On the nineteenth day of April

Oops, meant to post this yesterday:

On the nineteenth day of April

Their gallant ship set sail,

With fifty-five brave Irish lads

True sons of Gráine Mhaoil.

They landed safely in New York

On the nineteenth day of May,

For to meet their friends and relatives

All in the USA.

Their relatives did meet them there

As soon as they did land,

With many a bumper drank their praise

As they clasped hand in hand.

Though some of them had few friends there,

Their hearts were light and bold

And by those swaggering Yankees

They could not be controlled!

As six of our brave Irish lads

Were going down Charles Street;

One of these Yankee gentlemen

They happened for to meet.

He brought them to an ale house,

Where he called for drinks galore.

I’m sure such entertainment

They’d never seen before.

The ale it flowed full fast and free

They had a jolly time,

Which was more than they expected

Upon that foreign clime.

But when he thought he had them drunk

The Yankee then did say:

‘You are listed in the army now

To fight for America.’

They looked at one another

And then to him made plain:

‘It is not for this that we came here

Across the raging main,

But to earn an honest livelihood

As thousands did before,

Who emigrated from their homes

By the dear old Shannon shore.’

Six of these Yankee soldiers

Came dressed without delay.

They said: ‘Now lads you must prepare

With us to come away.

This is our esteemed office

Who listed you complete,

So do not strive for to resist

We can no longer wait.’

The Irish lads hopped to their feet

Which made the Yankees frown;

With every blow that they did strike

They brought a soldier down.

That office and all his men

They left in crimson gore,

And proved themselves St. Patrick’s sons

Throughtout Columbia’s shore.

A Frenchman of great fame had seen

What the soldiers tried to do.

He said: ‘I will protect you

From the Yankee criminal crew.

I will take you to Ohio,

Where I have authority,

And keep you in employment there

Till you leave this country!’

So now to conclude and finish

Let young and old unite,

And offer up a fervent prayer

Both morning, noon and night

In honour of the Lord above

To help you hold your sway

And keep you from all danger

When you go to the USA.

That was a poem I found in ‘My Father’s Time’, a collection of stories by probably the best Irish seanachai or story-teller of the last fifty years. Although I missed the 19^th, the date of my post is still apt. The 20^th April is my father’s birthday, indeed, I posted ‘in my father’s time’. 

How to live to be 120yrs old

120 years old. That's the age St Kevin reached before God called him to heaven. Sounds familiar, right? A holy man who devotes his life to God and just happens to live an extraordinarily long life. Too familiar? Cliché even? Unbelievable, right? “I mean how could someone live so long, especially back in those days?”

St. Kevin lived an isolated life as much as he possibly could in the valley of Glendalough. An ascetic, he maintained a lifestyle of minimal sustenance: his shelter was a stone-framed beehive cell, he wore a single layer of clothing and ate only what he could find - berries, roots and fish. When I first learned of these details, I wondered, as have many since his time, 'how could he live on so little?' especially under Ireland’s climate!

On Tuesday, I fasted. I'm not talking about your 'only fish on Friday' fast, I mean no food for at least 24hrs. Why? Explore this website to learn the reasons behind and the benefits of fasting. I did this not solely for religious reasons but for physical and psychological reasons as well. I didn’t view it as a chore or as ‘work’. I was actually really excited about the idea and looking forward to the fast.

If nothing else, it was a challenge and made Lent a little different this time around. I had had the conviction to abstain from all chocolate during the Lenten season. Not very creative or original, but a respectable vow nonetheless given my preference for the smooth delicacy. Deciding to fast every Tuesday of Lent (from Ash Wednesday until Easter Sunday) only materialised after extensive reading on the risks, benefits, concerns, preparations and how to break a fast.  

I really enjoyed fasting – no, I didn’t actually spend it twisting in agony from hunger pangs! It’s an enlightening experience. And that goes for simply reading about fasting too. Intrigued? Here’s some quotes from notable figures throughout history.

After my 24hrs were up, I thought that I might as well go a bit longer for added benefits. I ended up fasting for over 38hrs.

I don't think I could manage to do it every week until I'm 120, though!

10 Things I didn’t know about France and the French people

1. Most things are closed on Mondays
2. They love comics
3. Culture and tradition over innovation and convenience, which means you can only buy your shopping at certain, in my opinion, tight, hours and never just at one place.
4. They pay for everything, from setting up a bank account to insuring a rented property
5. Even though they produce a lot of cheese, it’s still damn expensive
6. Having a drink at the pub is pretty much the same as having a coffee at a restaurant. In other words, they don’t have a laugh and become merry to let off steam while drinking.
7. Clothes are expensive. In contrast, the clothes we buy in Ireland are so cheap that I can only assume thousands of people in some far away country are getting paid next to nothing to manufacture them.
8. Get-togethers and private parties/meals are nearly a weekly occurrence for the French. I like this.
9. Most of the showers do not have ‘showerhead holder’ fittings as standard! Only one free hand in the shower which means longer showers.
10. They think ‘Anglo-Saxon’ refers to the English speaking world rather than simply the English people and culture.

What are the odds?

Today, in Grenoble, I saw someone who I thought looked familiar.

I thought she was a girl to whom I had given a Dublin tour about two years ago. Weird, I know.

She (and her boyfriend and mother) stayed in the pub where I work for about an hour, I’d say, during which time I perceived one or two quizzical glances from her. 

With those, my intuition seemed more probable, but it wasn’t until they were about to leave when I realised…

Her boyfriend came up to the bar and ask me, in French: ‘are you Irish?’, ‘did you use to give tours in Dublin?’. Smiling uncontrollably in knowing, I ‘yessed’ his eager asks. He was about to ask me another question, or pose something assez verbal or assez physical to me – quite a jealous guy, I reckon – but he held back.

Then, the girl (I say ‘girl’, she’s in her 20s) and her mother came up to the bar and wanted to confirm it for themselves. Needless to say, they seemed less fraught in asking. As it happens, a girl and her mother to whom I gave a tour, and subsequent pub crawl, about two years ago, in Dublin, find me, working in a bar, in Grenoble, as she starts her Erasmus semester as a psychology student in Grenoble. It’s difficult to believe.

On the other hand, I have given tours to a few thousand people so I suppose such a ‘coincidental’ occurrence was bound to happen sometime!

No doubt it’ll happen again – I can’t imagine too many people thinking ‘Is that the guy who gave me a Dublin tour a couple years ago? Nah, I’m sure there are loads of people who give Dublin tours, from Donegal, over 6ft3, with an unmistakable accent, and long, flowing red-golden curls?’

Ok, maybe the last part was a little too detailed.

Ba, c'est un Irlandais!

Well, I’m heading out of the country again. If I said that twenty years ago, you would have the impression that I was a successful businessman with a mythical travelling lifestyle. Nowadays, it can cost as much to go to Warsaw from Dublin as it does to Limerick.

I’m not going for a short break, or a holiday, or even a wedding. I will be embracing one of the oldest and strongest Irish traditions. After rebelling, the favourite activity of the Irish is leaving the country. And that’s usually the chronological order it takes as well. I’m going to France. But don’t worry, it’s just for the winter season.

Oh, the histories I could tell you of Irishmen going to Gaul/France. I could start with John Scotus Erigena, a great 9th century Irish philosopher whose career culminated with service at the court of the French King. He is regarded as Europe’s greatest philosopher of the early Middle Ages. And then you’ve got Irish mercenaries sighted in France in the 14th century. But Irish holidays to France really took over in the 18th century.

In the 18th century, the number of Irish soldiers leaving for France reached its peak. They didn’t just go over there because of this mysterious season called ‘summer’, no. For the previous two centuries, at least, there was a great link between France and Ireland. It began as a religious link, with Irish students studying in France (before the Celtic Tiger in Ireland, generally if you were studying at university level, it meant you were studying for the priesthood!), but then blossomed into a military link with numerous brigades of the French armies composed of men of Irish descent. In some cases, an Irishman would join the very same brigade of the French army as his grandfather. 

The reason France is not speaking a Gaelic tongue now –the reason for the decline of the strong Irish-French connection – is because the British army lifted its ban on recruiting Irishmen. And they lifted it well! By the end of the 19th century, there were, apparently, more Irish commanding officers serving in the British Empire than there were Welsh, Scottish or even English commanding officers!

And the axiom is still holds true today – Irish people become more successful abroad than in their own country.

So, come on Grenoble, give me a commanding position!

My flat there is a penthouse, does that count?

‘… a grey eye will look back’

I picked up Human Chain today. It's a book of poetry written by Séamus Heaney. I picked it from my bookshelf where it had been sitting for a few months. I'm not a big reader.

Though I do enjoy poetry. Once in a while. It enriches words again and, in doing so, enriches and clarifies the passing of time. Poetry is well-thought meaning-rich words. Talk is cheap these days. It's always been. Though, it seems to be getting cheaper with every advertisement, and every figure who has said too much.

Here's one of his poems from 'Human Chain' to reinvest the meanings to words that are, like nearly everything in this financially-vacuous state, in need of reinvestment:

‘Colum Cille Cecinit’

1. Is scíth mo chrob ón scríbainn

My hand is cramped from penwork.

My quill has a tapered point.

It's bird-mouth issues a blue-dark

Beetle-sparkle of ink.

Wisdom keeps welling in streams

From my fine-drawn sallow hand:

Riverrun on the vellum

Of ink from green-skinned holly.

My small runny pen keeps going

Through books, through thick and thin,

To enrich the scholars' holdings -

Penwork that cramps my hand.

II. Is aire charaim Doire

Derry I cherish ever.

It is calm, it is clear.

Crowds of White angels on their rounds

At every corner.

III. Fil súil nglais

Towards Ireland a grey eye

Will look back but see

Ever again

The men of Ireland or her women.

11th-12th century

Let’s go Dutch

It’s coming into autumn in this, the fourth year of our recession. Things are still looking pretty bleak. Hundreds of suggestions have been made in order to get our country out of this mess. I just thought of one.

Bring back Monto. Monto was, essentially, the red-light district of Dublin. In its heyday, 1860-1900, there were up to 1,600 prostitutes working in Monto at any one time. Religious campaigns, as well as the departure of the British army, led to its eventual decline in the 1920s.

Where was this magical place? Well, it wasn’t magical: it was described in 1901 as ‘one of the most dreadful dens of immorality in Europe.’  The name Monto derived from Montgomery Street (now Foley Street) which runs parallel to the lower end of Talbot Street on the way to what was Amiens Street Railway Station (now Connolly Station). But the heart of Monto was Mecklenburgh Street Lower (now Railway Street) and the surrounding lanes and alleyways - many of which are gone. Not all the streets were renamed to hide the history of the area. One street seemed to undergo a reversed process. Little Martin’s Lane was renamed Beaver Street!

If we brought back Monto, it would definitely return some identity to the area. As well as that, it would be great for tourism. If we learned from how the red-light district is run legally and competently, it could go very well for us, especially if we were able to convince potential Amsterdam visitors to come to Dublin instead. Ah, let’s through in a few coffeeshops there as well. Good timing – the Dutch are limiting coffeeshop purchases to Dutch nationals only in 2012, so Dublin would be happy to take that type of tourist. If you’re worried about criminality, there’s a Garda station nearby – that helps the argument.

It could become the Temple Bar of the northside!

Ah, em, not sure if that’s a good thing. But, we need the money.