Ballybunion, McCarthy's Christmas

Ballybunion in Winter

This very unusual picture of Ballybunion was posted on a Twitter site called European Beauty. I don't know who took the photo.

<<<<<<

I make no apology for printing again this lovely Christmas story from SeánMacCarthy.

The Christmas Coat   

Seán McCarthy  1986

Oh fleeting time, oh, fleeting time

You raced my youth away;

You took from me the boyhood dreams

That started each new day.

My father, Ned McCarthy found the blanket in the Market Place in Listowel two months before Christmas. The blanket was spanking new of a rich kelly green hue with fancy white stitching round the edges. Ned, as honest a man as hard times would allow, did the right thing. He bundled this exotic looking comforter inside his overcoat and brought it home to our manse on the edge of Sandes bog.

The excitement was fierce to behold that night when all the McCarthy clan sat round the table. Pandy, flour dip and yolla meal pointers, washed down with buttermilk disappeared down hungry throats. All eyes were on the green blanket airing in front of the turf fire. Where would the blanket rest?

The winter was creeping in fast and the cold winds were starting to whisper round Healy’s Wood; a time for the robin to shelter in the barn. I was excited about the blanket too but the cold nights never bothered me. By the time I had stepped over my four brothers to get to my own place against the wall, no puff of wind, no matter however fierce could find me.

After much arguing and a few fist fights (for we were a very democratic family) it was my sister, Anna who came up with the right and proper solution. That lovely blanket, she said was too fancy,  too new and too beautiful to be wasted on any bed. Wasn’t she going to England, in a year's time and the blanket would make her a lovely coat!. Brains to burn that girl has. Didn’t she prove it years later when she married an engineer and him a pillar of the church and a teetotaler? Well maybe a slight correction here. He used to be a pillar of the pub and a total abstainer from church but she changed all that. Brains to burn!

The tailor Roche lived in a little house on the Greenville Road with his brother Paddy and a dog with no tail and only one eye. Rumours abounded around the locality about the tailor’s magic stitching fingers and his work for the English royal family.  Every man, woman and child in our locality went in awe of the Tailor Roche. Hadn’t he made a coat for the Queen of England when he was domiciled in London, a smoking jacket for the Prince of Wales and several pairs of pyjamas for Princess Flavia

The only sour note I ever heard against the tailor’s achievements came from The Whisper Hogan, an itinerant ploughman who came from the west of Kerry.

“ if he’s such a famous  tailor,” said Whisper, “why is it that his arse is always peeping out through a hole in his trousers?.

Hogan was an awful begrudger. We didn’t pay him any heed. Tailor Roche was the man chosen to make the coat from the green blanket. Even though it was a “God spare you the health” job, a lot of thought went into the final choice of a tailor.

The first fitting took place of a Sunday afternoon on the mud floor of the McCarthy manse. The blanket was spread out evenly and Anna was ordered to lie very still on top of it. Even I, who had never seen a tailor at work thought this a little strange. But my father soon put me to rights when he said, “Stop fidgeting, Seáinín , you are watching a genius at work.” Chalk, scissors, green thread and plenty of sweet tea with a little bit of bacon and cabbage when we had it. A tailor can’t work on an empty stomach.

The conversion went apace through Christmas and into the New Year. Snip snip, stitch, stich, sweet tea and fat bacon, floury spuds. I couldn’t see much shape in the coat but there was one thing for sure – it no longer looked like a blanket. Spring raced into summer and summer rained its way into autumn. Hitler invaded Poland and the British army fled Dunkirk, the men of Sandes Bog and Greenville gathered together shoulder to shoulder to defend the Ballybunion coastline and to bring home the turf.

Then six weeks before Christmas disaster struck the McCarthy clan and to hell with Hitler, the British Army, and Herman Goering. We got the news at convent mass on Sunday morning the Tailor Roche had broken his stitching hand when he fell over his dog, the one with the one eye and no tail. Fourteen months of stitching, cutting, tea drinking and bacon eating down the drain. Even a genius cannot work with one hand.

Anna looked very nice in her thirty shilling coat from Carroll Heneghan’s in Listowel as we walked to the train. Coming home alone in the January twilight I tried hard to hold back the tears. She would be missed.  The Tailor was sitting by the fire, a mug of sweet tea in his left hand and a large white sling holding his right-hand. I didn’t feel like talking so I made my way across the bed to my place by the wall. It was beginning to turn cold so I drew the shapeless green bindle up around my shoulders. It was awkward enough to get it settled with the two sleeves sticking out sideways and a long split up the middle. Still, it helped keep out the frost. Every bed needs a good green blanket and every boyhood needs a time to rest.

The ghosts of night will vanish soon

When winter fades away

The lark will taste the buds of June

Mid the scent of new mown hay.

<<<<<<<<<

Christmas Holidays

I wish all followers of Listowel Connection a very happy Christmas and a lovely New Year. I will be resting for a few weeks over Christmas. God willing, I'll be back in 2020.

Go mberimid beo ag an am seo arís.

Wren Boys, Listowel shops and Christmas Things

December 2019

<<<<<<<<<<

Some Listowel Shops at Christmas 2019

<<<<<<<<<<

A Christmas Tradition

Wren boys by Vincent Carmody

The wren-boy tradition on St. Stephen's Day is unfortunately, now nearly a thing of the past. Now, only a few small groups, or individuals carry on a tradition, the origins of which, are lost in the mists of time. In the time of the big batches of wren-boys, under the leadership of their King, these groups would traverse the country roads all day, and as evening and night approached, they would head for the larger urban areas to avail of the richer pickings in the public houses.

The North Kerry area was well catered for, with two large groupings in the Killocrim/Enismore and Dirha West areas, There was also a strong tradition in the Clounmacon side of the parish.

Some time after the wrens-day, it was the custom to organise a wren-dance. When the date was picked, a house offered to host the dance. The dances were all night affairs, with liberal quantities of food and drink provided. 

In the early 1960's I spent three years in London,  during which, I worked in a pub, The Devonshire Arms, in Kensington, for a year or so. At this time, The Harvest Festival Committee, under Dr. Johnny Walsh, organised the wren-boy competitions in Listowel. Mr Johnny Muldoon, of London, had met Dr Johnny in Listowel and told him that he would organise two dances in his Dance Halls in London, provided that the Listowel committee send over three or four wren-boys to be in attendance. During their stay in London, Dan Maher, who managed the Devonshire, invited the Listowel contingent to the pub. On the particular evening I was serving in the lounge bar. (the pub was a gathering place for many film and TV actors who would have lived nearby). Suddenly Dr.Johnny threw the double door open, and in came the Listowel wren-boys, led by the leader, Jimmy Hennessy. Jimmy, wearing a colourful pants, had only some fur skin over his shoulders and chest and a headpiece with two horns. The others followed, faces blackened, and wearing similar outfits, all beating bodhrans. To say the least, those present did not have an idea what was happening.  To this day, I can hear the remark which one man, Sir Bruce Setan, (he, of Fabian of the Yard) at the counter said to the other, Christopher Trace (of Blue Peter fame), Blimey, they're coming in from the jungle. They will kill us all.
There was no one killed, and I think that Jimmy Hennessy enjoyed drinking pints of Guinness and pressing the flesh, surrounded by people he usually saw, only in the Plaza and Astor.

<<<<<<

My Christmas Things

This is my new favourite Christmas thing, a beautiful Jim Dunn Christmas scene.

My second favourite Christmas thing is my Woodford Pottery crib.

And finally my little Judy Greene nativity

Christmas at The Listowel Arms, A Poem, Mike the Pies shopfront update and A Book Launch

Listowel in December 2019

<<<<<<<<<

The Listowel Arms at Christmas 2019

It's all red and green in The Listowel Arms this Christmas. The atmosphere is warm and welcoming. It's just another gem in our lovely Christmassy town.

<<<<<<<<<

Kerryman of the Year

 by Noel Roche of Chicago and Listowel

To my brother, Tom, who makes me proud

He was born in 1945 on the third day of July

Another child for Dick and Madge, a little baby boy.

Rumour has it he was late, they thought he wouldn’t come at all.

When he finally did come out, he was soloing a ball.

Just like all the other boys, he always loved to play.

It seemed he was a natural when it came to GAA.

His heroes were the Kerry teams, those men so big and bold.

His dreams were that someday he would wear the green and gold.

And wear the green and gold he did in 1963.

He won an All Ireland medal and became a hero to me.

Soon he moved to England and left Kerry behind.

“Twas his body that left Kerry, Kerry would not leave his mind.

Tom can talk of anything under the heavenly sky

But when he talks of Kerry he has a twinkle in his eye.

If you want Tom to help, all you have to do

Is throw in the word Kerry and he will be there for you.

How much does he love Kerry?  To him its not a game

Tom has got a daughter and Kerry is her name.

And now I’m here tonight to cheer

As they name my brother Tom, Kerryman of the Year.

There is no better man and I will tell you why

When it comes to Kerry, Tom is do or die.

And if you cut him open this sight you would behold

There is no red inside his veins. His blood runs green and gold.

<<<<<<<<<

Mike the Pies

Mike the Pies shopfront is still a work in progress.

Here is where Martin is at but there's lots more to do. It will be mighty.

Martin Chute, signwriter, at Mike the Pies on Saturday December 14 2019.

<<<<<<<<

Launch of The Very Best of Billy Keane

A book launch is a lovely family time. It's a time to make the people who love you proud. There was a lot of love in the room of The Listowel Arms Hotel on Sunday Dec. 15 2019.

Launching the book were Gabriel Fitzmaurice and Jerry Kennelly, here with Billy's able assistants, John Keane and Billy O'Flynn.

Billy chatting to his William Street neighbour, Catherine.

Liz and Jim Dunn were buying a few Christmas presents.

Laura Shine read one of the newspaper columns from The Very Best of Billy Keane.

Old friends turned up to support Billy.

Fellow author, Emma Larkin, took time out from the St. Seanan's celebrations to lend support.

Proud family, Elaine, John and Anne listen as Gabriel reads from The Very Best of Billy Keane.

<<<<<<<

Another New Barber on Church Street

<<<<<<<<<

Lunch in Lizzie's

We are so lucky in Listowel to have so many excellent cafés and restaurants. For a festive lunchtime treat there is no better food and value available anywhere than in Lizzie' s of William Street.

Helen Moylan, Celebrity chef Lizzie Lyons, Miriam Kiely, exiled in Dublin but constantly drawn "home" to Listowel and your blogger, Mary Cogan.

I had the Christmas pie of buttermilk-brined turkey and ham topped with puff pastry, followed by the flourless chocolate and almond dessert;  delicious food and great company on a gloomy wet Listowel afternoon.

Flavins Closing, Christmas in Athea and Listowel and A Minute of Your Time

Last Christmas 

In January 2020 a chapter will close in the proud literary history of Ireland's literary capital, Listowel. Flavin's of Church Street is closing.

D.J. Flavin of 30 Church Street is a shop and a family woven into the fabric of Listowel for generations.

I will miss Joan and Tony and their lovely shop when this  little bit of local colour and individuality has gone  from our town.

Thanks for the memories.

Joan serving, Christine, one of her regulars on December 18 2019

<<<<<<<<<<

They've Planted a Hedge

<<<<<<<<<<

Christmas in Listowel

Here are a few images of home for the diaspora.

My friend Rosie painted the lovely scenes on the shop windows here at  Spar on Bridge Road.

Lynch's Coffee Shop in Main Street always has some of the loveliest window displays.

<<<<<<<<<

Christmas in Athea

(From Athea and District Newsletter)

That Time of Year

By Domhnall de Barra

Coming up to Christmas, my mind always wanders back to days of yore when the world was indeed a different place. There are huge changes since those days, most of them for the better, but there are also some good things that have been lost along the way. The biggest difference between the middle of the last century and today  is how more well off we are now. Today, thank God, there is little or no poverty in our area. Back then it was an entirely different story. The years after the 2nd world war were lean ones indeed with no employment and a real scarcity of money. Families were usually big; 9 or 10 children being the norm but some were much bigger. Small farms were dotted around the parish, most of them with 10 or 12 cows to milk, and they barely survived. The farm was handed on to the oldest son so all the other siblings had to find work. The only employment available was to work for bigger farmers, most of whom lived on the good lands down the County Limerick, or working for shopkeepers and publicans in the village or nearby towns.

There was only so much of this to go around so, as soon as they were old enough, the boys and girls from Athea emigrated to England or America to find a better life for themselves. There was many a tear shed at the railway station in Abbeyfeale or Ardagh as young people, who had never seen the outside world, embarked on the long trip to some foreign city, not knowing what they were facing. There was hardly a house in the parish that was not affected by this mass exodus of our finest young people. It was however the saving of this country because those who found work with McAlpine, Murphy, and the likes sent home a few pounds every so often to help the family left behind. The postman was a welcome visitor bearing the letter with the English or American stamp. People would also send home parcels, especially coming up to Christmas. You didn’t have much, growing up in that era. You had two sets of clothes, one for weekdays and one for Sunday, well, when I say Sunday I suppose I really mean for going to Mass because as soon as you got home the clothes were taken off in case they got dirty!.  The ordinary clothes were often hand-me-downs from older brothers and sisters and might have been repaired and altered many times. The mothers, in those days, were deft with sewing, darning and mending. When a shirt collar got frayed it would be “turned” and it looked like a new garment. The socks were made of thick wool and worn all the week. Naturally they got damp in the wellingtons, our main type of footwear, so we hung them over the fire at night . In the morning they would be stiff as pokers and we often had to beat them off the floor or a nearby chair to make them pliable enough to put on. There was no such thing as an underpants in those times or indeed belts for the trousers. A pair of braces did the trick and kept the trousers from falling down. That is why the parcel from abroad was so welcome. The new clothes they contained  transported us into a different world and we felt like kings in our modern outfits.

The food was also simple but wholesome. Bacon and cabbage or turnips was the norm at dinner but sometimes we would make do with a couple of fried eggs and mashed potatoes or “pandy” as we used to call it. The eggs were from our own hens and had a taste you will not find today. Sausages were a rare treat and of course we looked forward to a bit of pork steak and puddings when a neighbour killed a pig.

Education was basic national school level, except for the few who could afford the fees for secondary school so, all too soon, childhood was over and the next group took to the emigration trail. There was great excitement at this time of the year because most of those who emigrated, especially to England, came home for Christmas. Their arrival at the station was eagerly awaited on the last few days before the festive season and we were in awe of their demeanour as they stepped down from the train dressed in the most modern of clothes with their hair in the latest fashion. There was much rejoicing and a nearby hostelry was visited where the porter flowed freely as those who came home were very generous to those who had stayed behind and had no disposable income. It was now time for a change of diet because nothing was too good for the visitors and we gorged ourselves on fresh meat from the butchers and “town bread”.

Midnight Mass was a special occasion with the church full of people all wishing each other a happy Christmas. The crib was a great attraction for the children who  looked in awe at the baby Jesus in the manger. There was a solemnity about it and a sense of celebration at the same time. The Christmas dinner was a real feast with a goose or a turkey  filling the middle of the table surrounded by spuds, Brussels sprouts and other vegetables. Jelly and custard followed and it was like manna from heaven!  I don’t think many of today’s youngsters will be as excited as we were or cherish every moment in the company of family members who would soon take the lonesome trip back across the seas.  Even though, today, we have more than enough I would give anything to go back to that  time when I was a boy and experience the magic once more.

<<<<<<<

A Poem from Noel Roche of Chicago and Listowel

In Loving Memory of my sister, “ Jack’

I wonder if you’re up there

Irish dancing on a cloud.

I know that when you sing

You’re surrounded by a crowd.

Mam and Dad and Dick and Jim,

And all who passed are there.

I wonder what God’s thinking

Every time he hears you swear.

I know in my heart

There is one thing you will do.

I know you’ll ask Elvis

To sing The Wonder of You.

I know there’s angels laughing,

They all think you’re great.

Heaven has not been the same

Since you walked through the gate.

You left behind a lot of stuff

Clothes, jewellery and rings.

Your daughter got the promise

That you’re the wind beneath her wings.

I know your friends are sad

I know they’re feeling blue.

But I also know they’re grateful

That they had a friend like you.

Your brothers and your sisters

Are going day by day

And trying to accept the fact

That you have gone away.

Your nephews and your nieces

Every single one,

Are struggling with the fact

That their favourite Aunty’s gone.

I’m here in Chicago

Many miles away.

I’ve got a hole in my heart

That will not go away.

I’m trying to get over this

And make a brand new start

I know that I am not alonw

You are always in my heart.

<<<<<<<<

A Heartfelt Thank You

I am truly grateful to everyone who has supported me by buying my book. This publication was a leap of faith for me. It was very different from my previous book which sold well to people who love Listowel.

With A Minute of Your Time I was much more exposed. I let down the crutch of our beautiful town and the huge volume of affection that people feel for it. I had to trust that people would buy me, my musings and my photographs. I am humbled and uplifted by the response.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart to everyone who bought the book, to people who sent me lovely cards and letters, to people who stopped me in the street to tell me how much they love the book, particularly to the man who quoted, "Your attitude, not your aptitude will determine your attitude. Page 77." Classy, you made my day."

The book is available in local bookshops. I'm hoping that people home for Christmas will pick it up while they're in town. If you got a book token for Christmas, maybe you'd think of your hard working blogger.....