PETER HORAN TAKES TO THE PITCH

What is it about the human psyche that we cannot accept our natural gifts?  My late father Peter Burke loved traditional music and was an athletic and handsome man.  He played at minor level for his County beloved Sligo; and won Silver at the Collooney Fleadh for playing the fiddle.  He admired athleticism and all of the maxims of life were delivered with a sporting theme.  As a child, when faced with a dilemma or indecision his response was 'you're either on the pitch or off, make your mind up'.  

One of dad's contemporaries was Peter Horan.  Horan is revered and remembered for his interpretation of traditional Irish music and sense of mischief.  Both friends admired each others skill and had a wistful envy and sadness that they could not both compete in the same arena.

In company, the two Peters always greeted each other with a question.  Neither of them would answer the question which was puzzling to the onlooker but was entirely clear to the pair of bucks who would then burst out laughing.  

Often as not, Burke would ask Horan "why did you kick it?" and Horan would retort "why wouldn't I take the chance?"  Naturally, the others in the room would be curious to know 'the story' and the boys didn't disappoint.  Whilst Horan assembled his flute he would wax lyrically about Burke's prowess on the field.  Burke would return the compliment by extolling Horan's ability as a flute player.  Others would join in the exchange by recalling a moment on the football pitch or the rendition of a tune by Horan.  Eventually some one would ask Horan was he ever a football player and thus provide an opening for the story.....

Apparently there was a football match to be played; a local derby which would be keenly challenged and attended by both parishes.  It was to be an away match and a lot of 'the lads' worked away from home so getting the team together was always difficult.  No mobile phones, very few cars and even bicycles were scarce.  

The day of the match arrived and as the Bunninnadden team arrived in ones and twos they realised that they were a man short and the pitch was underwater in places.  The hosting team would win by default until someone suggested Horan as a substitute and the game was on.  The team strategy was decided; if the ball came to Horan he was to immediately hand pass it away as he had two left feet. 

The battle raged on the pitch, against the odds and the waterlogged pitch, our boys were winning by a point. The ball came to Horan and in a fit of exuberance he kicked it.....right into the hands of the opposition who scored a goal and won the match.

The weary teams assembled in the pub, the match was replayed and as the pints were lowered one of the opposing teams remarked loudly that it had been a great match to which Horan replied, 'sure ye beat us in water; next time we'll play you on land'

The picture below is of Peter Horan and his friend Fred Finn in a typical pose..... more anon.

HOUSE CONCERT WITH JESSE SMITH, SEAN GAVIN & JOHN BLAKE

Just before Christmas 2014, our young neighbour James Carty who is also a proficient traditional Irish musician had been chatting to Jesse Smith, another fine fiddler from Baltimore USA about the House Concert phenomenon in the USA.

Jesse was surprised that there were none in Ireland, especially when the Rambling House had been such a part of the social life in Ireland up to the 1960's.
James remarked that his neighbours had a fine room which was well versed in the art of partying and that we were keen on traditional music.  The dye was cast, and Jesse contacted me with the notion.  Nothing ventured; nothing gained…. we decided to give it a go.  Despite my physical frailty, I make a good Armchair Director!  We determined a date and the multi talented John Blake and Sean Gavin from Chicago made up the musical trio.

In a fit of self-doubt I contacted Keith Conroy a Sound Engineer from Boyle and we collared John Carty & our Sarah to test the acoustics of the room.  Not many artists can boast that a Gradam Ceol holder did their sound check!  Keith christened the duo ‘The Knockroe Rousers’ and decided to elevate their position with a rostrum whist our Conor swiped the Christmas lights from the attic to light up the proceedings.'The Knockroe Rousers' deemed the room 'Sound' so and secure in the knowledge that our musical guests were ‘top shelf’ we extended personal invitations to our home.

'My Reason For Living' assisted with parking whilst the rest of the household did meet, greet and seat.  Our friends and friends of friends gathered with bits to eat and a little libation;

Well…… not since I was a small child did I hear or see such a spectacle! Jesse, Sean and John took to the stage and immediately sensed the air of expectancy.  The audience knew what they hoped to hear and the aura was so strong that it took our musicians aback .  John explained later that at a concert venue one prepares a running order but because the audience is a little distant, the musicians have to work hard to set the tone.  In this instance, the audience were almost sitting on their laps, knew the music, were prepared for greatness and could put names on places and origins of tunes.  Within minutes our room became a sanctuary.  Every variation of a tune was met by a resounding sigh, hup or gentle acknowledgement. Banter was exchanged, locations of tunes were identified and we rollicked the house for an hour and broke for a libation.

One of our young guests is a dancer but he was wearing soft shoes.  Undaunted, Maureen Carty propositioned every male with brogues until she got a pair to fit Ryan Owens and off we went again.  Young Ryan acquitted himself well despite the fact that he was on a dangerously polished floor. 

The second half of the proceedings commenced with gusto.  Sean played the illuainn pipes which proved difficult because of the heat rising in the room. Windows were opened but the effect was worse, to sympathetic and understanding chatter the pipes were abandoned and it was at that point I realised that there were 27 musicians in the audience! To my knowledge we had Connaught and County Champions from All Ireland Fleadhs together with two Gradam Ceoil Winners sitting in the front row.

Jesse Smith introduced a tune; he believed it came from near Killaville, Bernard McGuire identified it as from Henry’s Cross at Doocastle and then explained to the two ‘Yanks’ that they were only 15 miles from the location and off they went again to rapturous applause.

All the while John Blake sat, master of all he surveyed as he led, followed and worked his keyboard like a spider creating a web, completely unobtrusive yet leaving a masterpiece behind him every time.

As the music soared and swooped throughout the house, every foot tapping and the little rostrum bobbing from the vibration I thought to myself of the 46 musicians in my ancestors home in Doocastle and vowed I'd make a brave attempt to match the sentiment of Arthur O'Neill  At the hour this hospitable gentleman's customary meeting was finished, some guests contiguous to their own places went away, but those who lived some miles off remained ; and in order to accommodate them Mr. and Mrs. Irwin lay on chairs that night in the parlour. For my own part I never spent a more agreeable night, either in bed or out of bed."The Memoirs of Arthur O'Neill (1734-1818)

Kevin Burke Comes To Eastersnow

The way I heard it is that John Carty was chatting Kevin Burke who was planning to come to Cork and thought he’d swing by Carty’s.  Burke is based in Oregon in the USA so I suppose landing in Dublin and going to Cork via Knockroe Townland seemed logical.  Anyway, some way or other the subject of house concerts came up and John sez to Kevin, 'The Egans in Knockroe have never heard of you!'  Naturally this story was being recounted in Dickie Beirne’s Emporium at Eastersnow with the aid of a couple of creamy pints.  My Reason for Living was highly entertained and knew that if Burke was in the vicinity we’d go to see him play. 

Kevin’s Burke’s CD ‘If the Cap Fits’ has been worn to a thread in our house and the final set of reels is a particular favourite of mine.  When our Sarah started to play the fiddle I’d told her when she mastered that set she’d be sorted….

Well somewhere between Dickies and Carty’s, Kevin contacted me via email saying that John Carty would put in a good word for him and perhaps he’d be welcome at our house in November!

Kevin was playing in Sligo at the Master’s Concert for the Fleadh.  We had tickets and were also looking forward to seeing John Blake again so when the gig ended we hit to the stage door to introduce ourselves.  ‘Mr Burke’ sez I, I’m your date for November, ‘very good’ sez Burke with the aplomb of a man being accosted by groupies on a regular basis.

The night closed in as it does in November, the usual suspects had arrived and with a flourish the Carty’s arrived with Kevin and his brother Noel.  We settled them into the front room whilst people were meeting, greeting and seating.

As I passed by the doorway I heard the strains of Aherlow and without thinking literally burst into the room and screeched ‘are you playing that?’.  ‘Yes’ responded his lordship and I left the room with my eyes blurred with tears… it was the first tune my little Sarah had mastered.  The emotional thump hit me in the solar plexus… I thought of my late father,  Arthur O’Neill’s night to remember in Irwins, The Bergonzi Fiddle, John Carty gently slagging our Sarah about Burke and the enormity of it all almost overwhelmed me.

Our room was full as was the kitchen as Kevin settled himself.  During the interval our guests; some who had little interest or knowledge in traditional music expressed their delight at Kevin’s international repertoire.  I was too happy to care what anyone thought.

John Carty joined Kevin for the second half.  As they played I literally was stuck to the chair.

The final set was over and as I raised my head I saw John nod to Sarah, I thought he wanted a glass; she pulled up a chair and tucked her fiddle under her arm….my alarm and panic grew; Like Elizabeth Bennet of Pride & Prejudice who was torn between loyalty to her family and her public embarrassment when her not so gifted sister insisted on playing piano, this was a potentially calamitous situation. 

I never heard what Kevin or John said as they introduced our daughter.  My eyes frantically searched for my husband who stood at the jamb of the door and just smiled benignly at me.  Sarah started and the two Masters played with her, I lowered my head; unable to look and even when I realized that she had nailed it I still could not look as the sound soared and swooped, laughed and tickled around the room whilst our daughter was escorted through the tunes by the generosity and courtesy of the gentlemen. 

Serendipity.

DEAD CERT?

THE GENIUS IN THE HSE

Genius In The HSE

Last week I was admitted to Sligo General Hospital.  Ambulant but in some discomfort, I paced up and down the corridor all night and along the way I heard,  smelt and felt the reality of what life is like for front line staff.

Three night nurses were attending to 26 to 28 patients.  My untutored eye identified 9 patients who could not get out of bed by themselves.  My ears were pulverized by the repeated bell ringing and requests for ‘a jug of water’, ‘turn me in bed’, ‘put me to bed’, ‘may I have the commode’, ‘I didn’t make the toilet’, ‘I dropped my phone’, ‘an extra pillow please’, ‘can you get my....’, Nurse, Nurse, Nurse.

As I paced, nurses were on a brisk trot, cleaning floors, medicating, writing, making tea and toast phoned doctors and somehow maintained a civil tongue. 

Now, let’s pretend patients were children in a crèche, there would be one child care worker for three babies... that’s because babies need lifting, feeding, changing and cleaning and some TLC.  Some Genius in the HSE thinks that the same ratio applies to nurses dealing with adults and for good measure a further nineteen patients in various states of health can be catered for.

Over the past week I have seen nurses bounce in to work on their first shift back and twelve hours later, they leave looking as haggard as some of their patients.  Unbelievably the unit results for sick leave are posted on the wall for each month and even more amazing, the sick leave rate is zero.

The CT scanner broke down and The Genius was at it again, somehow, the word was not sent to the wards, Porters, Catering Staff and Patients all had to be reorganised; a simple phone call to each ward would have avoided chaos . Patients who were fasting needed food, those who had been transported needed return to sender and of course, those next on the list required cancellation.   I made enquiries and informally told my nurse that it would be at least 2 days before the scanner would be fixed.  In fact, I was able to inform them when the scanner was repaired.  The Genius never asked who I was!

Ah, but the best was yet to come, having observed and listened to patients and their families, all of whom were fulsome in their praise of front line staff , my final perambulation led me to the outside of the coffee shop where a couple were awaiting a taxi and having a cigarette.  The gentleman on crutches and his wife attending were interrupted by another Genius who told them brusquely ‘you can’t smoke here’ to which the woman responded ‘who are you’, Genius drew himself up to the full of his height and replied ‘I am a Manager here’, ‘well’ retorted the woman, ‘if you are a Manager, would you ever go in there and manage that place’.

That little Genius has spent his day reporting, assessing, compiling and computing information in the confines of an office, judging by the way his face flopped when challenged by the two smokers I’d say he wouldn’t last one hour handling the dinner trolly on the wards and he would be a snivelling wimp faced with the detritus of the bathrooms.  Management is about identifying, coping, addressing and solving issues, sometimes that means rolling your sleeves up and just joining in to hold the line. 

Tiz as easy to light a candle than to sit and curse the darkness.

THE GORGEOUS GUNNING SISTERS

In 1751 the gorgeous Gunning sisters took London society by storm.

Their mother Bridget was a direct descendent of Grainne O’Malley the infamous pirate queen of Connaught and she and her husband lived at Castlecoote House, a handsome mansion just outside Roscommon town.

The family had virtually no money but Bridget had useful family connections in society and realised she had an immense asset in the beauty of her two older daughters.

In October 1748, the Gunning sisters were invited to a ball at Dublin Castle, but they could not afford suitable dresses for the occasion. Enter Tom Sheridan; manager of Dublin’s Theatre Royal and father of the playwright, Richard Brinsley Sheridan. The Gunning sisters caused sensation dressed as Lady Macbeth and Juliet and were subsequently presented to King George II.

Both sisters were painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds, a work which can be seen in the main hall at Castlecoote today.

In January 1752, the golden-haired Elizabeth met the 6th Duke of Hamilton at a St. Valentine's Day masquerade ball in London. Seized by intoxicated desire, the Scottish aristocrat summoned the local parson to perform a marriage ceremony there and then. The parson refused because the Duke had neither license nor ring, so the Duke hauled Elizabeth into Mayfair Chapel, where no licence was required, swiped a ring from a bed-curtain, and they emerged as the Duke and Duchess of Hamilton. Elizabeth’s marriage was a reasonably happy one. However, this fell apart when the Duke caught a chill out hunting and died in January 1758.

Within months, Elizabeth married Jack Campbell, the 36-year-old Marques of Lorne, who became the 5th Duke of Argyll. She became a close friend of Queen Charlotte and was made a Baroness by George III. She died in London aged 57. Two of her sons became Duke of Hamilton and two of her sons became Duke of Argyll.

Maria married the 6th Earl of Coventry. She died aged 27 on 30th September 1760. Over 10,000 people viewed her coffin. She left three children, including the 7th Earl of Coventry.

BOG TROTTING WITH HARRY BRADLEY

As part of a big economy drive and a desire to contribute in some way to home comforts, I  decided that we would save turf.  This is a big deal for someone who was reared by the sea and who had only a romantic ‘John Hind’ view of saving turf. 

My parents’ generation waxed lyrical about the smell, taste of tea and soda bread and méhil with the neighbours.   There was a great story told by a friend of my parents, Mike Smith.  At school, the teacher would write a big heading on the blackboard which would be the theme for an essay.  The heading would be written in large capitals on the top third of the page and the remainder of the page laid waiting for accommodation of the story.  So, one afternoon,  the heading put on the board was ‘A Day On The Bog’.  The following day the teacher asked Mike to read his story; Mike stood to attention and in a loud voice read ‘A Day On The Bog, by Mike Smith’... Yesterday after school we went to the bog.  The day came wet and we came home.  The end.

Well, my story is not so short.  Firstly, My Reason For Living was totally against the idea, obviously he had first hand experience of what was to come.  However, whilst having coffee after dinner with our neighbour Jamsie Cox, I continued to explain my case.  My Reason For Living, showing signs of acquiescence muttered that as this was my first time to ‘rare’ turf, I should opt for a reasonable amount, ‘ok, so’, sez I, ‘what’s reasonable’ as I prepared to phone the machine man, ‘ah, I donno, maybe 40 to 50 hoppers would do ya’.  With that, Jamsie spat out his pipe and doubled with the laughter, only for him I would have placed the order.  Apparently that would be enough turf for our townland!

So , the turf was cut, and every opportunity I got, Jude (my gorgeous dog) and I went up to ‘foot’ the turf.  I learned that I was doing Kildare footings; i.e. 2 upon 2, upon, 2 upon 2 sods of turf stacked like the frame of a sky scraper in diminutive form.  The peace was wonderful but man o man, did it rain.  Eventually I tried to make small clamps of turf in areas where the ground was not so wet.  Some of those sods of turf I knew by name they were handled so often. 

Some evenings, My Reason For Living would bring me over to Dickie Beirnes’ Emporium for a well deserved gin and tonic.  Dickie offered me crates of empty bottles, ‘for what’ sez I, ‘to bring home the liquid turf in’ sez he.  Others congratulated me on the great bank of ‘spadá’ I was saving, ‘what’s spadá sez I, ‘tis so light, ‘twill fly home’.  I soldiered on.  My dog and I braved wind, rain and ridicule.  I met my neighbours coming and going.  Among them John Carty, his son James and Harry Bradley.  I would have preferred if they let me do the turf and they would play a tune, the meitheal of music would be better heat than any turf. 

Harry, like myself was a new recruit to the bog.   One evening, my father in law, a knowledgeable man, advised me that he would like to view the turf.  Like all great thinkers, he learned his craft by musing and mulling over problems from the sanctity of the church or his armchair.  It is some time since he saved turf, but he has had at least 40 more years experience than I. 

The wind howled as we squelched our way through the footings and every now and then I could hear my father in law tish, tishing.  Turning to face him, I saw with great relief that Harry too had ventured out and beckoned him over, ostensibly to meet my father in law.  Mistake.  My father in law now had an audience of two and secure in the knowledge that the other man on the bog would be in complete harmony with his expostulations he proceeded to point out the bad spread ground, spadá and culminated by saying that if he had been consulted in the first instance, there would have been no turf cut here.  Harry stood, his beeny hat down near his eyes and his fleece zipped up to his chin, his dark brown eyes inscrutable, putting his hands in his pocket he turned towards the car and said he was going to get his spade out of the boot, passing in front of me he muttered out of the side of his mouth, ‘and I won’t be coming any where near you with it’