thursday brings a whole new world.  We tidy the rain sodden debris as best as we can.  Sister in law rings to see has the lawn been cut yet, OH tightly replies "no, how the ..ll could I and it raining for two solid days and nights?" and she breaks his heart by telling him it has been lovely "up here".

I suggest we head to Longford Town and picnic on the way.  A friend and former neighbour from the Wicklow days has set up a cake shop in the town and I am keen to see her new premises.  We picnic near the river shown above.  It's the Inny River and anyone familiar with the Percy French song "Ballyjamesduff" will be familiar with the line

Just turn to the left at the bridge of Finea

except, that if you turn to the left you wind up in the hedge or down watching the swans if coming from the other side of the bridge!

My friend is delighted to see us, and we catch up over tea and a bun in her shop in between darts behind the counter to serve the customers.  Her wedding cakes and special occasion cakes are mouthwatering looking, long may she prosper.

In the evening the grass is cut, and the worst of the encroaching hedges trimmed and disciplined.  We decide that if it is raining or looks like it, we will return home the next morning.  Under a lowering sky on Friday we arrive home to sunshine, birdsong and lunch in the garden before, singing contentedly, OH heads off to address a branch on the apple tree which has collapsed and to inspect the tadpole situation in the rockpools.  

May's Farmer's Market and the rabbits are back!

I was just sitting enjoying a cup of tea early this morning, when it suddenly hit me that it is the 12^th of June.  Where on earth have the last few weeks disappeared to?

The start of May found me hobbling around with a badly swollen right knee, compliments of rheumatism.  However, nothing loathe, as the saying goes, Himself and I started the month by driving out to the Farmer’s Market at Kilruddery House in Bray, Co. Wicklow.  It’s a popular destination for all dedicated foodies and many of my friends congregate there on Saturday mornings, sipping Tai Chi latte and herbal teas. 

Me?  Well, apart from the odd jar of chutney, I make a beeline for the book stall and the lovely gentleman who runs it.  Many are the conversations we have had about books; a bookworm himself, he starts gathering what he knows I will like the minute he sees me on the horizon. He never lets me down.  For sheer solid good value this stall is a personal heaven.  For the princely sum of €18 I came away with a Maigret novel, a book on the Comanche Indians, Art in the great houses of Ireland, a cookery book for a friend and a history of Ireland.  All the books are in excellent condition and cost roughly €3 to €4 each.

I have to say I was less enamoured of little Sophie, [approximate age six, mass of curly nut brown hair, red ribbon, electric blue socks in white sandals, lime green cardigan and floral pinafore with a cyclamen pink tee-shirt underneath].  Sophie, or Soapy as her brother called her [clearly a discerning ten-year-old] was informing her mother and all and sundry that she would not ****ing well sit down and that she didn’t like her mother one ****ing bit.  I’m sure there are gentlemen who work on the docks whose hair would turn grey to hear Soapy’s language.  In another day and age her mouth would have been washed out with soap. 

Mum [harassed looking thirty something in check shirt, white tee shirt and tatty jeans with brown high heeled shoes] wearily begged darling not to be naughty and to sit down and eat the nice slice of apple strudel; Soapy’s response was to kick her mother with great precision in mid-calf with some force.  Her face in a rictus of agony Mum again begged darling to be a good girl and not to do that again or she would be put on the naughty box when they got home.  Darling kicked Mum twice in quick succession for good measure while sweeping a mug of coffee off the table.

 

While Soapy was multi-tasking, Edward dear, the discerning ten-year-old, was, while examining the contents of his upper nasal passages, removing a five euro note from Mum’s purse while she was facing towards Darling Sopheeeeeee.  Pocketing the moola, he then sauntered over to eye up the cakes.  What a multi-tasking pair of little darlings they are.  If Mum lives long enough and doesn’t collapse from high blood pressure she will no doubt be enormously proud of his entrepreneurial skills when he is in his twenties, and Soapy’s skills as a prop forward on some unfortunate rugby team.

I’m not entirely convinced that all this no slapping thing is working; a generation of self-centred selfie taking individuals is beginning to show itself up.  Enraptured with themselves and with little or no sense of discipline I sometimes fear for the future.  However, on a brighter note, there are pockets of down to earth endearing children who will make the world a better place, that’s if the selfie groups let them impinge on their universe.

Gradually, over the course of the month the knee got better with the improving weather, and life returned to normal.  YD embarked on a major makeover of her room, and I look forward to the reveal when OH and I return from a short break to the country.  Inspired by her makeover work and the prodigious amount of de-cluttering she was engaged in, I decided to declutter too. 

I am now minus two pairs of trousers that had seen better days, there were three but I think there is a bit of gardening wear still left in them.  I assembled all the ornaments I decided I wanted to declutter the house from and while passing a local auction house I went in to enquire when the next china/porcelain auction would be.  The Ansley vases I bought at auction there look lovely with the other “for decluttering” stuff, well, I’m not hard hearted, who would love and look after them as well as I would hmmmm?

The June bank holiday brought an end to the mini-heatwave we were having.  On Monday morning OH came into the kitchen full of excitement.  “There are rabbits in the garden” he said urging me to come to the dining room window and there, grazing peacefully was Mammy rabbit and her baby.  Now to be known as Mrs Hopsy and Little Speedy respectively.  It has been almost fifteen years since we had rabbits in the garden.  Living cheek by jowl with the fox.  

I have often thought the foxes looked on the rabbits as a sort of winter larder, not to be used while hunting was good elsewhere and in case food was not dispensed from the kitchen window of the house.  Mme. Pounce has discovered Hopsy and I am afraid that she may try to attack Mrs Hopsy. As I said to YD, if it comes to a choice between Mme Pounce and Mrs Hopsy, the rabbit gets my vote.  Mrs Hopsy was with us again today complete with Pounce’s unwanted attention, Little Speedy, I fear, may not have made it past the Bank Holiday.

We had, on Bank Holiday Monday, the worst electrical storm in years.  As YD and I sat enjoying a cup of tea in the kitchen, there was an almighty bang outside and the whole place lit up with an orange glow.  I was sitting near the window and realised that the forked lightning had hit the rocks behind the house.  Suddenly I could feel a tingle all over and my hair stood up like a halo around me.  I'm non the worse for it and indeed haven't felt as good in ages...not that I'd recommend a lightning bolt to anyone as a health treatment.  As OH said, it was lucky I wasn't out in the garden and we can thank the rain for that.

Was that Biggles I saw flying over?

I've been in grumpy form for the past week.  An old knee injury from school days when a classmate mistook me for a goal post and whacked my knee - very firmly - and then a bad fall twenty years ago - came back to let me know it was still lurking.  I have been hobbling along on an old walking stick of Mum's.  OH has been wonderful, just as the weather improved and he could return to the garden, we get to make our own production of Driving Mrs Irish Eyes!  Lovely! Still and all, going to the bank, crossing the road and other such expeditions have been enlivened by gentlemen opening doors for me, a very nice young Hipster gentleman assisting me across the road by holding his hand up to the oncoming traffic and causing an Aston Martin to squeal to a stop.  I should have gotten the Hipster's address, maybe he might have made a nice son in law...YD*, you may now stop glaring at me!

The table in the hall finally decided it wanted to retire and a nice oak topped neat console table was purchased to take its place.  One of the History Group pals said it reminded her of visiting the house as a child, and that my Grandmother and Mother always kept their May altar on it, in my childhood the May altar was always on my dressing table.

I do, however, have a vague memory of the original table, and yes, there is some similarity apart from the fact that the main body wasn't painted.  A 'Fifties Bride, Mum had a love of the modern look of Teak, and a lot of stuff went to the garage.  A hideous telephone seat in Teak replaced the original oak table.  It is now residing in the garage, no, not spite on my part, but it didn't sell for the modest reserve placed on it at our local auctioneers, and on-line it didn't raise any interest either.  I'm not surprised.

  

Anyhow, I felt inspired to reinstate the May altar to the hall and what lovely memories it evoked. The statue came from OH's Godmother's house, it is so old that the faces of the Virgin and Child are almost worn smooth.  The telephone was a gift from a telephone chap who installed the Internet in the house.  I had Mum's cream coloured plastic looking thing and he was delighted that I was keeping to history.  A few days after he finished his installations, he arrived up with the cream Bakelite phone, from his own private collection and said he loved the idea of the phone going to a good home. 

The History ladies and I had a "meet up" last week.  We hibernate all winter and as soon as we think Spring is in the air we emerge with whatever interesting snippits of local history we have accumulated over the winter.  First meeting of our season was held here and we had good old night of it.  As OH informed me the next morning, you're the only group that can meet up at 8 o'clock, drink tea, gossip, laugh, and still be going strong at one in the morning and all on tea! 

We're all interested in history, local gossip and we range in age from 62-89 years.  There's no formality and we don't keep minutes but we exchange information about this village and what our eldest member recalls.  I'm the youngest in the group and having spent a lot of time with my Mother, I'm as well informed as the eldest...apart from she lived it and I listened to Mum telling me about living it.  Long may our eldest member live, her memory is like a computer God bless her.

YD has taken an interest in gardening lately, and like Scrooge, OH, aka Himself, has given her a plot to plant.  He stands over her like Inspector of Gardens to HRH, and one of these days he'll be told where to stick his salvias.  She has a plan with a capital P.

I've been busy scattering wild flower seeds all over the place behind his back.  He's the man for neat lawns, tidy hedges, square lines and military discipline per plant.  Show me a straight line in nature and I'll admit defeat.  Hopefully this summer will be full of riotous colour and bee's and butterflies aplenty.

This morning I went out to take a look at the recent spate of seed flinging, when a loud roar in the skies made me look up.  It was one of those moments out of time.  There I was, green wellies on foot, shabby green trousers, khaki t-shirt, green religious cardigan in what Himself refers to as either my Landgirl look or "Your Mother is going into battle again with the gorse" look.  Religious cardi? There are so many holes in it, all patched with brown herringbone tweed patches, remnants of an old pair of trousers that it could sing hymns.

Overhead, roaring majestically, was a WWI bi-plane.  Oh! my beloved Biggles! It was flying so low that I got a wave from the pilot.  Instantly I was taken back to my childhood and the year when I was nine and my Dad gave me my first Biggles book.  I was, as per usual, in bed with one of the multitudinous ailments that dogged my youth, and completely bored having run out of reading material.  Dad handed me a book about this Air-Policeman and his pals Algy, Ginger and Bertie and their adventures in Moldavia against the wicked Von Stalhein.  I was gripped.  Imagine my delight when I discovered that there was more where that came from.  

Over the next two years or so the local Library was raided for Biggles Books, my weekly pocket money of 2/6d spent in its entirety on Biggles Books, and Mum did pretty well out of it too.  I earned pocket money by doing dishes and hoovering...we had a spotless house then I can tell you.  Worrals and Gimlet were good, but Biggles was the best!  

The plane this morning returned about an hour later flying higher and did an Immelman roll and rocked his wings as he headed off across country. I'm still on a high.  Time stood still for a moment in my garden and I saw the same sight that my Grandparents would have seen.  ~Awesome~ 

Vintage makes me smile

I have been watching a programme on our national television station recently in which three architects/interior designers visit three houses every week and judge them on style, functionality and other criteria.  Each week features a modern, Edwardian/Victorian and traditional cottage style and the winning home will go on to feature in a final programme.  I'm not sure what the prize is as I came late to the series, but I amuse Himself when I let a roar at the television when one of the judges complains about chintz/crockery that is "vintage".

When I moved back home to live here, it nearly broke my heart to have to get rid of my grandmother's sideboard [a woodworm tenement] and my late Father's wardrobe [first cousin worms to the sideboard tenants].  Mum's eyesight had been steadily failing and the little puffs of woodworm dust went unnoticed.  No amount of Cuprinol was going to revive these pieces so out to the bonfire they went.  I saved the handles and have used them on the replacement furniture.  It has worked well.

I'm a blue and white ware-aholic. I love Spode, Burleigh, Willow Pattern, you name it, and I get a tingle when I come across some in our local auctioneers.  Aside from what I have inherited, I have built up a collection from presents from family, relations and friends.  At one stage in the past eight years it looked like I was becoming the dumping ground for all those "unwanted old stuff" from those who prefer modern or chain-store "stuff".  What I don't want myself I pass on to a local charity shop, which is another tale in itself.  I rarely come home empty handed.  Still it benefits the charity on the double.

Some of my favourites:-

an acquisition from an antiques warehouse, Indian Tree has always appealed.

A junk-shop find, this planter holds the poinsettia at Christmas, and fruit in June and July

A corner of my study.  This jug belonged to my grandmother, the first "Chatelaine" of this house.  The box with roses came from a supermarket with sewing things inside.  It now serves as a tea caddy for when I "escape" to the study.  The little delft  jug on the shelving unit is part of a set of three that Mum brought back from a holiday in Holland.  The picture is an enlargement of a photo of the Blasket Islands, Kerry, taken with my camera phone.  The roses were a birthday present.

My dresser in its first incarnation in a corner of my then "new" kitchen.  After I had the extension built I brought out all my pieces which had been carefully stored and put them in temporary accommodation.  The smaller of the two vegetable dishes was inherited from my Great Grandmother, and the modern Spode was a present from my youngest daughter.

A couple of years later the dresser has moved to another corner, a Rossmore cabinet, bought when I first got married and was setting up my new home, holds the every day used Willow Pattern. A mix of new and old Spode and Willow Pattern graces the overmantle.  The salt and pepper set were a "find" present from youngest daughter who, coincidentally shares the same taste.

There is a tradition, in Irish homes, of placing a statue of the Sacred Heart somewhere in the home.  This is a statue which my Mother inherited from her Aunts who had a massive collection of them placed around their home.  Two spinsters, who lived together in acid harmony, they had a houseful of antique and "vintage" pieces.  I used to spend happy hours browsing around the house as a child.

There is something magical about "vintage pieces", be they inherited or bought - maybe on a whim, maybe to grace a particular area in the home.   Whatever the reason for having such pieces, it is continuity that makes the impact.  It is the fact that these pieces once were very special to someone.  If they could talk, the stories they could tell. 

I love to think of my gentle Grandmother, a legendary apple pie maker [in the family], sitting looking out of her kitchen window, nibbling on a slice of freshly baked in her range, slice of apple pie and sipping from one of the cups I have inherited.  She would have looked out upon almost the same vista as I do when in my study.  What was once her kitchen is now my study.  Where once cows stood, lowing gently as they called to be milked, there is now a flower bed.  The main cow-house is now a garage/workshop for Himself. 

Times have changed, the third chatelaine of this house though is very much in tune with the first chatelaine.  In between came Mum, lover of Ercol and all things modern.  I guess I am a throwback.

Easter in Ireland 1916 - 2016

Easter is a time of year I usually wish could be fixed to be held in late April.  Days that would be warmer as a contrast to the cold of Christmas, and less close to my parent's anniversary.  However, it isn't, so I set out to enjoy it as a holiday that is sometimes mid-winter - judging by the bitterly harsh wind that swept across our country for the past few days.  When it does fall in April it is a holiday that is the harbinger of Springtime and Summer, long days and warmth that makes me feel luxuriously lazy like a well fed cat.  Somewhat like Ms Pounce.

The first indication that things are stirring is the hedge coming into bloom.  The roses which have looked like shaven headed convicts all winter now sprout a deep wine growth and the promise of blooms and heady perfume yet to come is dazzling.

Easter in Ireland was somewhat different this year.  It is one hundred years since the Easter Rising of 1916.  This was Ireland's first attempt to gain her independence and to take the management of her own governance into her own hands.  Padraig Pearse, Thomas J Clarke, Thomas MacDonagh, Eamonn Ceannt, Joseph Plunkett, Sean MacDiarmada and James Connolly were the signatories to the Proclamation of the Provisional Government of the Irish Republic in which they declared, at the GPO,  the right of the Irish people to the ownership of Ireland, and to the control of the destiny of the Irish, to be sovereign and indefeasible.  They pledged their lives to the cause of Irelands freedom, welfare and its right to take its place  among the nations of the world.

  They paid for  this "rebellion" with their lives. Sixteen people were shot in Kilmainham Gaol after the Easter week-end Rising, including the signatories.  One of them,  James Connolly, was shot whilst tied to a chair having been wounded during the fighting.  Their deaths spurred the Irish people on to seek their independence.   On Easter Monday, 18 April, 1949, Ireland was declared a formal Republic.  Today Ireland stands proudly among the nations of the world.  Today, our army is involved in peacekeeping activities wherever there is conflict. 

The nation marked the 100th anniversary with a parade through Dublin city and many cultural events; nationally there were parades in every county on Easter Sunday.  Fifty years ago I stood with my Mother on O'Connell Street [Sackville Street as it was known in 1916] and watched the 50th anniversary Parade pass by.  Unfortunately, this time around arthritis prevented me from going into the city to watch the parade, and we watched it on t.v.   St Patrick's day is usually the day people claim pride in being Irish, but Easter Sunday, 2016 was the day when Ireland felt its nationhood with pride.  I am proud to be Irish.

Another St Patrick's Day

After a long, harsh winter St. Patrick's day dawns bright and sunny - and a biting east wind.  My plans to attend a local Parade are blown away by this wind.  I am sneezing and coughing at a rate of knots.  Executive decision taken...I am staying in, cosy before the fire.

A mug of tea, a good book and I shall relax.  I find my mind wandering down the years to other St. Patrick's days.  Days such as my ninth year.  Mum and I took the train into Dublin to see the Grand Parade.  There was another bitter east wind blowing up the River Liffey from the sea, and the parade of that year was small but yet community cosy.  Nowadays our parades are like huge corporate events.  Showy, glossy, loud and based on entertaining the tourist.  No problem with that, but...I do hanker, at times, for the more "local" style of yesteryear.  My memories for the Parade in 1963 are locked in because a very fat lady, in stiletto heels, stood back from in front of me, her stiletto heel found purchase in my foot.  Today all that remains of that stiletto puncture is a small scar.  I do remember my mother bringing me to the St. John's Ambulance van to have my foot bandaged and being given a lollipop.  I'm sure that helped the pain.

The daffodils are out.  We planted 300 bulbs last autumn.  Each year we add more and they are now beginning to form rivers of yellow around the garden; they are followed on by tulips, awe-inspiring with their Easter colours of pink, wine, cream, yellow of all shapes and varieties.  1970's Paddy's Day is vivid in my memories.  The year the house nearly went on fire.

I was 15 and had just had my hair cut short for the first time since I was five.  I had also just gotten my first perm and did I think I was the finest fish in the ocean?? Oh yeah!  I was sitting under the hairdryer [hood type] as part of getting ready to go to my first disco that night.  If excitement can be measured as energy then we wouldn't have a climate change problem with all the energy I was emitting. 

Around half past three our phone rang.  It was my father ringing from the local town where, as a policeman he was on duty, to say that he could see the hill behind us and it was on fire.  The gorse had either spontaneously combusted or been aided and abetted to do so.  The flames were raging faster than the fire brigade could cope with and it was wind blown in our direction.  In those days the gorse came a little closer to the house.  My parents firebreak was not mine.  Today the gorse is well away from endangering us.  As it raced towards the house Mum and I went into action, out with the garden hose to wet the back of the house; me, resplendent in my hair curlers. 

It was a bad day for a fire, a Tuesday and most of the neighbours had taken advantage of the day off work to go and visit friends and relations.  However, those who were around helped out with forks and spades and shovels stamping out the flames.  Another neighbour ran around the hill to tell the Brigade to come around to our side.  Three hours later our kitchen was filled with firemen and neighbours, sooty, sweaty and exhausted but victorious.  The fire was out, the smouldering small fires in the dry grass contained and we passed around tea and sandwiches.  The disco was forgotten; the hair was now well dried in its rollers and smelling of burnt gorse.  At school the following day one teacher asked the class did we have a quiet St Patrick's day.  We certainly had a hot one at home.

1976 comes to mind because it was such a warm, balmy day.  It was unusual to see people in at the Parade in Dublin wearing light clothing.  We had a week of what passed for heat wave for us that year.  Later on we would have one of the hottest summers of that century; St. Patrick's day just presaged it.  My friends and I decided to go to the Zoo that day.  We hadn't been for years and, as the saying goes, the fancy to do so took us.  I was wearing jeans, tennis shoes and a Houston college hoodie that a pen pal had sent me.  Every few yards people would stop me and ask me was I over for the Parade. 

You can imagine their faces when I replied, in my Irish accent, that no...I was local.  Disappointment was the most frequent reaction followed by "well then, are you at college in Texas?" Again, disappointment.  "Well, then wouldja not wear a good green jersey if you're not an 'merican" said one hardy soul to me.  Chuckling, I wandered off with my friends.  It was the American tourists who were more decked out in green, as always on St Paddy's day, that year.

Ninteen Eighty is another St. Patricks Day memory that leaps forward.  OH and I had just married on the 15th, we were on honeymoon in Kerry.  The place was deserted.  Many people had gone up to Cork or Dublin or Limerick to see the big Parades.  We had the road to ourselves as we drove out to Valentia Island.  It was warm and there was a balmy west wind blowing across the Kerry coast.

In the meantime many St Patrick's Days have come and gone.  Memories of the excited little faces of my daughters at their first Parade in Dublin, of taking part in Parades with their Tae Kwando classmates in local parades, of long evenings with friends, chatting and talking before the fire.  Nights such as these are real Ceili nights.  After all, a ceili is a gathering or get-together to sit and chat and sing a song or two, aided by a glass of Paddy, my favourite Irish whisky.

Lá feile Padraig to you all and may the road rise before you.