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A Lovely Cork Morning

27/10/2016

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.

Terence MacSwiney d. 25.11.1920

25/10/2016

Crawford Art Gallery

Liberty Street

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

Kyle Street

City Hall, Cork

John McSweeney, d. 26.01.1919

24/10/2016

Is one of the reasons why a headstone is erected not to prompt passers-by to read, then pause to remember or think of the resident for a moment or two?

There are probably other reasons – recording a life passed; notifying as to occupant of the grave. I would have considered remembrance as an important enough function of any headstone.

Last month, at St Finbarr’s Cemetery, as I walked towards it from behind, I noticed the profile of a Commonwealth War Graves Commission headstone and moseyed over to read the obverse. This proved more difficult that I anticipated with a newer larger headstone erected less than a foot in front of the limestone engraved with the name of Stoker J McSweeney.

I have walked through many graveyards and have not seen such an arrangement of headstones before, or since.

Was there a sense of shame of a family member serving in the British Army at a time when this was the army of the state to which Ireland belonged, an army in which James Connolly and Tom Barry both served. They both survived long enough to make a change of allegiance – a choice possibly denied John McSweeny.
Was there a family falling out? When I mention such a falling out in my own clan, I am often told of similar non-communication in so many other families. It is not at all uncommon – we Irish can be stubborn.

Or was there some other reason for the positioning of the headstones, innocent or otherwise.

Regardless, it appears that the memory of John McSweeney has spend very many years hidden behind stone. This is reason enough to provoke my attraction and inquisitiveness. A trip to the library for the Cork Examiner archives is planned.

If you pass by this page on your travels through cyberspace, please pause for a moment to remember John McSweeney – would you like the memory of your time on earth to be blocked out?

UPDATE: 2016.10.25
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.

Remembering the International Brigade

23/10/2016

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

To Err is Human

22/10/2016

'To', 'Two' & 'Too' are not probably as deadly as Live, Earth & Neutral

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.

Traffic was Cat

21/10/2016

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.

Stone Never Refused Paint

20/10/2016

BG21nH7100 De le W21 2412120 – Do you know what this might mean?

Sorry You Missed Me

19/10/2016

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.

The Grove of the Brothers - Lost in Cloud

15/10/2016

PASSION PLAY – READ BY CÓNAL CREEDON

When I first read of ‘The Red City’ being the nickname for Gurranabraher, it stuck in the grey matter as a little nugget – relatives who had grown up in Mount Nebo had never shared that gem with me.

When I find a nugget, sooner or sometimes much later, other little bits of knowledge cling on as they float by, increasing the extent of information – those dots of knowledge forever connected, in my strange head anyways.

Red City makes an appearance in Cónal Creedon’s Passion Play – ‘This Could be Heaven’ is great to read, brilliant to hear, an experience to see arising from the dark, and well worth few moments yielding to your imagination.

This morning, heading down to Brian at the fish stall on the Coalquay Market for our surprise stash, we spotted that the Red City had yielded to the clouds.

Reason enough to prompt this ramble.

Reason enough to put out there.

Mick D was a census enumerator a few months back in the Red City. The official forms were ‘Gurranebraher’ whereas locals had ‘Gurranabraher’ – another riddle awaiting explanation.

…The main contractors for the project were Messrs Murray and Lane, Builders..Sand and gravel was supplied by John a. Wood Ltd. of Carrigrohane Road. Cooking and lighting facilities were provided by Cork Gas Company. Also involved were Swann’s of Knapp’s Square…..Hickey’s of Maylor Street not only supplied 2,500 tons of Portland Cement, but also 300,000 red roof-tiles. The colour of the tiles soon resulted in some local wag nicknaming the area ‘Red City’!!
The Gurranabraher Story – A History of the Place and its People – David McCarthaigh in association with Ógra Corcaigh (1997)

My city is a Royal town, dressed up in crimsons and gold. In the distance, through the mists of time and coal smoke I hear the cry of an Echo boy, the sound of men walking and whistling their way home from work to the Red City of Gurranabraher, the chimes of an ice-cream van across on Spangle Hill, the bells of some cathedral or other, the yelps of children from Roches Buildings playing ball along the road.
Cónal Creedon – Passion Play

“Can you imagine
the wall at the top of Bell’s Field
as the ramparts of the Alhambra?
Gurranabraher as the Albaicin?
Knocknaheenyas Sacre Monte?’
Gerry Murphy – Bell’s Field Reverie (from Muse)

Shortly after this the friars erected a small chapel high in the hills overlooking the city from the northwest in a place which became known as Cilleen na Gurranaigh – The Little Church of The Groves. The chapel itself was known as ‘Teampaill na mBrathair’, many years later, the whole area had become known as ‘Gurradh na mBrathair’ – The Grove of the Brothers, or Friars Grove. The time spent by the Franciscans in Gurranabraher is marked by the naming of a row of houses just below Barrett’s Buildings known as Friars Avenue.”
The Gurranabraher Story – A History of the Place and its People – David McCarthaigh in association with Ógra Corcaigh (1997)

Similar Faces, Similar Fates

10/10/2016

In April, 2015, I learned of Dún an Óir and the massacre of 600 men and women. This morning’s update from Stair na hÉireann reminded that the killings took place on this day in 1580.

In April 2015, I was on my conversational Irish weekend down in Buailtín (Ballyferriter). Waking early after the first night, I set off for a walk along Béal Bán ending up at Dún an Óir where another dot of information and knowledge was added to my limited reservoir.

My first thought upon seeing the monument was that the faces were very similar to those thah I had seen at Kilmallock and Kilfinnane. I had to go back to my photos to compare and still think there is a likeness.

All three memorials are to people who died hundreds of years ago. The dead were all killed and nearly all, if not all, beheaded. These may be factors in the similarity – 'what image records might actually exist' has now gone on the list of , ‘To Find Out More’.

In searching for some more information, it appears that Bishop O’Healy, the first bishop executed by the English, arrived into Smerwick Harbour in 1579 – one year before the soldiers who built the fort at Dún an Óir – I assume its remoteness and isolation, which I appreciated that morning, did make it attractive for unseen entry to Ireland.

Just like those at Dún an Óir, Bishop O’Healy was killed in the same year as his arrival in Smerwick.

Just like part-way up Mount Brandon, the rules of bilingual signage are tweaked slightly.

Unique in Drimoleague – Beautiful

3/10/2016

Last Christmas, I spotted a notice in the window of the Irish Examiner advertising Unique Gifts. I was definitely not in agreement – if it can be repeated, can it be unique? I still believe that unique means a one-off, not repeated previously or repeatable in the future.

Working in construction, it is rare than one will see something novel. Every material and component now needs certification. Such certification process costs money and so it does not encourage bespoke, unique or special components. There are some, but they are rare.

The uniformity of construction materials falls in step with this age of mass production – this age when the new buildings and even a street in Cork city could be uprooted to or from many English cities. There are many chainstores selling the same products as in Birmingham or Manchester, quite likely in a building that is so similar to the new street or buildings in Cork.

It is as if we are reverting to restricted choice, back to the days of Henry Ford – any colour you want so long as it’s black.

I have a recollection of hearing a radio piece many years ago where the design by Frank Murphy of the Church of All Saints in Drimoleague in 1956 was complimented – quite possibly Alf McCarhy & Gerard Kennedy, but I cannot find online now. A few weeks back, I travelled to the church to photograph the plaque by Seamus Murphy. I did not expect to be there long.

I was there quite a while, appreciating what I saw.

I then remembered the radio documentary. I loved almost every detail and the choice of materials.

It is regularly mentioned on building sites that some issue does not matter as it will be covered by the plaster. Frank Murphy did not have that luxury as there was no plaster – at least not until they (subsequently, I presume) added a toilet block.

The finish on the blocks with quartz -like exposed aggregate is definitely not widely available. I suspect that the blocks and the special shaped blocks at window reveals were manufactured specifically for this project. The external blocks are different to the internal blocks.

What is unique anymore?

Plaque by Seamus Murphy

Plastering - all aspects covered. So true.

Seamus Murphy 1907 – 1975

2/10/2016

This morning’s update from Stair na hÉireann advised that on this day in 1975, Seamus Murphy died.

His work has prompted quite a number of blogs here before.

I have yet to upload and create a separate section of the work that I have photographed on my travels.

For now and for today, a slideshow of a selection of his work.