Well, maybe not a thousand – a thousand is a lot for a ten year old.
This represents 280g of rubbish – residue of bottles and glass thrown into the sea or brought downstream with the flowing river.
The tide, the waves and the salt have combined to leave their mark – breaking the glass into small pieces; blunting the edges; and, discolouring the clarity of the glass. They have transformed them into seaglass.
The first Olympic Medal ever presented in Ireland.
A great night.
On Tuesday and this morning I spotted a couple of lovely tweets that would tempt one to rise early to spot the sunrise.
This morning, our ten year old and I walked to school.
It was not still dark. It was still getting bright.
There were a few lovely sights that caused us to stop on our stroll.
The crews from Meitheal Mara rowed under St Patrick’s Bridge and away from us into the sunrise.
A line of sunflowers at the end of October – who could not smile back at them?
What a great start to the day.
Ninety six years ago, Terence MacSwiney died after 74 days on hunger strike.
I spotted quite a few tweets and blogs to record this anniversary this morning.
Reason enough to update the blog page with images of the Seamus Murphy bust of the former Lord Mayor of Cork, and some artwork that I have seen in the recent past.
Looking at it all together, there is a lot out there to prompt one to remember Tenerce MacSwiney
I corrected the spelling of McSweeney.
On twitter, it has been suggested that the McSweeney headstone has only been recently erected and so post-dates the Lynch headstone.
A while back I learnt of a Jewish tradition to leave a small stone on a grave.
While our children swam up and down a pool for an hour, ET and I were chatting away, as chauffeuring fathers are wont to do. He related that one day, with work, he was in a cemetery with a colleague. They spotted a Jewish grave and both stooped down to select a stone to place on the grave – unknown to the other until then, both had Jewish ancestry.
This sparked an association with me. I always have a few stones in my pocket – replacement stones are regularly acquired on beach visits. They can be left on headstones. They can rattled as worry beads/comfort beads. The few mountains that I have summited each has a stone placed by me.
I cannot remember when I started having stones – but it is many years ago. Maybe it is a Camino thing. Maybe they are just a comfort-blanket.
On Friday, I read of the death of Stan Hilton, the last surviving British member of the International Brigade.
The previous day, I left Castlebar Peace Park with one stone less in my pocket. One was used to remember Tommy Patton and David Walsh who, like many others, did not return to Ireland.
Tommy Patton remembered at 5:12
Many thanks to NK who spotted this on his recent trip to the U.K.. He, correctly thought it would spark an interest hereabouts.
Once again, the construction sector confirms that spelling and building are not natural bedfellows.
Heading home this evening, this cat was watching me walking down Cotter Street.
Maybe, it is his eyes but I sensed a smile of approval of my decision to walk to work that day.
BG21nH7100 De le W21 2412120 – Do you know what this might mean?
I am standing on a rug that others can pull. They have not yet exercised that option, hence I am still standing. Maybe they might not….ever, but I don’t know.
For many years, windowed envelopes on the floor inside the door greeting my return were just post, regular bills and statements – part of everyday life.
The death of the Celtic Tiger did not have many spin off benefits. I suspect it did result in a greater demand for window envelopes (particularly the white variety) and possibly for authors of standard letters to non-compliant customers, that means me, and others equipped with similar oars.
The Celtic Corpse appears to have completed its rotting phase. The stench is no longer rampant. The loss is only felt in certain quarters. My stance on my own particular rug is firmer and getting stronger but the day that I might get of that surface and stand on solid concrete again is still a dream.
The window envelopes appeared like flies on a rotting corpse. Opening the front door for many recent years involved a sense of fear and worry as to those windows staring up at me. Those who were responsible for those windows entering the postal system to end up on the floor inside my door to await my anxious return stole the feeling that one’s home is one’s castle, a place of refuge - a once safe harbour, now under siege.
The, possibly silent, opinion that I am the author of those letters I received does have some validity. All arrangements and agreements were freely entered into, without arm turning or other influence. The initial wave of window envelopes did suggest calling to discuss but this particular ostrich declined that offer – no improvement envisaged so no offer available to those circling the cadaver – a strategy that has worked somewhat in that, for me, things have begun to improve, eventually. Not so much as to eliminate all problems but to give some wriggle room.
It is not just an advertising slogan remembered by those of a certain vintage, spoken by Beattie and Bob Hoskins. ‘It is good to talk’ is also the message of many mental health groups – groups that might have assisted many I knew in the construction sector who no longer walk this road.
As the rotting phase of the Celtic Corpse was approaching full term and as the vultures replaced the flies, the windowed envelopes gave way to recorded delivery, and that was even worse.
I fully appreciate that there are procedures and notification processes that may require a minimum number of letters and final registered delivery. I expect that such procedures and processes do not preclude advance verbal notice.
Imagine two different scenarios.
Option 1, where the debtor arrives home to that refuge after yet another day of struggle to spot a green notice on the floor of inability to effect recorded delivery and a reminder that the registered letter will be available for collection at the local office, some fifteen hours later, fifteen hours to contemplate what cannot be good news but wondering how bad; fifteen hours attempting to behave normally and happily with one’s family; fifteen hours in which to try to get a few minutes sleep; fifteen hours thinking of what might be the contents of that letter, who from, and what implications.
Option 2 is where there has been an earlier telephone call; a firm communication; notification that there has been no alternative but to issue letter stating whatever it says.
I have advanced here previously the benefit of writing and receiving a letter. I now qualify that with regard to registered letters.
In option 2, the worry and concern in that fifteen hours, or 63 if received on a Friday (not unheard of) is not pleasant. It is horrible.
If you are passing by this webpage , are still reading and have any influence over the issuing of such registered envelopes, I ask that you consider using the telephone to advise of its contents and that your organisation has now no alternative to this official correspondence.
The result to your particular carrion will be the same – recorded delivery will be effected, or at least attempted and noted.
The effect on the recipient will be polar opposite to lack of notice.
You already have the number. I ask that you use it. There are already too many that I know resident in graveyards.
Blogs I Read & Links
Thought & Comment
For the Fainthearted
Bock The Robber
140 characters is usually enough
That’s How The Light Gets In
Tea and a Peach
Buildings & Things Past
Come Here To Me
Pilgrimage in Medieval Ireland
The Irish Aesthete
Ireland in History Day By Day
Buildings of Ireland
Irish War Memorials
The Standing Stone
Time Travel Ireland
Stair na hÉireann
Wide & Convenient Streets
The Irish Story
Our City, Our Town
West Cork History
Cork’s War of Independence
Cork Historical Records
Rebel Cork’s Fighting Story
40 Shades of Life in Cork