#greetings from tipperary | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

if-you-fan-a-fire · 1 year

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"For six days, the internees demonstrated and struck against the administrators of Petawawa before a transfer was arranged to the Hull prison (now Gatineau, Quebec).

Hull prison was a white elephant built by the first Duplessis government in the late 1930s. It had never been used since it did not meet provincial standards. Quebec’s Public Works minister, Télésphore-Damien Bouchard, arranged the rental of the facility when the federal government looked for a facility for the communist internees. On August 20, the transfer took place, not without overwrought drama from the authorities. The Petawawa prisoners, 85 strong, were loaded into five trucks with two machine gunners each, each truck separated by armed men on motorcycles, who escorted them to the train in Petawawa making its regular run east on the Ontario side of the Ottawa Valley. The men occupied special cars, again supervised by soldiers with machine guns. The train arrived half an hour late on August 20, 1941 at 6:40 p.m. at the Brewery Creek station in Hull, just west of Hull Island. A considerable crowd of onlookers had gathered to greet the train. They were no doubt curious owing to the army trucks and the presence of RCMP, provincial police, and municipal policemen. After disembarking, the men were loaded anew into army trucks, and accompanied by police escort to their new home at the northern end of Saint-François Street. Spirits among the men were good; after all, they had won a victory by their political agitating at Petawawa. Le Droit reported that the men were singing ‘It’s a long way to Tipperary’, a traditional wartime song, during their trip from the train station in Hull to the prison.

The men’s mood changed when they realized that their new camp was actually a prison. Norman Freed spoke for the men. “We’re not going into a political dungeon — don’t move, fellows!”, Freed declaimed. Tension mounted between the men and the soldiers. An hour or so later, the ranking officers came out of the prison, having spoken by phone to their superiors in Ottawa. They advised the men that this was their facility, which they were to operate free from military intervention, and that they could come and see for themselves. Freed and others went in, checked out the prison, and returned to tell the rest of the detainees that things were going to be alright, that they should enter the facility.

The Army was true to its word. The cells on each side of the floors were unlocked. The cells were each occupied by two internees, who slept on bunk beds. At the south end of each floor was a common room, which the internees could use for recreation purposes. The guards stayed outside the prison walls. They were members of the Veterans’ Home Guard, units that had been formed of veterans of World War I and even of the Boer War, often local men. The maximum age of these soldiers was supposedly fifty, but this requirement was often not respected.

The internees were free to come and go within the prison. There was an outside exercise compound, a rest area with trees and grass, a community hall, and a communal kitchen and dining area. The entire administration was in the hands of the internees, who organized themselves into teams for cooking, serving, cleaning, and other household work. The sudden nature of the transfer meant that much of the Hull prison was not yet completely organized; for instance, kitchen, laundry room, even mattresses. The heating and hot water did not always function, but when a new commandant, Major Thompson, replaced the original commandant, Major Green, improvements were made, such as fencing an enclosure adjacent to the prison in which the internees could play softball and volleyball.

The internees wore blue pants with a red strip down the sides, and a blue shirt with a circular, red patch in the middle of the back. The internees joked that the red patch on the back served as a target, so that soldiers could shoot them were they to try to escape. In fact, there were no escape attempts, a matter of Party policy, so as to avoid propaganda victories for the government about dangerous escapees; therefore, the utility of the red patch was never tested.

So, while Joe Wallace remained in solitary confinement in Petawawa, which had actually launched the strike that had led to the transfer to Hull, and internees Michael Sawiak and Wasyl Kolysnik remained ill in the military hospital in Pembroke near Petawawa, 85 internees settled into a routine in Hull. Of itself, being freed from harassment by the fascist internees in Petawawa represented a considerable improvement.

In an interview with the author in 1997, Peter Krawchuk summarized his perspective about conditions in Hull:

We had lots to eat and clean facilities. We were warmly dressed. No one was beaten, and no one died in prison. We had to follow military orders and salute officers, but conditions in Canadian internment camps were not at all similar to those of German concentration camps nor of Soviet gulags.

One might hope so; after all, this was Canada!

As for morale of the internees, ex-internee Ben Swankey distinguishes two periods: before and after the German invasion of the U.S.S.R. on June 22, 1941. Before the invasion, the internees wondered whether they might ever be released from Hull. Nevertheless, they tried to maintain a positive attitude, especially by devoting themselves to studies. After the Soviet Union entered the war on the side of the allies, the internees knew they would eventually be released but it became a question of when, so their impatience and frustration grew.

….

Army policy was to treat the internees as enemy subjects, similar to Canadian internees of Italian, German, or Japanese origin. Internees could not be obliged to work on military operations. On the other hand, they were not to be paid for administrative or domestic work, however, they could receive 20¢ per hour to work on special projects. In this way, some of the men worked on work details cleaning and enlarging Saint-François Street, then a dirt road linking the prison to present-day Taché Boulevard. Most of the work done by the internees, however, was of the domestic variety, caring for each other and their facility.

The men chose as their leader and spokesman Gerry McManus, from Saskatchewan, with Montrealer Roméo Duval as his assistant. Some of the men, including Pat Sullivan, and some of the Ukrainians, among them Peter Keweryga, were cooks by trade, so food quality was never a problem in Hull.

With all this time on their hands, the internees devoted themselves to improving themselves using books provided by the YMCA and books about Marxism smuggled clandestinely into prison, including a copy of Das Kapital. Many of the internees were blue-collar workers for whom the Communist Party had always been a prime source of instruction. So the internees studied trade unionism, Marx, and Lenin. As well, Jacob Penner taught German; bilingual Montrealer Kent Rowley taught French to anglophones and vice-versa; Dr. Howard Lowrie of Toronto gave lectures on medicine; while Samuel Levine, a professor of mathematics and physics at the University of Toronto, gave lectures on science and mathematics. There were persistent group discussions about international politics and the progress of the war. Many of the internees spoke about Hull internment camp as being their ‘university’, while the Party did emerge from the internment with better-trained leaders.

The YMCA provided the internees with musical instruments such as mandolins, guitars, and banjos. In March of 1942, the Army rented a piano for the internees. The internees took to organizing regular concerts that would feature music, poetry, especially by Joe Wallace, and comedy routines, including imitations of politicians by Napoléon Nadeau. There might be Ukrainian dancing, while the internees would be led in song by Ben Swankey, Dmitri Nikiforiak, Samuel Levine, Jean Bourget, or Ernest Gervais. Any occasion was reason enough for a celebration: St. Patrick’s Day, New Year’s Eve, the anniversary of the Russian Revolution. These celebrations would be accompanied by impressive feasts.

….

The internees’ writings and interviews reveal surprisingly positive memories about their internment in Hull. The decent food and facilities, the adult education, the celebrations, the camaraderie and solidarity, the political purpose, even the general times of World War II all seem to leave a rosy hue to the memories of the ex-internees about their internment in Hull. Some of this might be explained by old men remembering with nostalgia the vigour and pleasures of their youth, without the attendant difficulties of the period, such as one might when recalling one’s youth spent in school or the military. Nevertheless, regardless of how the internees made the best of the situation, they were still prisoners of the state who were being held for political purposes."

- Michael Martin, The Red Patch: Political Imprisonment in Hull, Quebec during World War 2. Self-published, 2007. p. 142-146, 155

#canada during world war 2 #defence of canada regulations #communists #communist party of canada #union men #internment camps #hull jail #the red patch #internment operations #working class struggle #life inside #political prisoners #hull #gatineau #world war ii #sentenced to prison #history of crime and punishment in canada #academic quote #reading 2023

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primusliber-traduzioni · 4 years

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The Winter Passing - New Ways of Living

Le chiavi tra le dita di sera

Una lezione imparata a cinque anni

E non potete dire che capite come ci sentiamo

(da: The Street and the Stranger)

1. Ghost Thing

Cosa fantasma*

Tutti i fantasmi nella stanza

Tutta la paura e i dubbi

Li ho lasciati accumulare senza mai dire una parola

Sono l’ombra di me stesso

È un impianto rotto dove deve stare

Ho dei guai in testa e non riesco nemmeno a star seduto tranquillo

Se non riesco a perdonare, è tutto inutile, è tutto inutile

Perché non puoi dire che non ti sta bene?

Probabilmente io ero nel mio mondo

E tu per tutto il tempo eri al mio fianco

Ma tu giuri che io c’ero

Fanculo, parliamoci chiaro

Se ho qualcosa da dire, lo dico in ogni caso

Sono l’ombra di me stesso

È un impianto rotto dove deve stare

Ho dei guai in testa e non riesco nemmeno a star seduto tranquillo

Non ci sono mai riuscito comunque

Perché non puoi dire che non ti sta bene?

Probabilmente io ero nel mio mondo

E tu per tutto il tempo eri al mio fianco

Ma tu giuri che io c’ero

Non riesco a credere a niente e nessuno

Cos’ho che non va?

Questo non è il ragazzo che conoscevo

Ma tu mi leggi dentro

Ogni cosa a cui abbia voluto bene resterà sul fondo di un bicchiere se non riesco a dimenticare il passato

Perché non puoi dire che non ti sta bene?

Probabilmente io ero nel mio mondo

E tu per tutto il tempo eri al mio fianco

Ma tu giuri che io c’ero

Non riesco a credere a niente e nessuno

Cos’ho che non va?

Questo non è il ragazzo che conoscevo

Ma tu mi leggi dentro

* Verosimilmente anche un richiamo alla parola e al concetto del “ghosting”.

2. The Street and the Stranger

La strada e l’estraneo

Sto qui seduta col mio cane

E penso al fatto che non mi sento al sicuro in nessun altro posto

Le chiavi tra le dita di sera

Una lezione imparata a cinque anni

E non potete dire che capite come ci sentiamo

Dimmi che stai bene, ma certo che ci tengo

È che mi sento, mi sento, mi sento spaventato

Sento tantissime cose ultimamente

Dimmi che ti va bene, ti va bene, ti va bene il cambiamento

Devi solo aprire gli occhi

Tutti quanti che tramano intrighi e complotti

Dei posti dove andare li hanno

Ce l’hanno tutti con me

Mi sa che non ce la faccio più

Spero che Frank sappia che ci tengo ancora a lui

E spero che la mia famiglia sappia ancora che ci provo

E spero che la società pensi bene di me

Perché Dio non voglia che arrivi il giorno che la pensano diversamente

Dio non voglia quel giorno, Dio non voglia quel giorno, Dio non voglia quel giorno

Dimmi che stai bene, ma certo che ci tengo

È che mi sento, mi sento, mi sento spaventato

Sento tantissime cose ultimamente

Dimmi che ti va bene, ti va bene, ti va bene il cambiamento

Devi solo, devi solo aprire gli occhi

Io non ci credo nel mondo perfetto che vai cercando

Io non ci credo

Io non ci credo nel mondo perfetto che vai cercando

Perché io lì non esisto

3. Melt

Sciogliere

Sento voci nella testa che mi parlano di errori del passato

Ma è sempre la stessa storia

Mi sono imposta di stare zitta

Perché tendo a dire troppo

Tendo a fare dei veri pasticci

È facile dimenticarti di come sei esattamente finché non parli

Non c’è una scappatoia

Semmai stavo facendo conversazione giusto per essere gentile

Non ho niente da dire, se non che mi annoi a morte

Incredibile che sono ancora qua

Dovevo prendere e andarmene

Credimi

Mi fisso su tutti i miei problemi

“Non sono l’unica”

Continuo a ripetermi quando non riesco a dormire la notte

O a guardare qualcun altro negli occhi

Mi sento smarrita

È facile dimenticarti di come sei esattamente finché non parli

Non c’è una scappatoia

Semmai stavo facendo conversazione giusto per essere gentile

Non ho niente da dire, se non che mi annoi a morte

Incredibile che sono ancora qua

Dovevo prendere e andarmene

Credimi

Quand’è che abbiamo parlato l’ultima volta?

Mi sa che era ottobre scorso

Mi ricordo che dicevi che se non stavo attento, un giorno rischiavo di arrivare dove volevo

Pensavo che stessi scherzando

Eh, e aspettavo che ti mettessi a ridere

Se ti porti addosso il peso delle cose che odi, rischi di annegare nella vasca

Mi viene difficile sentir dire la verità

Ho rubato cose che non potevo usare

Ho dato l’anima in pegno e il suo valore l’ho speso a bere

Mi viene difficile sentir dire la verità

Per cui cambio la pelle che mi ero fatto da giovane

E do il benvenuto all’ultima notte d’inverno

Non ho mai avuto modo di dire qualcosa

Non ho mai avuto modo

Tu come sei?

Non ho mai avuto modo di dire qualcosa

Non ho mai avuto modo

Tu come sei?

Non ho mai avuto modo di dire qualcosa

Non ho mai avuto modo

Tu come sei?

Non ho mai avuto modo di dire qualcosa

Non ho mai avuto modo

Tu come sei?

4. New York

New York

Grande abbastanza e con tutta la saggezza della mia età

Eppure tengo i pugni stretti nelle tasche

Dubito delle parole sagge

Cerco di stare in equilibrio tra il buonsenso e la logica

Ultimamente faccio un sogno stranissimo

In cui mi schianto con la macchina e non sono mai venuto a sapere

Tutto quello che hai chiesto

Tutto quello che hai detto

Tutto quello che hai desiderato

Invece resisto abbastanza da guardare che ti allontani

Cerco di scoprire il significato

Cerco di trasformarlo in oro

Sono stanca di rimuginarci sopra

Dovrebbe essere tutta energia

Ultimamente mi pongo la domanda

Ma questo è il passato o è il presente?

Tutto quello che hai chiesto

Tutto quello che hai detto

Tutto quello che hai desiderato

Stufa di dubitare di me stessa e poi pentirmene

Tutto quello che hai chiesto

Tutto quello che hai detto

Tutto quello che hai desiderato

Invece resisto abbastanza da guardare che ti allontani

Sono più grande ora, sono più grande ora

Sono più vicina ora, sono più vicina ora

Sono più grande ora, sono più grande ora

Sono più vicina ora, sono più vicina ora

Tutto quello che hai chiesto

Tutto quello che hai detto

Tutto quello che hai desiderato

Stufa di dubitare di me stessa e poi pentirmene

Tutto quello che hai chiesto

Tutto quello che hai detto

Tutto quello che hai desiderato

Invece resisto abbastanza da guardare che ti allontani

5. Crybaby

Piagnucolone

Per favore, non piangere

Non piacciono a nessuno i piagnucoloni

Puoi disegnare qualcosa su un muro se vuoi

Ma sono stanca di fare sempre ‘sti giochetti

E altra cosa:

I tuoi amici possono dire quello che gli pare su di me

Possono dire tutto quello che gli pare

Bla, bla, bla

Io so chi sono i miei amici

Ce li ho tutti al mio fianco

Si contano sulle dita delle mani

Non puoi correre a nasconderti per sempre

Lo sappiamo tutti che bisogna andare a incontrare il creatore

La paura più grande di tutte è la paura di non sapere cosa viene dopo

È inutile costruire castelli per strada

Se li costruisci con mura sottili come un foglio di carta

Mi sta smascherando come se non avessi nessuna chance

Pensano che abbaio tanto ma che non mordo

Ho passato la vita intera pensando al viaggio che era alle porte

Per cui se io sono un serpente

Per favore, non piangere

Non piacciono a nessuno i piagnucoloni

Mentre si piazzano sui loro piedistalli a distribuire sentenze agli sciocchi

Continuando a girare e rigirare sulle stesse cose

Non riesco ad andare avanti così

A nascondermi in una circostanza che non posso evitare

Non sei un santo, non sei uno studioso

Ma ti congratuli comunque con te stesso

Mi sta smascherando come se non avessi nessuna chance

Pensano che abbaio tanto ma che non mordo

Ho passato la vita intera pensando al viaggio che era alle porte

Per cui se io sono un serpente, tu sei un ratto

Tu scorri come un torrente o un fiume, in qualunque direzione vada

Per favore, non piangere

Non piacciono a nessuno i piagnucoloni

Per favore, non piangere

Non piacciono a nessuno i piagnucoloni

Per favore, non piangere

Non piacciono a nessuno i piagnucoloni

Per favore, non piangere

Non piacciono a nessuno i piagnucoloni

Per favore, non piangere

Non piacciono a nessuno i piagnucoloni

Per favore, non piangere

Non piacciono a nessuno i piagnucoloni

Per favore, non piangere

Non piacciono a nessuno i piagnucoloni

Per favore, non piangere

Non piacciono a nessuno i piagnucoloni

Per favore, non piangere

Non piacciono a nessuno i piagnucoloni

6. Greetings from Tipperary

Saluti dal Tipperary

Stavamo cantando “piove sempre, pure d’estate”

Abbiamo smezzato una sigaretta

E tu ti sei girato e mi hai chiesto dove mi vedevo nel giro di un anno

Ho detto “da qualsiasi altra parte, da qualsiasi parte tranne che qua”

In sospeso, se riuscissi a descriverlo

La testa che scoppia per la paura

Impossibile da nascondere

Ormai lo so che dovrei evitare

Posso prendermela solo con me stesso

Ma certo, sei tu che ti conosci

Non è la prima volta

Mi ero promesso di non fare questa fine

Ho una paura tremenda a vedermi

Riflettere è una cosa difficile da affrontare

Ogni tanto devi porti la domanda:

Come la risolvo adesso?

In sospeso, se riuscissi a descriverlo

La testa che scoppia per la paura

Impossibile da nascondere

Ormai lo so che dovrei evitare

Me la posso prendere solo con me stesso

Ma certo, sei tu che ti conosci

Non è la prima volta

Non sarà l’ultima volta

7. Resist

Opporsi

Mi sono svegliata tremando dalla notte precedente

La scena in cui corro e cerco di raggiungerti, ma tu te ne sei andato

E so che è a causa di come mi comporto quando sono giù di morale

Capisco perché tu te la possa prendere con me

Agitata, se riuscissi a spiegarlo

Non riesco a togliermi il pensiero di te che te ne vai

Hai ragione, dovremmo già esserci arrivati

Passo più tempo a chiedere scusa

Devo farti sapere

Siamo noi due

Tu sei tutto

Tu sei sempre rimasto nell’angolino dove mi rintanavo

Sempre lì ma senza mai giudicarmi

Io intanto sguazzo nella mia insicurezza

È sempre questo periodo dell’anno

Appena prima che si tirino indietro le lancette

Sono forte mentalmente ma ho il cuore fragile

Quando mi perdo nei miei pensieri tu mi fai vedere chiaro

Preferirei essere a casa con te che cercare di raggiungere il sole

Agitata, se riuscissi a spiegarlo

Non riesco a togliermi il pensiero di te che te ne vai

Hai ragione, dovremmo già esserci arrivati

Ma passo più tempo a chiedere scusa

Devo farti sapere

Siamo noi due

Tu sei tutto

Sei tu, solo tu

Ogni volta che ci penso

Sei tu, solo tu

Ogni volta che ci penso

Agitata, se riuscissi a spiegarlo

Non riesco a togliermi il pensiero di te che te ne vai

Hai ragione, dovremmo già esserci arrivati

Ma passo più tempo a chiedere scusa

Devo farti sapere

Siamo noi due

Tu sei tutto

8. Something to Come Home To

Qualcosa per cui tornare a casa

Serve un paese per farti stare al sicuro

Servi solo tu per non farmi impazzire

Tu mi hai strappato la benda dagli occhi

Mi hai fatto vedere il buono che c’è in tutte le cicatrici che mi sono venute

Il dolore c’è davvero e va bene così

Non c’è da andare a nascondersi

Quelle cose me le sono portate addosso ogni giorno

Non ho mai avuto qualcosa per cui tornare a casa

Finché non ho trovato te

Anni che ho guardato dal davanzale di una finestra

Ora tu aspetti, sei la mia spilla da balia

Ma eccomi qua, persa di nuovo tra la gente sotto luci fluorescenti

Il loro scintillio non risplende

Con pensieri a senso unico e applausi

Giurano dedizione alla causa

Ma non sono sicuri dei propri passi

Chi è che striscia e chi è che si avvicina?

Non ho mai avuto qualcosa per cui tornare a casa

Finché non ho trovato

Mi sono sempre sentita come un’estranea qui

Finché non ho trovato

Finché non ho trovato te

Non ho mai avuto qualcosa per cui tornare a casa

Finché non ho trovato

9. I Want You

Ti voglio

La mia è una lettera di scuse formali scritta con sincerità

Non riesco a credere a quello che ho fatto

Non mi smettono di tremare le mani

Perché so che tu ci stai soffrendo

Avevo giurato di proteggerti dal primo giorno

Ti voglio far sapere che ti amerò sempre

Ti voglio

Nel frattempo parleremo di cose banali

L’aria sarà secca

Sarò circondata dal rumore bianco

Sarò di secondaria importanza

Mi immaginerò infine come potrebbe essere la vita senza di te

Ti voglio far sapere che ti amerò sempre

Ti voglio

Ci vedremo quando si rischiariranno le cose

E lascio alle foglie il compito di farmi sapere che la vita sta cambiando

10. Mind Yourself

Prenditi cura di te

Mi è scivolato via un altro anno

Abbandono la mia gioia

Mi è scivolato via un altro anno

Sono il peggior nemico di me stessa

Ho paura che le cose di cui ho bisogno non le avrò mai

Non starò mai meglio e resterò sempre così

Mi sembra di andare dalla parte opposta

Non sapevo che la vita fosse una gara

Cerca di evitare di avermi tra i piedi

Non mi deludere

Devo credere che non lo farai

Non mi lasciare qui

Fidati di me, non è colpa tua

Me la prendo io la responsabilità

Non mi deludere

Mi hai chiamato per nome, ma io me ne sono andato

Ti prego, prenditi cura di te

Ho rinunciato a te tanto tempo fa

Perdo sempre tempo a preoccuparmi del tempo

Non posso cancellare quello che mi si è disegnato dentro la pelle

È tutto vero

Per quanto corro veloce, non mi allontano mai

Perdo sempre tempo a preoccuparmi che perdo tempo

Dite alla me da piccola che andrà tutto bene col tempo

Non funzionerà proprio tutto

Ma quantomeno può sfoggiare un sorriso, è libera

Dite alla me da piccola che i suoi pensieri erano validi

Partendo proprio dalle basi è arrivata fin qua

Ora può perdonare

Non mi deludere

Devo credere che non lo farai

Non mi lasciare qui

Fidati di me, non è colpa tua

Me la prendo io la responsabilità

Non mi deludere

Non posso lasciarti andare via, via alla deriva

Ti prego, prenditi cura di te

Posso solo dire che farò del mio meglio

#the winter passing #new ways of living #ghost thing #the street and the stranger #melt #new york #crybaby #greetings from tipperary #resist #something to come home to #i want you #mind yourself

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greatwesternway · 2 years

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Toora, loora, toora, loo-rye-aye

We ended up deciding not to use the idea we needed the singing list for 'cause it's not really in line with the stuff we're doing now, but I wrote this conversation for it and I think it's cashy so here you go.

Concept was the Donald and Douglas like to sing while they clear the lines of snow, which everyone else has mixed opinions on.

---

"I think it's splendid," said Percy cheerfully.

"Me too," agreed Thomas. "If they’re out clearing the lines, it means I won't have to wear my snow plow. They can sing all they like."

"Only silly coaches and freight cars sing," said Gordon. "No respectable engine would be heard to make such a noise. It's not dignified."

"There's no reason for it other than to draw attention to yourself," added James. There were some knowing glances to each other between the other engines at this.

"It wouldn't be done on the Great Western Railway," noted Duck.

"Ye don' like it, Duck?" frowned Donald.

"I didn't say that! I just said that Great Westerns do not sing while they work."

"So ye say," accused Douglas, "but a wee but o' hummin' is fine when ye're rollin' down a hill, is it?"

"Suppose it distracts your Driver?" evaded Duck.

"Och, who do you think taugh' us?" said Donald. "Oor Drivers lead the songs!"

Everyone continued arguing until finally someone asked, “What do you think, Henry?”

Henry had been hoping to stay out of it and had kept quiet the whole time. Everyone was looking at him and waiting for his answer. He didn’t mind the singing, but only the little tank engines were in favour of it. He didn’t want to be seen to agree with them.

"You can be awfully loud about it," said Henry worriedly. "What if you were to cause a snowslide?"

"What if we were tae cause a snowslide while we're plowin' snow?" repeated Donald. "Hmm, weel, I'm sure we dunnae ken what we'd do aboot that at all."

---

The ending would have been when Henry gets stuck in snow in "The Deputation". All huffin' and mopin' 'cause being stuck in the snow sucks and it's cold and it's kinda like being in a tunnel but not exactly and and and. You know, a light helping of Sodor Karma.

Then he hears those splendid-ass "Come On, Eileen" lyrics waftin' in from around the bend (which this would not, in fact, have been "Come On, Eileen" but I don't know any traditional Scottish songs so that woulda been on @littlewestern to sort out but had I gotten to writing that part first, that's what woulda been in the draft) and it's the most beautiful sound he's ever heard 'cause it's the sound of someone coming to dig him out.

But of course the twins are all "Och, it's a long way to Tipperary, isn't it, Henry?" 'cause that's the traditional NWR way to greet your friends when they've eaten shit.

#ttte donald #ttte douglas #ttte henry #fanfiction posts

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bigskydreaming · 3 years

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Okay haha I lied, whoops I do that. THIS is the last one. Again from various parts of ‘Kings of the Sky’ but since I was talking so much about Dick’s grandfather, why not some snippets of him from this series too. (For this AU I imagined what if Dick’s paternal grandparents lived into their eighties, like do we KNOW they couldn’t have? Hmm? Don’t answer that if we do, shh, let me have this. Anyway, so here Dick’s grandmother died when he was two and his grandfather when he was five.)

Dick is retelling this story about him and his grandfather to Jason and Cass.

************

“But there is no King of the Sky, Dickie,” he’d said to me then with a wink. “That’s the joke, you see? No one can claim the sky as theirs, no one can own it. Send your armies to seize it in your name and all you’d see is legions of empty-handed fools all grasping at air! There’s no way to draw your borders, no foundation on which you could build any walls. And where would you even put your throne?”

“He’d laughed then, mischievous and wheezing, as he recalled all the courts the circus had entertained back in its glory days, when Europe’s nobility would always each host some circus or troupe or performers at various festivals. All the kings and queens for whom he’d performed his signature feats, who’d show him off to their most important guests afterwards. The ones who had been invited specifically so they’d see that this court held only the grandest of celebrations, that they and their guests were entertained by only the very best of the best.”

“Oh, but they were always so eager to introduce me by title,” he’d said, rheumy eyes still somehow keeping their sparkle. “There they were, kings and crown princes, pushing me forward and telling their guests to come greet me, this commoner they were all too glad to proclaim royalty no different to them. After all, any king can present his guests with an entertaining spectacle, but how much grander is the king who hosts the spectacle of being entertained by another king? Ah, but they were always more than happy to elevate me if but for the night…in doing so, they elevated themselves as well. Up we all went, all without feet ever leaving the floor!”

“Names can be such a funny thing, don’t you think?” He’d sighed and sort of mused then, stroking his chin like he was pondering some great mystery. “Meaning nothing and everything all at the same time. That’s a powerful trick. Useful too, if you can master it.”

I know I started giggling then, just because as far back as I can remember, names were always kind of a…almost a passion of his, I guess you could say. It was just this thing he did, it was like he could never just let a name be. There was always some trick to a name, he’d insist. You just had to find it. Its why our family colors were red, yellow and green, as a matter of fact. All in only the brightest hues of each, combining to make us the complete opposite of the Gray in our name.

"The crowd comes in to see the acrobat named Grayson,” my grandfather would say, “and what do they expect from just the name? Drab, unremarkable, likely to be lost in the shadows, from just the sound of him. But then he dives off the platform in a burst of colors impossible to miss and the crowd gasps, expectations shattered in an instant….and from there, they think, what more surprises might possibly await? And already you have them at the edge of their seat, eyes caught by the colors of a costume its impossible to lose sight of. You command their attention, you’re unencumbered by their assumptions, and they’re yours from that moment on. And all of that from just a pop of color, a warning that you are not what they thought….and a name. A Flying Grayson, up above as expected, yet unexpectedly the brightest thing in the sky. An inherent contradiction. An impossible sight you can’t help but to see.”

“Anyway, so there I was,” Dick said, straightening up and shaking his head with a slightly rueful smile, as if to physically pull himself out of the undertow of memories tugging him further away from where he’d begun. “Already giggling just from his little chin-stroking act as he started talking about names, because I knew he was bound to say something silly next, just from that. And he’d jumped a little, and turned in his chair to face me directly and with his full focus, because Grandpa thrived off of an engaged audience like nothing else.”

“Yes, a powerful thing, a name,” he’d continued after a moment that was either a dramatic pause or me thinking anything longer than ten seconds might as well be the same as an hour, at that age. “But a tricky business, naming things, as you first have to know what a thing is, before you attempt to claim it by naming it what it is not. Because being named can just as easily be a powerful trap, of course. If a man doesn’t know himself well enough to know he is not what a name claims, he can wind up stuck in a cage that’s not sized to fit him. Simply because he doesn’t know he has more than enough room to slip free of it if he tried.”

“Then he leaned down close enough to me to whisper, and looked around as if checking we were alone before dropping into a raspy whisper like we were conspiring. “But a man who knows what he wants and knows what he’s capable of, and can put the right name to both….that’s where the real magic is. Do you know what kind of power your name has?”

“Richard means lion-hearted,” I remember reporting after some thought. And that he blew a raspberry right after that like he was the five year old of the two of us, but then, Grandpa was just like that sometimes. “Yes, yes, true enough,” he said, making a face like he’d tasted something sour, “But I don’t mean the one your father picked probably to spite me for naming him John in the first place. No matter how many times I tell him I had nothing to do with that, I lost the right to name him in a card game with your Grandmother. Although for the record, I still maintain I didn’t lose, she just cheated. But I still have no idea how she did it so I have to respect that, I suppose. But no. Not that name. The one your mother gave you.”

“And of course then I knew he meant Robin, and said so, and he asked what that meant to me. And I remember thinking long and hard about that one, because as I said, I knew even by that age what Grandpa was like on the subject of names, and so I was sure there was some kind of riddle or game in what he was asking, I just wasn’t sure where. So finally I just referred back to what my Mom always used to say, about me being born on the first day of spring, and being her little Robin. And he just nodded, and then he asked: And do you remember the first time you called yourself Robin to someone else, and why? What you said then?”

*******************

And then from the very last (intended) installment, ‘Its a Long, Long Way To Tipperary,’ again with Dick telling this to Jason and Cass and finishing a conversation started earlier in the series:

“Names have power,” Grandpa said to me, on one of the last days I remember with him before he passed away. We were sitting outside in folding chairs and watching the stars, until he got too cold and we had to go in. But while we were out there, so much of what he said…I didn’t really understand most of it at the time. Honestly, even what I thought I understood, I realized years later wasn’t really right. I could follow the words but so much of what he meant, I didn’t even begin to understand until I happened to look back to that night years later.

But for months I’d heard my parents talking when they thought I couldn’t hear. I’d seen him doubled over and coughing more and more frequently, how tightly he clutched a blanket around him when it wasn’t really all that cold. I may not have fully known what was coming but I think I knew on some level that something was coming to an end.

And I remember him talking so fast that night, words spilling out so quickly in a confusing mess like he couldn’t take the time to shape them properly and just had to get them out….I remember soaking it all in, as much as I could, knowing that it was important even if I didn’t know what it even was, or why. Like I was trying to just….absorb it, make it a part of me the way it almost felt like it was bleeding out of him. I don’t know that the thought, the image of him dying that summer, of soon being without him, I can’t say whether that actually ever occurred to me. I just know that I knew urgency, and I knew Grandpa was only urgent when it mattered, so I listened without understanding and somehow managed to store most of it away. And honestly, I don’t know that he was even trying to make sure he was understood, or even caring….so much as just trying to get it out of him, like what was most important was just that he said it and it was heard. Maybe just so he knew it wouldn’t die with him.

“But however it got there, however it was I managed to remember clearly enough, there it all was, and right when I most needed to hear what he’d said to me that night. The things nobody else could have told me because nobody else knew the secret language of names that he seemed to speak, that he’d spent his whole life learning all so that maybe he could somehow in that find his own name. Not the label he’d been left with, a description or title.....but a name, the one each child is supposed to get, something to say who they are, not merely what.”

“Names have power,” he said to me that night. “They can be magic in the right hands. A man who knows who he is knows his own name. And the things you can do with that, the doors that can be unlocked…oh, Dickie, my boy. There’s a door to anywhere if you can speak the right name when asked for a key. But its not enough to just say them and throw them around, its not the sounds, the words, its what they are. You can’t pretend to know a thing, to know yourself. You have to really, truly know. But once you know….for a boy as bright as you, there’s no end to the possibilities.”

“So here’s what you must always remember, the real trick of it all…..names have power. But the power isn’t in the name. The power is in what you put in that name. You can’t claim a name and therein take its power, you see….because you have to know first what you’re trying to take from it, what you see when you look at it. What you want it to be, want it to give to you, what you want it to make you when you say this is me and I am this. Your father named you Richard, though he calls you Dickie. You were born a Flying Grayson and thus you always will be. Your mother named you her little Robin, born on the first day of spring. And all of these can be you, because no one is just one thing. And yet none of them are you unless you claim them to be.

So if you are to be Robin, as your mother named you but is only you if you choose to say yes that is me…..before you claim it fully, before you truly make it yours, you have to look at Robin and what you want the mirror to show when you look in it and say I am Robin and this is me. You have to see Robin not as even your mother sees her Robin, but as you see your Robin.

That’s the danger and that’s the trick.

You can’t claim Robin while seeing only what someone else sees, and think that by claiming it you’ve claimed its power….instead you’ve just claimed a trap, donned a self that doesn’t suit you because it is not you, only something someone else thought could be you.

Because in claiming that, you claim everything that comes with it….and then you will never be free to be more than whatever they thought you could be. There is no power in that, no potential, no freedom…..just the limitations you’ve accepted as your own, because someone thought you limited by such things, and yet you agreed that they were right when you claimed the name….but only the name as they shaped and imagined it to be.

So who is Robin? What power do you see in that name? Don’t reach out and seize it the moment someone sets it forth in front of you, assuming that is all it can be, the highest it can ever take you. Never claim a name if you haven’t first looked at it as you first see it...and then imagined it bigger, and then imagined it deeper, and then imagined it greater...and then kept going until you can’t imagine any more. And only then will you know what that name is…..when you say this name is who I truly want to be.

Robin is a bird, yes, Robin Red-Breast, a creature of spring, of the air, of new life. You can claim that and make it yours but first…..what else could Robin be?

Can not Robin just as easily be Robin Hood or Robin Goodfellow? Couldn’t you be? And why even be just one, when you can be all three?

No man is ever just one thing, and any man who thinks that he is has more dreaming to do.

So be Robin, in as much as you imagine Robin to be. Be the bird that flies, or the champion of the poor, or the merry trickster whom even kings fear. Or be all of them in one….there’s power enough for all of that in just that one little name….so long as you put it there first.

Its that simple, and its that tricky. There is no in between. You are whatever you claim as you - but the good and the bad, for better and for worse. The space that name holds and the walls that hold it in.

So if you remember nothing more, Dickie, Richard, Robin times three or however many more Robins you might be…..if someday you say I taught you nothing else, there’s nothing else I gave you or left for you to take with you wherever you go, hear me now, and remember this:

No matter how well you might think it suits you at first, the name you claim because it fits you as you are....will never be more than a trap.

The power in names, the true power…..only comes from claiming the name that fits the you, that you would dream yourself to be.

You can always be more than you are. And any name that tells you otherwise is not truly anything but a lie.

Many kings of the earth have laughed as they introduced your family as Kings of the Sky throughout the years. But the jest they don’t get is for all their riches, they were the ones content to claim titles and deeds that leave them trapped on the ground, confined within borders of their own makings, sealed behind walls they chose to erect between them and everything that was not theirs and thus would never be. But a King of the Sky soars above all of that, needing none of that…..because the sky has no end, and is so much vaster than any of that could ever be.

So if you would someday choose a crown, my little Prince of the Sky, never seek yours on the ground. Reach for one bigger than the ground could ever hold….only that could ever fit all that you might someday be.”

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holidays-events · 4 years

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Put Down The Guinness And Drink This ACTUALLY Irish-Made Booze Instead

There are plenty of other Irish drinks for St. Patrick's Day.

By Lee Breslouer 03/17/2020

Guinness is a fantastic beer made in Ireland. It’s also made in Baltimore.

So while it remains an undeniably delicious brew, it’s not quite as uniquely Irish as it used to be. And with a flood of booze made in Ireland washing up on U.S. shores, now is the perfect time to drink something other than that tremendous stout on St. Patrick’s Day.

To help you to figure out what to drink ― which will likely be from home this year, thanks to many bars being close due to the coronavirus ― we surveyed U.S.-based Irish bartenders on what to drink this St. Paddy’s Day that’s not Guinness. Sláinte!

Exceptional Irish whiskey brands, including labels like Bushmills and Redbreast, have won fans the world over. But despite whiskey’s popularity, gin is having quite a moment in the Republic.

“Gin accompanied with flavored tonic is the go-to drink in Ireland,” said Darragh McConnon, Sligo native and bartender at Jackdaw NYC, which serves a gin and elderflower tonic cocktail. “Its resurgence is partially because Irish whiskey must be distilled for at least three years and one day. That disrupts cash flow, so distilleries began producing gin.”

Luckily for those distilleries, the Irish began to love and appreciate gin on another level. It also doesn’t hurt that gin and flavored tonic is delicious, as this recipe from NYC’s Mustang Harry’s proves. Robby Linnane, the County Clare native who pours drinks at the sports bar, told HuffPost that the cucumber tonic water “brings out the crispness and the botanicals in the Drumshanbo.” Even better: It’s simple to prepare.

Drumshanbo Gin and Tonic Serves 1

Ingredient

1 1/2 ounces Drumshanbo Gunpowder Irish Gin

4 ounces Fever-Tree cucumber tonic

Grapefruit wedge

Directions

Combine ingredients and serve over ice in a highball glass.

Garnish with a grapefruit wedge.

The Irish Sunset is an ideal drink to greet the warmer temperatures of spring.

Ian Montgomery moved to the U.S. from Dublin 13 years ago, and has since opened a pub in Dublin … Ohio. He’s currently a partner in Fado Pub and Kitchen there, which does a brisk business on St. Patrick’s Day.

One of the drinks the pub plans to sell plenty of is the whiskey-focused Irish Sunset. “We use Teeling Small Batch in it,” Montgomery said. “It’s an old distillery in Dublin that went out of business a few years ago, and the great-grandkids of the owners of the distillery brought it back to life. They make really good whiskey.”

He said the name of the cocktail is related to the bright orange color of the drink. And because it includes pineapple puree and fresh lime juice, it’s the ideal drink to greet the warmer temperatures of spring.

Irish Sunset Serves 1

Ingredients

2 ounces Teeling Small Batch whiskey

1/2 ounce Aperol

1/2 ounce lime juice

1/2 ounce pineapple puree infused syrup (instructions below)

Directions

Prepare pineapple puree syrup by heating 8 ounces pineapple juice and 1/3 cup of brown sugar on a stove to reduce. Let cool.

Combine 1/2 ounce of syrup with all other ingredients over ice, and serve cold.

Jameson and Crabbie's uses Crabbie’s Alcoholic Ginger Beer, which is made with real ginger.

Sometimes the tastiest drinks can be exceedingly easy to prepare. “Our most popular whiskey drink is a simple one,” Montgomery said. “Many years ago, we came across Crabbie’s Alcoholic Ginger Beer. It’s made with real ginger and it’s amazing. And it’s two drinks in one, so you have to be careful!”

Full disclosure: Crabbie’s was formulated in Scotland and is produced in England. But considering Jameson is an Irish-made booze and a whiskey/ginger is one of the more perfect drinks to enjoy on St. Patrick’s Day, we’ll make an exception.

Jameson and Crabbie’s Serves 1

Ingredients

2 ounces Jameson

1 bottle Crabbie’s Alcoholic Ginger Beer

Directions

Combine over ice and serve in a highball glass.

Magners is known as Bulmers in Ireland.

Magners Irish Cider

For some reason, cider isn’t as popular in the U.S. as it is in the U.K., and is less available at bars and restaurants. But since you’ll likely be posting up at an Irish pub this St. Patrick’s Day, take the opportunity to order an Irish cider. Just don’t ask for a Bulmers.

“Magners is from County Tipperary in the middle of Ireland,” Montgomery said. “In Ireland, it’s called Bulmers. I’m not sure if it’s because of a trademark in the name, [but] it’s the same drink.”

And he’s right, it’s the same cider with a different name! It’s only called Magners in the U.S. because the company that produced it only owned the rights to the Bulmers name inside Ireland.

West Cork Irish Whiskey, at right, is an ingredient in the Harry's Barrel Aged Tipperary cocktail.

Another gem from the folks at Mustang Harry’s, this is an Irish whiskey-based cocktail that you don’t need to barrel-age to enjoy it (though if you order it at the pub, they’ve aged it four weeks).

“This is one of our signature cocktails, and an ode to our hometown in Ireland,” Linnane said, referring to County Tipperary. “It’s strong and aromatic.” Those strong flavors are partially due to the addition of West Cork Irish Whiskey.

“The big distillery everyone’s heard of that makes Tullamore Dew and Jameson is in Middleton in East Cork,” explained Colm O’Neill, a longtime bartender and entrepreneur who developed the Irish whiskey cream Hard Chaw. “But West Cork also has its own distillery. It’s got a little map of West Cork in its label, so it’s quite distinctive, and it’s gotten pretty good reviews.”

Harry’s Barrel Aged Tipperary Serves 1

Ingredient

2 ounces West Cork Irish Whiskey

3/4 ounce Green Chartreuse

1 ounce sweet vermouth

2 dashes angostura bitters

Lemon peel

Directions

Combine all ingredients in a mixing glass with ice and stir for a 17-count.

Strain into a chilled coupe glass.

Rub lemon peel around glass rim. Use as garnish.

Related...

You May Want To Look Twice At Your Guinness Today

Drinking Beer Can Ease The Climate Crisis (No, Not In THAT Way)

According To History, We Can Thank Women For Beer

☘️ St. Patrick's Day 🍻

https://www.huffpost.com/entry/guinness-irish-drinks

#St. Patrick's Day #Drinks

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nyebevans · 6 years

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so i guess i’ve gotta plan a trip to tipperary and limerick at some point to visit where my great-grandma was born and raised... and also belfast in northern ireland, because some of my mum’s lot come from there (and moved to liverpool where they joined up with the rest of her family tree). which i find cool because i knew i was a bit irish on my dad’s side, but never knew mum had irish ancestry too!

also, some of mum’s liverpool & shropshire side of the family begin to branch out to staffordshire and northamptonshire further back, which is cool. the welsh side of the family mostly came up from carmarthenshire and cardiganshire to join with the caernarfonshire contingent, who moved in from denbighshire to greet the shropshire lot! it’s so fun seeing the trajectories of a family line... the shropshire side of the family was there a looooooong time.

one of dad’s grandma’s sisters from tipperary died in wisbech, cambridgeshire, near where i went to uni, which is WILD to me. and her husband, my dad’s granddad redvers, was from huntingdonshire, also super close to my uni! my dad also potentially has a scottish ancestor, but i can’t find any information about her other than her name and that she was maybe born in scotland in the 1650s. she’s so far back it hardly counts, but it would have been cool to find out more about her

ALSO. fun name of the day: one of my mum’s ancestors was called tryphena sadler

#i kinda wanna have a kid now just so i can call it dionisia tryphena #likeeeeee #what a power move #family #parents #wales #ireland

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lsbmarketing · 5 years

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J Forde Chauffeur is an executive taxi service based in Clonmel and primarily serving counties Tipperary, Kilkenny and Waterford. We collect and deliver our clients throughout Ireland, specialising in our meet and greet airport taxi transfer service to and from Cork, Dublin, Shannon and Waterford airports.

Airport Taxi Transfers

Airport taxi transfers are what J Forde Chauffeur does best. We provide executive level comfort linking Tipperary, Waterford and Kilkenny with Cork, Shannon, Dublin and Waterford airports. Our meet and greet airport transfer service takes the stress off your travel itinerary. We deliver the most convenient means to travel to or from Ireland’s major airports and your local residence or hotel.

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imagineclaireandjamie · 8 years

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Flood my Mornings: Samhain

@abreathofsnowandashes said: There would have been A LOT of Irish emigrants in Boston in the 1950s, particularly Irish speakers. There would have been Scots too, but in much smaller numbers and Gàidhlig would have been much less likely to have been spoken for obvious reasons. I’d love to see Jamie overhear Gaelic (Irish Gaeilge or Scottish Gàidhlig, he’d understand both) being spoken, or maybe come across a hurling/shinty game and make a connection

Notes from Mod Bonnie:

This story takes place in an AU in which Jamie travels through the stones two years after Culloden and finds Claire and his child in 1950 Boston.

See all past installments via Bonnie’s Master List

Previous installment: Twentieth of October (Claire’s birthday dinner)

October 31, 1950

“Happy Halloween,” chirruped the pimple-strewn lad pumping the Gasoline.

Jamie gave the boy a smile and a nod. “Aye, many thanks, and the same to—Bree, no!” He lunged across the wide seat of the Ford and grabbed her round the middle. She protested and scrabbled vainly for the door latch she had very nearly gotten open. “My apologies,” he said out the open window as he righted himself, holding the lass firmly on his lap, “she’s quite the handful.”

The boy gave Brianna a little wave. “Got big trick-or-treating plans tonight?”

“Ach, no, not this year. Just a bonfire with some friends.”

Burgers, marshmallows, candy, and beer! Nothing fancy! Tom had assured him. Just bring you, the family, and maybe some ice?

Jamie had left work an hour early to drive home, shower, change into clean clothes, and pick up Brianna to drive the two of them back to Fernacre for Tom and Marian’s gathering. Claire was working overnight, this evening, and Jamie was feeling just that wee bit awkward about the prospect of a social gathering without her at his side. Granted, he would know nearly everyone present; and they were his work comrades, after all; hardly strangers.

Still, when the convenient topics and tasks of work were removed from his social scenarios, there would always come the odd moment where his ignorance of modern times or American tastes or both would be thrust into the spotlight (“What did you think of the game?” or “What’s your favorite John Wayne film?”) and it was Claire who so adeptly diverted attention so he might collect himself, even as he wracked his brain to recall where he had heard the name of Mr. Wayne before.

Still, Claire had her duties, and a festive night shared among good folk (for whom he had genuine affection) certainly outweighed the other available option: being obliged to bide by the door all evening, passing out sweeties to any costumed child that cared to ring the bell. Would that strangers had been so generous when I was wandering Boston looking for Claire. Baffling, the lot of them, these Americans.

“Whoops, I’m sorry, mister, I don’t have enough change,” the boy said apologetically. “Can you hold on a minute while I run inside?”

“Aye, dinna fash, lad.”

The boy blinked and made a face of incomprehension. “Dinner what?” Then, realizing how rude he sounded, he raised his hand, looking distraught and about to start babbling.

“I only said,” Jamie interjected, “‘Take your time.’”

He said it patiently, wanting to be kind, but as soon as the boy was out of sight, Jamie closed his eyes and felt himself sighing, wearily practicing the proper phrases in his mind for the next such time. ‘No problem, man.’ ‘Don’t worry about it, Sport.’ Flatter “R”s. Shove sound to the back of the tongue. Quieter. Less.

“We c’n go-to play th’game, too, Da?” Brianna asked suddenly in Gaelic.

“Game?” He blinked his eyes open and studied her face, looking up from his lap excitedly. “What game d’ye wish to—”?

But then he, too, heard the voices drifting across the lot.

“Oh, definitely: Dan’s crew don’t have a chance.”

“I don’t know, they’ve been training hard—and they’re giving Michael and the boys a run for their money, so far!”

He craned his neck out the window. They were men of about his own age or a little older, their arms loaded with sweeties and Soda Pop bottles from the wee store. And they were speaking GAELIC.

Irish, from the sound of it, the Gaeilge; but the cadence and syllables were so like his own mother tongue that he actually was gasping from the rush of shock and euphoria.

He was just about to call after them, but at that moment, the young attendant reappeared. Jamie hastily completed the transaction, tipping a bit too heavily as he watched the men out of the corner of his eye, feeling a pang of dismay as they disappeared down over the hill beside the filling station. Jamie thought he could hear the sounds of a small crowd not far off.

“Beg your pardon,” Jamie blurted, as the attendant was walking away. “What’s going on over the hill, there?”

“Just a bunch of Irish playing—it’s kind of like football, but with sticks and they’re loud as all get out!” he laughed confidentially.

“Game, Da!” Bree whispered in Gaelic.

“They’re harmless, though, I promise,” the boy said hastily, leaving Jamie to wonder what exactly might be feared from a bunch of Irishmen. The boy blanched. “Oh but you’re–you’re Irish youself. I didn’t mean any–” He didn’t bother to correct the boy as to his heritage, simply thanked him once more and sent him on his way.

He checked his Watch, and finding that they were still ahead of schedule, he set Bree on the seat next to him, saying in Gaelic, “Aye, a leannan, let’s DO go see the game.”

It was a group of about thirty men on the field, playing a fast-paced game that Jamie wagered was very close indeed to shinty. The players’ wives and families (and a fair number more, it seemed) were congregated on the sidelines, tending wee coal-grills, drinking, chatting, and calling after the swarms of children running about hither and thither. And all of it was in Gaelic. Jamie wanted to cry, just hearing and seeing this slice of something so like home, the drink-fueled joy of a Gathering, something he hadn’t experienced in many, many years. He could feel the warmth of it all surrounding him with every step he took closer, like the arms of a long-lost friend slowly coming around him.

As he and Bree drew within a few dozen yards, a whistle sounded and the match broke. The players jogged to their wives and comrades to drink and chat. One man on the nearest edge of the crowd, dark-haired and wiry, caught sight of Jamie and did a double-take, turning sharply to face him in the first pink rays of nearing-sunset. “Can I help you?” he called in English, strongly accented; not unkindly, but definitely on guard.

Jamie called back a greeting in as close to Gaeilge as he could recall, though he wasn’t at all confident in his pronunciation.

It must have been close enough, though, for the man’s face brightened at once. “HEY, NOW!” he roared, walking forward with his arms raised in welcome. “A new kinsman! What county?”

“County *Scotland,* I’m afraid,” Jamie replied, slipping into the Gàidhlig without thinking as he returned the man’s warm handshake. “James Fraser, and my daughter Brianna. Do forgive me for intruding; it’s only that it’s been so verra long since I heard anything like my own tongue. I just couldna resist seeing what was what.”

“And we’re glad you did! It’s grand to get to meet a new cousin from the old places.”

The Irish tongue did have its differences, certainly, but Michael Riley seemed to have no trouble understanding Jamie, nor he, him, with only the occasional What was that word? or confidential laugh over differences in emphasis or tone.

Bree had been staring at Michael intently, apparently astonished at hearing Gaelic spoken at close range by someone other than her Da. When Jamie nudged her, she gave a tiny, startled ‘Hi’ in English, then grinned and buried her face in his shoulder, making both men laugh.

“D’ye live in these parts yourself, Fraser?” Michael asked eagerly.

“Not far, but no—I was just stopping for Gasoline on my way out to the countryside. Do all of ye live nearby, then?” Jamie asked, astonished, surveying the huge, lively crowd of players and onlookers.

“Sure do—the station owner turns a blind eye to us using the field, thank the saints, else we’d all likely be arrested.”

“Arrested? For playing a wee game?”

“Well, technically, it *could* be considered trespassing—have a drink?” Jamie politely refused and Michael shrugged, wiping his sweaty brow and taking a deep swig from his own bottle. “There’s a long history of bad blood between Irish and the other folk in Boston. I’m sure there’s plenty of arseholes that would love to see us get comeuppance for whichever dumb mick offended great-great-uncle so and so.”

Perhaps that went some way toward explaining the odd looks Jamie tended to get when speaking to strangers about Boston. He’d always tacitly assumed something in his manner was out of place in some indeterminate way—some eighteenth-century way, that is—but perhaps it was that he was being assumed Irish in a place where that wasn’t altogether a pretty thing to be. He would have to ask Claire.

Christ, he chuckled to himself, an Outlander thrice over, he was, in Boston. At least he wasn’t the only one.

Michael introduced him to the members of his team, one and all bringing Jamie and Bree further into the crowd, offering drinks, and asking about their history and family. He felt as if he’d walked into a clan gathering, even after only ten minutes among the Irish. “And what about you, then?” he asked of Michael, after giving his (presumed) backstory for the half-dozenth time, “From whence in Ireland do you folk hail?”

“Well, we’re mostly Corkmen here—” Michael said, which elicited cheers from the Cork contingent. “Some like me, born here stateside, but plenty of folk fresh off the boat, like Barny, there, except he’s from Tipperary. Then there’s Fergal whose folk are from Sligo,” he said, scanning the crowd and methodically cataloging. “Then Vance and Peter and the other Michael, of Galway. And then over there, there’s Charlie, but he’s not—OY!” He gave a sudden whoop of excitement and cupped his hands around his mouth to yell, “EY, CHARLIE!! COME OVER HERE!! FOUND YE A WEE CLANSMAN!!”

A stocky blonde man jogged over eagerly and Michael clapped him on the shoulder. “Charlie, here, plays for those bastards on Dan’s team, but we won’t hold it against him just at present. Charlie, this is James—James, right? Aye, good—James Fraser. He’s from your precious highlands!”

Charlie was an open, eager sort, ruddy-faced and jovial, quick with a joke and an easy word. Jamie quickly learned from rapid conversation in the Gàidhlig that the man was a Highlander-born, a MacAlister whose family had come to America when he was nearly sixteen. He’d hated the new place, and had planned to return to Scotland the moment as he was of age; but then war had broken out just days before his eighteenth birthday, and he’d been compelled to go fight. He worked as a builder, now, feeding the demand for suburban homes from families in the growing prosperity of the post-war times. Jamie decided he truly liked the man, and knew without asking that he must have children himself, when he grinned at Bree and said, “And hello there, a leannan,” with a little bow.

“Hi, how-wer you?” she responded, to Jamie’s astonishment, in almost-perfect Gàidhlig.

“I’m verra well, thank ye verra much for asking, sweet lass,” the blonde man laughed, straightening and looking impressed. “Does she speak it at home, then?”

“No, not often,” Jamie said, rather apologetically. “I do try to speak it around her when I think of it, but her mam is English, so we—”

“American, you mean?”

“Nay,” Jamie laughed, with a mock-sneer, “an honest-to-goodness Sassenach.”

Charlie matched Jamie’s manner with groan of false-disgust. “Christ, but ye must have balls of steel, Jamie, to — oh!” he said abruptly, looking a bit embarrassed, “Sorry—is it alright that I call ye Jamie?”

Jamie could feel the warmth of kinship flood through him like water. “Of *course,* friend,” he said with feeling.

Charlie introduced his Irish wife Saoirse and their two small boys, to whom Bree took at once, sharing their toys on the grass.

They talked about Scotland, about America, about Boston. About Gaelic. About talk of a free and independent Scotland. About the Celtic traditions that had crossed the ocean, and those that had not. Of gatherings that apparently took place all around the country, in hill-and-mountain places, for folk to remember the old clan ways, even if in naught but a faint imitation. Even of bannocks, whiskey, and wool; the simple things of highland home, even two hundred years hence, it seemed. It was more a balm to Jamie’s heart than he could comprehend: that the Scotland he knew hadn’t vanished entirely.

A whistle blew and Charlie brandished his stick deftly as the crowd began to shift. “Ever played a game of hurling?”

“It’s like shinty, no?”

“Not too far off, not at all. Here,” he said, beginning to walk backward toward the pitch, “come wi’ me and I’ll give ye the rundown.”

With a jolt, Jamie noted the position of the sun and remembered the ice in the back of the Car. “Sadly, we must be going, Charlie.”

“Oh, come on!” Charlie wheedled, taking one last deep swig of beer and kissing Saoirse exuberantly. “Wee Brianna seems to be having a fine time wi’ Nolan and Will. And I’ve got some extra gear if —”

“it isna that at all,” Jamie said, turning an apologetic smile toward his new companion, “it’s only that we’ve got a Halloween gathering to attend, and we’re expected shortly.”

“Och, that’s too bad. First one since you arrived? Weel, it isna nearly so ghostly as Samhain, let me tell ye. All the spooks you’re like to encounter look as if they came out from a children’s book or a Walt Disney film. I tell wee Nolan when he’s scairt in the night that all the ghosts are back in Scotland. No doorways to the otherworlds in America, so no Old Folk to be afraid of."

(Oh, aye? Ye have one right in front of ye, man.)

Charlie held out the stick once more, inviting. "Sure ye canna be persuaded to celebrate wi’ us instead, Jamie?”

“I truly canna stay, but thank ye, Charlie, I should verra much have liked to.” Jamie knelt to break up the play-circle. “Can ye say ‘farewell’ to your new friends, Bree?”

“Farewell,” she chirped, waving her chubby hand enthusiastically.

“That’s not’th’right way,” chided Nolan, who was a year or two older. “You say it funny.”

Bree looked crestfallen, but Charlie ruffled his son’s hair, laughing as he gently scolded. “Nay, a chuisle, you’ve just grown up wi’ Gaeilge—YOU’RE the one who ‘says it funny.’”

Jamie scooped Bree into his arms, whispering in her ear about how proud he was of her before turning back to Charlie. “Do ye play every week, then? I’d truly be honored to come back another time.”

“Oh aye. The winter snows will start falling soon, but we’re here most every chance we can get, when the ground’s clear.” Charlie sized him up frankly, nodding with approval. “You’re a braw-looking fucker, alright. Dinna let Michael steal ye for his lousy crew, aye? They’re naught but loud bastards. The *real* talent’s wi’ us.”

Jamie made a general farewell to the crowd and received a hearty chorus of well-wishes and toasts in return.

“At the risk of seeming too eager, Jamie…” He turned to see that Charlie was looking sheepish, “might the wife and I have ye and the family over for dinner, sometime?”

When Jamie didn’t immediately respond, the man shrugged, but didn’t falter. “Mebbe it’s daft, but as much as I love my Irish folk, it’s grand having someone to talk to in the old ways again; who’s truly my countryman. D’ye ken what I mean?”

Jamie swallowed down the lump in his throat as he clasped the man’s hand. “Aye, a caraidh, I ken it more than ye can possibly know.”

[Next chapter: The First Step]

#;mod bonnie #flood my mornings

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elucubrare · 7 years

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anyway, the reason i don't watch serious movies, or even not very serious movies with anything approaching seriousness in them, is that I am sappy and easily moved, but I'm watching Si Paris nous était conté, which is a movie from 1955 about the ~history of Paris~ and at the beginning there's a series of military victory parades from François Ier onward, with the cheerers in the street turning corners to see the next one and their dress getting progressively more modern, and the final one is the American and British troops in 1945, with "It's a long way to Tipperary" playing, and they're greeted by the French troops of years gone by, and look, I am weeping, I had a really hard time describing this through my tears

#did you know: i am a giant sap

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kelseyisabroad · 6 years

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It’s A Long Way to Tipperary (Ireland Day 4)

I say it every day, but today was amazing. And today was no exception: I got the chance to set foot in Tipperary town, seat of the county where my ancestors lived.

It ended up as a pretty emotional morning for that reason, but let’s start at the beginning of the day!

This morning, we woke up and had a traditional Irish breakfast at the B&B. One thing I’m VERY up on in Irish breakfasts: COOKED TOMATOES. Please and thank you.

We then packed the car and headed up the Slievenamuck Hills, where Christ the King statue is located. With the Galtees as our backdrop, the resulting photos were AMAZING.

And we also came across a small woodland trail, so we followed it for a bit, and said hello to the fairies that so OBVIOUSLY lived here.

I mean... hello???

After that, it was time to head to TIPPERARY TOWN! We pulled into town and I was greeted by two stores with the name Ryan. Pretty auspicious, I’d say.

We parked, and then spent some time wandering around. It’s BEAUTIFUL, folks!

We got some information on how to search for genealogy, too — so Ryans, we’ve got a lead!!

I also stopped in to St. Mary’s church in town, and lit a candle for my Grandpa Vince.

This was a pretty amazing experience, to be so close to places where your family has been. I only wish we could have stayed longer!

But it was time to leave shortly thereafter, so we prepped some picnic supplies and set off towards the southern coast.

Our goal this evening was to hit Cobh (pronounced Cove), but as we were on our way to get there, we decided to take a scenic route.

PHEW. Scenic indeed!

We stopped for lunch at this vista (called The Vee), right on the edge of County Tipperary:

Never in my life have I had a picnic this scenic.

(Also fun story: an English couple and his parents met us on this view, and they were struggling to take a picture of their group. I asked if they’d like me to take their picture, and once I did, the man very insistently asked if I was Canadian. I said no, I was from DC, and he proceeded to ask, “Oh yes, but that’s very north? Near Newfoundland.” No, sir; not Canadian at all, sorry! 🙃)

And after we finished, we hit the road and passed into County Waterford... and the moment we passed over, it began to rain for the first time since Dublin.

Tipperary, you were so hospitable. (And so strangely sunny!) Thank you so, so very much.

—

En route to Cobh still, we also saw Lismore Castle, which is STILL OCCUPIED TODAY by the Cavendish family. Tell me, how do I get on their party list?

And after that, we made it to COBH!!!!

This seaside town is something else. I’ll have to save it for the next post (since I’ve hit my 10-picture limit on this post), so I can do it justice.

ONWARDS!

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billykilroy · 8 years

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"Are you right there Miguel are you right, do you think that we'll reach Machu Picchu before the night......"

St Patrick’s Day was just like any other until we walked to the “Wild Rover” Pub and Hostel which is owned by a guy from Bansha in Tipperary. The celebrations were planned to go on for a full week, but after a couple of hours in the company of a 100 or so 20 to 30 year olds who were having the time of their lives all of them orderly and mannerly. When it was time for us to go two staff stood on the counter and started firing jello shots at the young customers while the “Galtee Mountain Boy” roared out from the speakers. Most of the patrons were bedecked out in Green, White and Gold while many more with hardly any clothes on were also decked out in our National colours. No doubt, a few curious ‘Chicos’ came to our table to enquire as to who we were, where from and what we were doing for our “Gap Year”. Not blowing our trumpet or anything but they were impressed. We travelled to Agua Calientes by train on Tuesday, nowadays called Pueblo Manchu Picchu. The journey is 45kms and should take 40 mins but it took an hour and a half! The train stopped half way, the driver got out and walked back the track, I didn’t see him again for about 10 minutes!. “ This is like the West Clare” I said to Noelle when along comes the driver with a full plastic bag of what I didn’t know until I saw him look up at an avocado tree that was laden with fruit. No, not the complete reason he stopped, he was waiting for an oncoming train to pass before he could continue on the narrow single line. We had an early night as we had a 4am alarm call on Wednesday morning to join a queue for our 30min bus journey to Machu Picchu. At 9 minutes past 1am the heavens opened, heavy rain with thunder and all I could think of was that our day in Machu Picchu was going to be a non event. Worse still at 3am the rain seemed even heavier and not having slept much it was still raining when we got up. We had our breakfast at 4:45am, put on the rainwear and walked the short distance to a queue that you might see for tickets to a U2 concert. The town is so tightly squeezed in between mountains that you feel you could almost reach out your hand and touch the mountains on every side. Standing in the queue looking up at these massive mountains reminded me of a tourist in New York looking up at the Empire State Building with his/her head left completely back on their shoulders and mouth open.! The bus climbed up the mountain in a zig zag fashion, pulling in to allow returning buses to pass and having thought that we had gone the Corkscrew Hill 20 times we arrived at the entrance to Machu Picchu. As I had been too lazy to bring my boots, Noelle who I now call Mc Ivor pulled two plastic shopping bags from I don't know where and told me to put them on over my socks to keep my feet dry in the wet conditions. The rain had stopped completely as we started climbing and it turned out to be a wonderful sunny day!. The Sun Gate was to be our first port of call and we climbed and climbed steps mind you until about an hour and a half later we reached the top at 2800 metres above sea level. There was a small sign saying, well not saying but a drawing telling us to go back the way we came up. Noelle had met a trekking group on our ascend and said to her that they had come from the other side, so we continued our trek ignoring the return sign. We climbed for another hour, which included 50 steps that were harder to climb than a pole in a sleazy bar in Ibiza !! We met no one which was a bit odd as there were a couple of thousand people there, at last we heard voices coming near us and it was a trekking group from Canada. I asked Noelle to ask them was it far to the next site. "Where are ye going " he said, oh said Noelle "we're not sure", "Ye are on the final leg of the Inca trail and there's a green door which is locked and you can go no further, you had better return with us"!! When we arrived back at he Sun Gate ahead of the Canadians there was a Park Ranger to greet us NOT might I say in a friendly way. He was quite nasty threatening to fine us $800 and a phone call to have us expelled from Machu Picchu!! I left Noelle who used all her diplomacy skills to calm him down and that it was a genuine mistake. Finally when we knew that we would not make front page headlines for being expelled for going on the Inca Trail in Machu Picchu we giggled our way down the mountain. We even joked NOT about going back to him and saying "Where were you when we were going up" and that we knew the Peruvian President and would have him transferred to Juliaca!! Machu Picchu was immense, breathtaking, fabulous and feel humbled and proud to have seen how the Inca's lived and worked. As I said to the Irish youngsters on St Patrick's Night, 50 years ago I should have done this. Just as I was boarding the bus to return, an English woman asked me why I was wearing plastic baga around my feet, she laughed when I told her that it was Mc Ivor's brain wave, she had thought it was a new fashion trend.!! We flew to Lima the following day, a real cosmo city that seems more like 5th Avenue, Porto Banus, especially down at the sea side with high-end restaurants, and shops. We are relaxing in 35 degrees of sunshine and topping up our tan for our return to Irlanda on Monday. Thanks for taking the time to journey with Noelle and myself for the last three months. Looking forward to spending 10 days at home before part 2 or our year long adventure begins . Adiós.

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celtfather · 6 years

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Irish Fire #395

The Irish fire will burn bright in show #395 of the Irish & Celtic Music Podcast. http://bestcelticmusic.net/

Dram & Go, Poitin, Jil Chambless, Ed Miller, Scooter Muse, Athena Tergis, The John Byrne Band, Marc Gunn, Jamie Laval, Ashley Broder, Tami Curtis music, Syncopaths, Syr, Ockham's Razor, Rathkeltair, Jiggernaut, Melanie Gruben

I hope you enjoyed this week's show. If you did, please share the show with ONE friend.

The Irish & Celtic Music Podcast is dedicated to growing our community and helping the incredible artists who so generously share their music. If you find artists you love, buy their albums, shirts, and songbooks, follow them on Spotify, see their shows, subscribe to their mailing lists, and drop them an email to let them know you heard them on the Irish and Celtic Music Podcast.

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VOTE IN THE CELTIC TOP 20

With the new year comes a new votes in the Celtic Top 20. This is our way of finding the best songs and artists each year. Just list the show number, and the name of as many bands in the episode as you like. Your vote helps me create next year's Best Celtic music of 2019 episode.

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THIS WEEK IN CELTIC MUSIC

0:04 "I-5" by Dram & Go from Heads, Tails, and Heart

8:10 Brendan's Reels" by Poitin from Simple Pleasures

12:10 "River" by Jil Chambless, Ed Miller and Scooter Muse from The Lang Awa' Ships

16:52 "Cailleach An Airgid (The Hag With The Money) / Old Tipperary / Cuil Aodh [Coolea] Jig (Jigs)" by Athena Tergis from A Letter Home

20:36 "To Patsy" by The John Byrne Band from The Immigrant and the Orphan

26:04 CELTIC FEEDBACK

28:54 "When She Held Me In Her Arms" by Marc Gunn from Single

31:39 "Levantine's "Spinning" Barrel" by Jamie Laval/Ashley Broder from Zephyr in the Confetti Factory

35:51 "Step It Out, Mary" by Tami Curtis music from Cavort

39:42 "Will You Marry Me?" by Syncopaths from Five Gears

43:44 CELTIC PODCAST NEWS

45:03 "Chan Eil Eagal" by Syr from The Winter King

48:52 "Oro, Se Do Bheatha 'Bhaile" by Ockham's Razor from Wolves in the Walls

51:52 "More Tetley Vicar?" by Rathkeltair from Something Good For a Change

58:45 "The Man Who Dug the Well" by Jiggernaut from The Well

1:06:51 "Irish Fire" by Melanie Gruben from Irish Fire Single

The Irish & Celtic Music Podcast was produced by Marc Gunn, The Celtfather. To subscribe, go to Apple Podcasts or to our website where you can become a Patron of the Podcast for as little as $1 per episode. Promote Celtic culture through music at http://celticmusicpodcast.com/.

CELTIC PODCAST NEWS

* Helping you celebrate Celtic culture through music. My name is Marc Gunn. I am a Celtic musician and podcaster. This show is dedicated to the indie Celtic musicians. I want to ask you to support these artists. Share the show with your friends. And find more episodes at celticmusicpodcast.com. You can also support this podcast on Patreon.

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The Irish & Celtic Music Podcast is a proud sponsor of the Savannah Irish Festival. 10% of all the profits made by the podcast goes toward supporting Celtic non-profits. Usually I look for small Celtic festivals where we can do the most good and who also feature some of the artists who are featured in this podcast. I'm happy to see that Seamus Kennedy and Syr are both performing at the Savannah Irish Festival.

If you'd like to win some free tickets to the festival. Please subscribe to our Celtic Music Magazine. And make sure you check out the festival website: https://www.savannahirish.org/

TRAVEL WITH CELTIC INVASION VACATIONS

Every year, I take a small group of Celtic music fans on the relaxing adventure of a lifetime. We don't see everything. Instead, we stay in one area. We get to know the region through it's culture, history, and legends. You can join us with an auditory and visual adventure through podcasts and videos.

2019 is the Celtic Invasion of Star Wars. 2020 is the Origins of Celtic Invasions. You can find out more about these two exciting trips. Join the invasion at http://celticinvasion.com/

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Your generosity funds the creation, production, and promotion of the show. Best of all, you get episodes before regular listeners, discounts on merch, and when we hit a milestone, you get extra special episodes.

I want to thank our newest patron of the podcast: Patrick M., Brian C.

You can become a generous Patron of the Podcast at http://patreon.com/celticpodcast.

I WANT YOUR FEEDBACK

What are you doing today while listening to the podcast? You can send a written comment along with a picture of what you're doing while listening. Email a voicemail message to [email protected]

Alexander Randall 5th emailed: "Tell your bands that the podcast WORKS! I am buying everything I can find from Talisk, Sliotar and The Flying Toads. I never heard of any of them before the podcast. Now I am on iTunes buying stuff from all three. It works. You are turning people on to bands and we are BUYING. BTW - I listen to the podcast while commuting. I live on an off shore island off St Thomas in the US Virgin Islands and I listen while riding my boat to work... Any other listeners who are listening in a BOAT? sláinte agad-sa !"

KARL KELLEY emailed a photo: "My students should thank you, listening to this music probably result in a 3 to 5 point increase in their average grade because I’m in a good mood. Hope all is well hope your daughter is getting better"

Travis Senzaki emailed me from his phone: "Hi Marc, Greetings from Akita, Japan! I enjoyed listening to this week's Calm Before the Storm as I was taking advantage of a calm between snowstorms here to take my 3 year-old son skiing for the first time. The podcast kept us company through lonely mountain roads and snow-blanketed rice paddies. Here's a picture of the view we enjoyed to go with the music. Thanks for all that you do to bring this amazing music to us each week! Slainte"

Check out this episode!

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dybdahlsinnortherneurope · 6 years

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Rock of Cashel

Thursday, April 26, 2018

Irish Greetings to ye. (Many Irish people us the word “ye” instead of “you.” Also if there are more than one of ye - then they use the word “yous”. For example “What are yous planning to do today?” I love it!!! This morning we packed up and left our lovely horse barn condo and headed to the capital of the Republic of Ireland, Dublin. I’m sure the horses never had such a lovely place to stay.

It has been a lovely experience staying deep in the country but it will be equally as fun to see what the big city of Dublin holds for us. Dublin is three hours away so we decided to break up the trip with a visit to the Rock of Cashal in County Tipperary. Counties are very important in Ireland - similar to how states are in the US - when it comes to describing location. Additionally, in Ireland the word “county” goes first in the description, for example you would say "County Cork" - never "Cork County.”

The Rock of Cashal is an important historical site and served as the seat of the Kings of Muenster from the 400s to 1101, when the entire area was given to the Catholic Church.

The entire complex is built an this massive rock bluff that towers above the land and allows clear vision in every direction. It was an often battled over location because IF you want to control as far as the eye can see - you want to be where you can see it all.

We had a wonderful tour guide and he was able to tell us many stories about this ancient site. The Irish word “cashal” means “fort - like structure used for protection.” This cashal - and there are many in Ireland is built on St. Patrick’s Rock. St. Patrick is like a superstar in Ireland. Maybe you have heard of him. The legend of this rock is that the Devil took a bite out of a mountain in Ireland and when St. Patrick saw that - he challenged the Devil to a wrestling match and when he won he made him spit out of bite right on the plains of County Tipperary and that is how this giant rock came to be. Below is a not-so-great picture of Devil’s Bit Mountain. I love a good legend but I’m sticking to the science of geology on this. :)

There is another funny story that originates from this cashal and that involved the famous St. Patrick and the King of Muenster. St. Patrick was walking all over Ireland in the 400s trying to teach people about Christianity and he arrived at this cashal He convinced the King to stop worshipping the sun, stars and nature - plus other stuff - and he told him that he could make him into a Christian - which would give him life after death - with a small ceremony. The King agreed and St. Patrick plunged his staff (walking stick into the ground) and began his ceremony. At the end of the ceremony St. Patrick realized that his stick hadn’t gone into the ground but into the King's foot. The King - although clearly in pain- thought that this foot stabbing thing was all part of this new ceremony, so he had remained silent. OOOPS!!! I don’t know if St. Patrick explained his mistake. Would you? This structure - although beautiful - has a brutal history and if walls could talk they could tell of us the murder of hundreds of people - maybe thousands. The townspeople would seek protection from the warring hoards during the medieval times by rushing to the cashal for protection. Often the King’s army would fight off the invaders and the people were safe to return to their homes and farms but sometimes the invading army would be too big and too strong and the end result was to kill everyone. No one would be saved. What a horrible way to live or die.

As is always the case - this place serves as a cemetery as well. High Celtic crosses are everywhere - because it is Ireland!! The townspeople used to be able to be buried in the cashal - but in 1933 the town said NO MORE. There is just not enough soil on this rock and the cemetery is full.

We loved our visit to The Rock of Cashal and I hope when you visit Ireland you will make sure to see it. We continued our drive to Dublin, turned in our rental car - without even a scratch - and took a cab to downtown. Tomorrow we will explore Dublin and I will FINALLY get to see The Book of Kells. I first read about this book in 5th grade while I worked on my report on Ireland. I have wanted to see it ever since that time. I’m so excited!!

Stay tuned!

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