Normal life has returned (at last!) after the holiday. I found myself humming 'Fields of Athenry' the other day, and it somehow seemed old-hat, only a month after I seemed to be humming it all the while in anticipation of seeing if indeed they do lie low as in the song (yes, it is quite flat country thereabouts). And with normal life comes change.
Change first of all - however briefly - in my background 'habits'. There's always a 'go to' when I feel I haven't got anything pressing to do and, for many months, it has been census transcription for FreeCen but on Tuesday I discovered in my work at the hospice warehouse, some twin-cassette recordings that were headed for the grinder, recordings of cricket commentaries dating back to before I was born! I couldn't just see them pass into oblivion so, for a few pence, they accompanied me home.
Some while ago I invested in a little unit to convert cassette recordings into MP3 computer files (in fact, I later bought what I thought was an updated and faster gizmo to do the same thing, only to find it was a re-branded version of the exact same item that I already have so, if you want one second-hand but unused, get back to me) and three evenings this week it has been hard at work computerising over 7 hours of cricket to warm up cold rainy days next winter.
I referred to the census transcriptions: earlier this week I finished the job I had been working on, a Piece of the 1871 census for Suffolk and when I submitted it to the organiser, she replied that there is only one Piece as yet unfinished of this, and that is being worked on. So there was some debate about what I should like to do next. I decided to attempt a Piece of the 1841 census, again for part of Suffolk. A lot of this was recorded in pencil and the images are not easy to read, although I find the angle of the computer screen makes a lot of difference to visibility. There is less information, so less to copy, but it requires a lot more concentration and, whereas with 1871 I could easily work through 8 or 10 pages in an evening, so far I've done a page of this on each of two evenings and felt 'that's enough for tonight'.
That's two changes ... they go in threes, as you know. The third one came yesterday morning, when I was at the warehouse again for my other job, as a van help. A change of routine has meant that the van I usually work on is now being used to collect and deliver donated furniture - something with which, as an asthmatic, I would need to be selective in what help I could give. This meant that I was re-assigned to help on the other van, visiting the shops with orders and to collect donations as previously. It has involved a slightly different outlook on life so far as conversation in the cab is concerned; the place of a retired telephone engineer, now semi-professional photographer, with technical interests has been taken by a young chap keen on cars, whose mental capacity was impaired by a surgical accident some years ago. A change of pace for me in many ways .. and somehow refreshing!
Now I'm embarking on an exciting weekend, with a striking competition this afternoon (where teams of bell-ringers compare their attempts to ring with perfect timing), and more bells tomorrow afternoon when we shall attempt a quarter peal to welcome the new curate to the parish ... with the additional dimension that, until her ordination tomorrow morning, she has been a worshipper at the same church that I attend, just across the town!
Saturday, 29 June 2019
Friday, 21 June 2019
More of the 'Green Stuff'
I can hardly believe that within an hour or so of a week ago, I re-entered my home after eight days away. Time certainly does move very quickly. The advantage of taking pictures on holiday is that there is a reminder of what one did, what one saw, and what happened between one picture and the next ... sometimes. Sometimes - and this
happened to me this week - there are pictures that mean absolutely nothing and you wonder how they got onto your camera. This was just one such. It wasn't until I looked at the time and date of its creation that I realised where I would have been, and therefore where it was. I remembered then taking the picture just because it looked so strange, and I turned to Wikipedia to reveal its identity. It is a fountain in Eyre Square, Galway, ornamented by a sculpture to reflect the unique character of the Galway Hooker (in Irish húicéir), a fishing boat developed to tackle the strong seas found in Galway Bay. It has a single mast equipped with a mainsail and two foresails. Traditionally the hull is black, and the sails a dark red-brown. The vessel reminded me of the Norfolk Wherry in its origin and purpose, and to a limited extent in the shape of its mainsail. To someone brought up near the east coast, its very shape is evocative of that culture just as, I presume, the Hooker is to natives of the Galway area.
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| Galway Hookers |
Another loose comparison I wanted to tell you about involves the second B&B of my holiday, the place I called my 'bridgehead', from which I departed at 6.25 last Friday morning to make my way to Dublin Port for my return to the UK. The accommodation that I enjoyed was converted from a lounge of a conventional semi-detached house in a suburb of Tallaght, about 10 miles from the port as the crow flies. It had all the features I would require and I was perfectly satisfied. It was my understanding that there was at least one more similar accommodation in the house, in addition to that used by my host, so three households accessed by one front door.
One sightseeing visit I made during my holiday was to 14 Henrietta Street, Dublin. The street was begun in the early eighteenth century as a speculative project to profit from the needs of the rich. No. 14 was completed in the late 1740s and its first occupant was Richard, Viscount Molesworth. Subsequent residents included the Lord Chancellor of Ireland and the Bishop of Clogher. After the Act of Union in 1801, the higher nobility moved (back) to England, and the street was taken over by the professional classes. No. 14 was home to a solicitor and later to the Proctor of the Prerogative Court. From 1850 to 1860 it was the site of the Encumbered Estates Court, set up to administer the acquisition and sale of insolvent estates following the Famine and after 1860 it was occupied by the Dublin Militia.
No. 14's descent through the class structure continued after 1876, when it was converted to 19 tenements of from one to four rooms. A single room might house a complete family, partitioned by curtains into separate areas for living and sleeping. In 1911, no. 14 provided accommodation to a total of 100 persons, housed in 43 rooms: 17 separate households accessed by one front door (you see the comparison I drew with my B&B when I woke up last Friday morning). 14 Henrietta Street has been restored to "educate Dubliners and visitors about the history of the city through the prism of tenement living," as its website explains. It's been a hard, thirteen-year journey and the work is still ongoing. The house was opened to the public in September last year and I can thoroughly recommend it for a visit if you're going to the city. It's open from Wednesday to Sunday and tours take about 75 minutes; the basic price is €9 with reductions for seniors, students and families and it's preferable to book in advance.
There was more to Ireland than a damp day in Dublin, of course. On Monday afternoon, for example, I explored the ruins of the priory at Athenry on the way back from Galway and the next day I enjoyed glorious sunshine west of the Shannon when I briefly wandered around the centre of Ennis, the county town of Clare. But no visit to Ireland would be complete without paying homage to the 'tart with the cart'!
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| 14 Henrietta St - Georgian bedroom |
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| 14 Henrietta St - typical basement tenement c. 1913 |
No. 14's descent through the class structure continued after 1876, when it was converted to 19 tenements of from one to four rooms. A single room might house a complete family, partitioned by curtains into separate areas for living and sleeping. In 1911, no. 14 provided accommodation to a total of 100 persons, housed in 43 rooms: 17 separate households accessed by one front door (you see the comparison I drew with my B&B when I woke up last Friday morning). 14 Henrietta Street has been restored to "educate Dubliners and visitors about the history of the city through the prism of tenement living," as its website explains. It's been a hard, thirteen-year journey and the work is still ongoing. The house was opened to the public in September last year and I can thoroughly recommend it for a visit if you're going to the city. It's open from Wednesday to Sunday and tours take about 75 minutes; the basic price is €9 with reductions for seniors, students and families and it's preferable to book in advance.
There was more to Ireland than a damp day in Dublin, of course. On Monday afternoon, for example, I explored the ruins of the priory at Athenry on the way back from Galway and the next day I enjoyed glorious sunshine west of the Shannon when I briefly wandered around the centre of Ennis, the county town of Clare. But no visit to Ireland would be complete without paying homage to the 'tart with the cart'!
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| 'Sweet Molly Malone' |
Saturday, 15 June 2019
Over the Water
I believe I was lucky this week to escape most of the rain, rather than taking it with me on my holidays, as is often the case. That said, it was far from a week in glorious and unremitting sunshine: there were no blissful evenings sitting outside in shirtsleeves and I was very glad to have taken an overcoat. Although I may have told you before, you may be curious where I found even half a week without noticeable rainfall. I went to the midlands of Ireland (pronounce it as it it were two separate words ... the mid lands).
For those with statistical interest, I will summarise the eight-and-a-half days as travelling 1,540 miles, approximately one-third of which were getting to Ireland and two thirds driving around once I'd got there, at an average of just over 61 miles per gallon. I filled up three times while there at an average price of €1.469 which, irrespective of what exact exchange rate you get, I contend dispels the idea of cheaper fuel there than here as a myth from a bygone age.
I stayed in two separate lodgings; one the main base for the week, the other a convenient bridgehead to make my departure for home a little more civilised. When people had asked me before where I was going I had sounded somewhat vague, saying 'a few miles outside Birr', which is the nearest town to the farm. It wasn't until the morning I left that I explored the village of which it is actually a part, and even later that I learned something of its history.
Almost as shameful was my puzzle over why the farm should be called 'the Ring'. It wasn't until the last morning that I spotted an aerial view of the farm hanging above the fireplace in the sitting room. Once you know what you're looking for, it's obvious. Find the town of Birr in Co. Offaly and follow the N52 about 2 km south to the village of Crinkill (in Irish Crionchoill), which lies a short distance to the east of the main road. About the same distance beyond the village, further to the east, a perfect circle of fields can be distinguished with the farmhouse at its centre.
Later on my final morning, I explored places fairly close by, including the monastic ruins at Clonmacnoise. I didn't stay long before moving a few miles downstream to the unimaginative named Shannonbridge. Here is one of the few points where this magnificent river can be crossed. I learned that, in Napoleonic times, when it was feared that the French might invade Britain 'by the back door', it was decided not to bother defending the west coast of Ireland because the Shannon forms such a perfect defence. The bridge over the river here was completed in 1757 and the crossing was fortified in 1803-1817. The resulting fort, most of which remains to view inside and out, was manned by over 100 troops and defended by four 24-pounder guns. Some of the troops were based in barracks at Athlone further up-river ... and others at Crinkill.
The barracks at Crinkill were built in 1809-1812, and became the base for the 100th Royal Canadian and 109th Bombay Infantry regiments, which later were amalgamated into the Prince of Wales's Leinster Regiment. Some 6,000 enlisted there during the First World War, and an airfield was build there in 1917. The regiment was disbanded on Irish independence in 1922, and the base taken over by the Irish Army. However, a small group of the IRA took control during the civil war and it was razed to the ground. The ruins were demolished in 1985 and all that remains now is the perimeter wall.
There's more to tell of my jaunts but they'll have to wait until another day.
For those with statistical interest, I will summarise the eight-and-a-half days as travelling 1,540 miles, approximately one-third of which were getting to Ireland and two thirds driving around once I'd got there, at an average of just over 61 miles per gallon. I filled up three times while there at an average price of €1.469 which, irrespective of what exact exchange rate you get, I contend dispels the idea of cheaper fuel there than here as a myth from a bygone age.
I stayed in two separate lodgings; one the main base for the week, the other a convenient bridgehead to make my departure for home a little more civilised. When people had asked me before where I was going I had sounded somewhat vague, saying 'a few miles outside Birr', which is the nearest town to the farm. It wasn't until the morning I left that I explored the village of which it is actually a part, and even later that I learned something of its history.
Almost as shameful was my puzzle over why the farm should be called 'the Ring'. It wasn't until the last morning that I spotted an aerial view of the farm hanging above the fireplace in the sitting room. Once you know what you're looking for, it's obvious. Find the town of Birr in Co. Offaly and follow the N52 about 2 km south to the village of Crinkill (in Irish Crionchoill), which lies a short distance to the east of the main road. About the same distance beyond the village, further to the east, a perfect circle of fields can be distinguished with the farmhouse at its centre.
Later on my final morning, I explored places fairly close by, including the monastic ruins at Clonmacnoise. I didn't stay long before moving a few miles downstream to the unimaginative named Shannonbridge. Here is one of the few points where this magnificent river can be crossed. I learned that, in Napoleonic times, when it was feared that the French might invade Britain 'by the back door', it was decided not to bother defending the west coast of Ireland because the Shannon forms such a perfect defence. The bridge over the river here was completed in 1757 and the crossing was fortified in 1803-1817. The resulting fort, most of which remains to view inside and out, was manned by over 100 troops and defended by four 24-pounder guns. Some of the troops were based in barracks at Athlone further up-river ... and others at Crinkill.
The barracks at Crinkill were built in 1809-1812, and became the base for the 100th Royal Canadian and 109th Bombay Infantry regiments, which later were amalgamated into the Prince of Wales's Leinster Regiment. Some 6,000 enlisted there during the First World War, and an airfield was build there in 1917. The regiment was disbanded on Irish independence in 1922, and the base taken over by the Irish Army. However, a small group of the IRA took control during the civil war and it was razed to the ground. The ruins were demolished in 1985 and all that remains now is the perimeter wall.
There's more to tell of my jaunts but they'll have to wait until another day.
Saturday, 8 June 2019
As Far as You Can ... and Beyond!
One of the blessings of belonging to a church where there are many young people is the joy of watching children grow up. In recent years I have had to come to terms with my almost complete failure as a parent, and this has been helped by having such a plethora of families around me on a regular basis. That doesn't mean that I actually have a lot to do with the children; quite the reverse, in fact. But, to a people-watcher of long standing, there is a lot of activity to attract my eye.
One aspect of seeing the development of children is wondering what they will remember. The older we get, the smaller part of our total memory is any one individual year, and it could be argued that those years most distant are the ones that drop out of focus quickest. Against this is anecdotal evidence that old people can clearly remember what happened in their schooldays while being completely unable to recall what happened last year ... or even, sometimes, last week! Certainly this was true of my parents in their latter years and I'm beginning to find it so for myself.
This week has been filled with memories for a decreasing body of World War II veterans as we have seen in the news media the commemorations of the 75th anniversary of D-Day, the invasion of occupied Europe that was the beginning of the end of the War. 'What did you do in the War, Daddy?' was the title of a film comedy released in 1966, but the question was a very real and current one for quite some while during those years when I was a teenager. Personally, it was a question to which I could never receive an exciting answer. Since my father worked on a farm and mother in a grocery store, they were both engaged in 'keeping the home fires burning' (to quote a song title from an earlier age).
However, I grew up in the knowledge that my mother's brother had died while a prisoner of war in the Far East, and it must have been in those teenage years that I learned the basic fact that my father's nephew had died on service with the RAF. It wasn't until comparatively recently that I was able to research the details of this, which I published here five years ago on the 70th anniversary ... which was far and away the most popular and widely read of these blog posts.
I began by wondering what today's children will remember as they grow old towards the end of this 21st century. The news bulletins this week, referring to the commemorative events at Portsmouth and our Queen's speech referring to the 'wartime generation ... my generation', kick-started a brief flashback to one of my earliest memories. It wasn't a specific occasion, but an 'atmosphere' of what life looked like then, with open coal fires for heating (one room only) in a tiled fireplace above which hung a big mirror on a chain, there was linoleum on the floor, covered in part by a hearthrug and hand-made mats and, for reading material, comics like Jack and Jill and Robin.
When I went to the senior school, ten years or so after these memories, 'History stopped at 1914' so, although I knew first-hand, as it were, the personal tragedy of World War II, it wasn't until adulthood that I learned something of the events that had led to its outbreak. Alarmingly, some aspects of those events of the 1930s are being referred to in current times. In July 1932, NSDAP, the party led by Adolf Hitler, gained the most votes and the greatest number of seats in the German Reichstag, although not an outright majority. At a second election in November, the outcome was broadly the same, although NSDAP won fewer seats this time; however, only four months later, by the use of political strategy coupled with paramilitary activity, Hitler had become president, had engineered another election and now led a majority coalition in the Reichstag. The rest, as they say, is history.
As far-right characters parade across our political stage in connection with elections near and far, we are reminded of this chain of events with the suggestion that the same could happen here. Wild theories, frightening speculation or a genuine possibility to guard against? Your guess is as good as mine!
One aspect of seeing the development of children is wondering what they will remember. The older we get, the smaller part of our total memory is any one individual year, and it could be argued that those years most distant are the ones that drop out of focus quickest. Against this is anecdotal evidence that old people can clearly remember what happened in their schooldays while being completely unable to recall what happened last year ... or even, sometimes, last week! Certainly this was true of my parents in their latter years and I'm beginning to find it so for myself.
This week has been filled with memories for a decreasing body of World War II veterans as we have seen in the news media the commemorations of the 75th anniversary of D-Day, the invasion of occupied Europe that was the beginning of the end of the War. 'What did you do in the War, Daddy?' was the title of a film comedy released in 1966, but the question was a very real and current one for quite some while during those years when I was a teenager. Personally, it was a question to which I could never receive an exciting answer. Since my father worked on a farm and mother in a grocery store, they were both engaged in 'keeping the home fires burning' (to quote a song title from an earlier age).
However, I grew up in the knowledge that my mother's brother had died while a prisoner of war in the Far East, and it must have been in those teenage years that I learned the basic fact that my father's nephew had died on service with the RAF. It wasn't until comparatively recently that I was able to research the details of this, which I published here five years ago on the 70th anniversary ... which was far and away the most popular and widely read of these blog posts.
I began by wondering what today's children will remember as they grow old towards the end of this 21st century. The news bulletins this week, referring to the commemorative events at Portsmouth and our Queen's speech referring to the 'wartime generation ... my generation', kick-started a brief flashback to one of my earliest memories. It wasn't a specific occasion, but an 'atmosphere' of what life looked like then, with open coal fires for heating (one room only) in a tiled fireplace above which hung a big mirror on a chain, there was linoleum on the floor, covered in part by a hearthrug and hand-made mats and, for reading material, comics like Jack and Jill and Robin.
When I went to the senior school, ten years or so after these memories, 'History stopped at 1914' so, although I knew first-hand, as it were, the personal tragedy of World War II, it wasn't until adulthood that I learned something of the events that had led to its outbreak. Alarmingly, some aspects of those events of the 1930s are being referred to in current times. In July 1932, NSDAP, the party led by Adolf Hitler, gained the most votes and the greatest number of seats in the German Reichstag, although not an outright majority. At a second election in November, the outcome was broadly the same, although NSDAP won fewer seats this time; however, only four months later, by the use of political strategy coupled with paramilitary activity, Hitler had become president, had engineered another election and now led a majority coalition in the Reichstag. The rest, as they say, is history.
As far-right characters parade across our political stage in connection with elections near and far, we are reminded of this chain of events with the suggestion that the same could happen here. Wild theories, frightening speculation or a genuine possibility to guard against? Your guess is as good as mine!
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