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Cork

Domestic Games


Posted in: Cork, Dublin, Ireland, Middle Child, Princess, Twins, Youngest Child

Recently, on Saturday mornings, we have been taking the children to football and hurling training. The boys love it. The Princess stays on the sidelines, solidly (and very annoyingly) refusing to take part. To their enormous delight we dress the boys up in their FC Barcelona and Lions 09 kit (a Christmas present from their uncle) to go to training. And very fetching they looked too.



I did have mild qualms about introducing kit from foreign games but all that is in the past now and I noted that the very patient man training the four year old boys in football was wearing an Irish rugby jersey. After limbering up and working on their ball skills, the four year olds started a match. I was a bit concerned about this as my children had never played a match before. “Never mind” reassured the trainer “wait until you see it, it’s like a flock of sheep milling around a ball.” So indeed, it proved.

The hurling, however, was a different matter. The trainer was from Cork and he took it all very seriously. Ah, well do I remember my primary school days when year after year the hurling team won the All-Irealnd. They would tour the schools, show us the McCarthy cup, and give us all a half day (they won three in a row between 76 and 78 – formative years, I was 7, 8 and 9 and very grateful for the half day). The trainer clearly remembered that too and he was taking no prisoners. Having equipped his 30 four year old with helmets and hurleys, he went down the line “clashing the ash” (essentially walloping their hurleys with his) and he made them all get in the ready position and roar (something that works well for the NZ rugby team). There was some confusion with his instructions. “Is the ready position holding the hurley on our heads?” roared the trainer. Some of the young men thought it was and held their hurleys over their heads. The match itself was more like a real match than I had at all anticipated following the football. Poor Daniel came trailing over to me saying that no one was giving him the ball and I explained to him that he had to go and get it. I then had to wade on to the pitch and separate him out from another little boy who had taken the ball from him. Aside from this minor off the ball incident and despite the fact that 30 little boys were given sticks and told to swing them, there were no injuries.

In encouraging the Princess to play (in vain), I picked up a hurley myself for the first time in my life. My previous experience had only been in hockey and a hurley has a much bigger head, so it is much easier to dribble the ball. I was delighted with myself as I zoomed around the little markers until I heard an English accented voice say “that looks like a back stick to me.” These migrants are clearly mingling well. After confirming that I was indeed playing a different game (with his hurley as it turned out), he encouraged me to go again. I was happily zooming round the obstacles (the Princess lolling disinterestedly by the fence) when a six year old came up and with a sweeping wallop of her hurley took the ball out from under me. This is indeed a very different game, maybe I should stick to what I know.

When relating all of this to my mother-in-law the next day, she told me that her father-in-law, my children’s great-grandfather, had played senior hurling for Tipperary. This is information which was hitherto unknown to me and very impressive indeed, trumping the information I already had that my father-in-law had played minor football for Dublin. I see a great future for my children, particularly, if I ever succeed in actually getting the Princess on the pitch.

Cultural Hegemony


Posted in: Cork, Dublin, Ireland, Princess

Recently, the Princess asked me what “ggu..nn.ess” meant? “Where did you see it?” I asked. “Everywhere,” she said. “Ah, I think you must mean Guinness”. “Oh, the black beer with white on top?” “Well, Guinness isn’t the only black beer with white on top, its called stout and in Cork they make two kinds of stout : Murphy’s and Beamish. In fact, your great, great uncle Tommy, your Cork Grandad’s uncle worked in the Murphy’s factory in Cork”. I’m doing my best here but I feel that I’m fighting an uphill battle.

Startling


Posted in: Cork, Ireland

I was at mass with my mother in Cork last week. The local catholic church, in a touching display of ecumenicism which I am sure would be crushed by the catholic hierarchy had they the faintest idea that it was happening, invites a protestant vicar to attend mass every week.

Last Sunday, the vicar read the Gospel and gave the sermon. I had by this point accustomed myself to his presence but since he kicked off with the words “My wife and I..” he succeeded in jolting his catholic congregation wide awake. These are not words you hear from a catholic priest.

It was vocation Sunday (the irony of having a Protestant vicar preach to a catholic congregation on vocation Sunday might not, I suspect appeal to the former head of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, but let us draw a veil over that) so there was a lot of talk of good shepherds.

The vicar told us of his former parish in West Cork and his parishioner, Trevor. Trevor was a good shepherd. He loved his cows. OK, sorry, a good dairy farmer. One day he saw one of the hired hands belting a cow and he fired the hired hand on the spot. Clear analogy, we are with you vicar, your words are only slightly undermined by the visible amusement of your catholic counterpart who had until that story been sitting nodding sagely as you told us of the wisdom of Billy Graham.

At the end of mass, the priest stood up to say a couple of words. Firstly, he thanked the spectacular choir who had come in from the Cork choral festival; secondly he told us that the church was 3 million in the red as the trustees had put all their money in AIB shares and this faith in capitalism turned out to be misplaced hence the need for a collection basked; finally he remarked that we might have seen him laughing during the sermon. He explained that he was a farmer’s son from West Cork. “And,” said he, “Protestant cows and Catholic cows are clearly treated very differently in that part of the world; we’d often give a cow an old belt to move it along.” I don’t know whether this ecumenicism lark will ever really take off.

Here’s how old I am


Posted in: Cork

I grew up watching black and white television with two channels.

When I was a small child, married women were not allowed to work in the civil service or the banks.

I know what a soda stream is and I have tasted its products (not very nice, kids).

I watched the Berlin Wall fall and Nelson Mandela walk free (on the telly but live).

I saw “Who framed Roger Rabbit?” and was amazed and dazzled by the technology (it mixes real people and cartoons).

I watched the original series of Charlie’s Angels and was the proud owner of the 1977 annual.

I got Super Trouper the Album for Christmas when it was newly released.

I remember my cousins getting a video recorder and how we all marvelled at its miraculous, magical workings.

I didn’t use a computer when I was in college; there was no internet; there was no google.

I grew up without email.  When I began my working life, everything came in and out by post.

I was once expert in the use of the dictaphone.

I used faxes every day.  I remember when faxes were shiny new technology and they used shiny paper too from which, hilariously, the text faded away on the files where it was carefully kept.

I had a part share in the office mobile phone which was so heavy that you had to carry it around in its own special case.

I believed that Burlington socks, Benetton scarves, legwarmers, Adidas Roms, ankle boots (welcome back ankle boot – I see you have rejoined us in the new century) and  parka jackets were very cool.  Ideally all worn at the same time.

From an original idea by the ever estimable Finslippy.  Tell me, how old (or young, if you really feel that’s appropriate and tactful, in the circumstances) are you?

Weekend Round-up


Posted in: Cork, Family, Ireland

I decided to take the children to Cork for the weekend.  Thanks to the portable DVD player, the train journey passed off peacefully.  We took a taxi to my parents’ house.  The taxi man was horrible.  This is the first time I have ever had a horrible taxi man with the children.  Normally, I find they are very patient and tolerant and at this time of year, they tend to make polite enquiries about Santa Claus and are, generally, sweetness and light.  As I piled the children into the back seat, this man began revving the engine.  As any parent of young children will know, strapping them into their seats is a lengthy operation involving kicking and swearing.  Once they were in, I tried to get my bags in the boot but it was locked.  With a theatrical sigh, the man turned off the engine and came round to open the boot.

I sat in the front which, in retrospect, was a mistake.  After three hours in the train, the children were a little, um,  boisterous.  Daniel kicked the window handle.  “He’ll break it,” said the taxi man.  “Stop,” I said firmly to Daniel.  “He’s kicked it again,” the Princess announced primly.  I gave her my force ten glare to which she protested, all too audibly, “Don’t you want me to tell the man Daniel’s kicking the door?”  The taxi man then said grimly, “I’m not cranky [manifestly untrue] but, if you can’t control your children, I’m going to have to pull in and put you in the back with them.”  “Fine, pull in please,” I said while hissing at Daniel to, for God’s sake, stop kicking. “I am cranky!” said Daniel loudly [manifestly true].  We pulled in and I got into the back.  Daniel started screaming blue murder and lashing out all round him.  “He hit me,” whined the Princess.  “He hit me too, now hush,” I muttered to her.  Daniel continued screaming as I tried to get him on my lap and get a belt round both of us.  The taxi driver drove on.  I arrived at my parents’ house a shadow of my former self.  While I was not tipping the cranky taxi driver, the wretched mobile phone rang too.

I called round to my aunt that evening.

Aunt: What a lovely surprise to see you.

Me: Suitable reply.

Her: You’re looking..ok.

Me: Fit of giggles.

Her: Well, I used to say to people that they were looking great but they always say they have just recovered from flu or something so I have downgraded my compliments.

Later.

Aunt: I was at mass the other evening and I saw people filing up to communion and the thought slipped into my head “all bloody middle class”.

Me: But you’re middle class.

Her: I’m not.

Me: But you have a degree.

Her: Mmm.

Me: And you’re rich.

Her: But I feel working class.

Me: I’m not sure it works that way.

I come from a long line of eccentrics.

I note that the powers that be have demolished the “Western Star“, watering hole of generations of students.  My father used to drink there when he was in college.  He knew Starrie who inherited it from his parents, so it must have been there since, at least, the 1930s.  God, is nothing sacred?

My father was in unusually reminiscent form at the weekend.  When he was a small boy, in the late 1920s, he lived in South Pasadena for a number of years.  He remembers passing a valley that was all lit up at night because they were making a film; the ice man coming with his enormous block of ice that was put in the bottom of the ice box with a fork; coming home to Ireland on the boat and going outside in Halifax and seeing the rigging all frozen.  Truly, the past is another country.  I would love to hear more of these stories but my father is not one to talk very much about his past.  Usually, when you ask him, he says “I forget and goes back to his paper in a marked manner.”

We went to the Lough to feed the ducks, as is our custom when in Cork.  They were hungry.  Every bird in the place came hurtling towards us.  Michael got bitten on the hand by a swan who was unhappy with the speed of bread delivery.   The seagulls flapped their wings aggressively in my face.  Daniel got chased by some greedy pigeons.  Only the Princess came through unscathed.  I told her that when my great uncle Dan, her grandad’s uncle was a boy, the Lough used to freeze and people used to go skating there.  We still have his skating boots in the attic.  My prudent daughter observed that this must have been very dangerous as the ice might have frozen unevenly.  That girl is her father’s daughter.

Michael, despite absence of any sign of a temperature, spent the day lying down at inopportune moments moaning that he was sick.  After I had put them to bed, I began to worry and decided to lay in Calpol.  Driving around Cork the Saturday before Christmas looking for a late night pharmacist to sell me Calpol, I felt vaguely envious of the scantily clad young girls laughing outside pubs in the drizzle.  I eventually tracked down Calpol at the 24 hour Tesco in Bishopstown (something I immensely disapprove of but needs must) and stood glumly in a queue at 11 at night with huge numbers of unfestive shoppers.  All this for a boy who subsequently asked me to “stop kissing me all the time.”  Kind Daniel explained that “it’s bold for Michael but nice for me.”  At least I am still permitted to kiss one of my sons.

Train ride home was too hideous to describe in detail but we had to wait an hour and a bit in the station which more or less entirely exhausted the children’s goodwill towards travelling.  By the time we arrived in Dublin Daniel and the Princess were roaring and hitting each other, Michael was lying in the aisle muttering that he was sick, I was hissing, cajoling and apologising and the occupants of the crowded train were ignoring us as best they could, God help them.

Everywhere I have ever lived – 1980-1989


Posted in: Cork, Family, Ireland

Despite visiting almost every other house for sale in Cork, my parents eventually decided to return to the Edwardian semi-detatched house.  They cleared up after the tenants who were dreadful and decided to extend.

My father’s cousin’s husband the architect was asked for advice and he provided a very elaborate, very expensive and very beautiful plan.  In the end, largely on grounds of cost, they went for something rather plainer which was stigmatised as being like a bowling alley by the architect.  Ironically, the builder’s cost overrun (100%) was such that my parents could easily have afforded to buy a much larger house and not bothered with the extension.

Unsurprisingly, when we moved in, the builders were still in residence and spent much of that fine autumn in our back garden, drinking tea and playing cards while my mother cooked on a camping stove.

Though I am very fond of the house now (it is where my parents still live and my favourite aunt lives next door), I did not like it when we moved there first (the favourite aunt only moved in some years after us).  It was small and poky (though positively palatial compared to our current house) and we had too much furniture.  We marvelled at my mother’s revelation that the last family to live there had had 6 children and no extension (something that no longer stretches credibility).

This was not the least of my misery, I was paired with a very bossy girl for cookery class and my sponge failed to rise.  My father refused to take out a mortgage to cover the cost of the extension; he is not a big believer in debt.  Throughout the 1980s he lay awake worrying about the enormous national debt (turns out he was right, the IMF was hovering on the doorstep).  He was not going to add to the problem.  He took out a short term loan.  For the five years after we moved in, money was for the first time in my parents’ lives, and certainly the first time in mine, tight.  This was largely due to my father’s insistence on paying back the entire cost of the wretched extension over the shortest possible period at the highest imaginable rate (I now believe that this is very admirable but I was not entirely convinced at the time).

For my confirmation, I desperately wanted a particular dress.  It was very expensive and my mother promised to make me an identical one.  But it was not identical and I was unhappy.  My mother’s constant refrain was “for every pound you spend, your father has to earn three”  (in fact that was only at the marginal rate but still 65% tax is 65% tax). This made for frugal years.  It had a lasting effect on my sister who was at an impressionable age and she is still a big believer in savings.

The transition from primary school, where I was very happy, to secondary school, where I most emphatically was not, was very difficult for me.  My mother was anxious to sympathise but as former star pupil, head girl and captain of the hockey team in her own school, she was singularly ill-equipped to do so. Unfortunately, this transition also coincided with leaving the house I loved, a sustained and surprising burst of poverty and, when we had just about got over the poverty, my father’s heart surgery.

My father had heart surgery in late 1985.  At that time there were no such operations in Cork and my mother had to spend a great deal of time in Dublin.  He was very sick, I now realise but at the time, I couldn’t help but be bitter that he had chosen to be sick the Christmas before I was to sit my leaving certificate (in retrospect, my school may have had an undue emphasis on the importance of examinations).  Also, I was mortified that my mother made me ask the nuns in school to pray for him.  I dutifully did though which shows I may have had the vaguest inkling of how sick he was.

In 1986, I finished school and went to college. I continued to live in my parents house where I was now, very, very happy.   We were rich (relatively) again, my father was well again and I was in mixed classes for the first time since kindergarten.  I lived happily in my parents house throughout my college career except for a couple of breaks living elsewhere which I will come to tomorrow.  Possibly.