- I’m Going Vac-packed for Christmas….
- Eight Weeks of Christmas 2. Martinmas November 11th.
- The Eight Weeks of Christmas
- Polar Bears and Peacocks….or How to Choose a Bank
- With “Pride” – “Miss Rhymney Valley 1985″
- I’s Bucket Challenge
- Barrow Mouse
- The Smell of Lilac. The May Day Procession
- Jimmy MacCarthy (et al)
- The Geldofs
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Oh the ignominy! To be put on the back of a donkey and trudged over high roads and no roads just before giving birth…..poor Mary. These being modern times, I have just vacuum packed the entire crib/creche/manger, complete with Kings (who don’t mind long journeys) Humpty Dumpty, a tortoise, a parrot, several sheep and a fox for the long journey towards Christmas.
Martinmas and Armistice Day. Martinmas was considered the first day of Winter, and meteorologically “if the geese at Martin’s Day stand on ice, they will walk on mud at Christmas.” There is word of a Polar Vortex which is about to hit the East Coast of the US, and will affect Ireland next week, but though we lit a fire after lunch, here in Annecy it is not cold, just grey and dull with low wisps of cloud shrouding the mountains under a sullen sky. The entire village is quiet with not a single shop open except for the bakeries. They have a trickle of trade amongst people with big pots of yellow, orange, rust and wine chrysanthemums in the backs of their cars, people who will dine with family or friends and will also visit the graves of their loved ones, or memorials to the war dead. With a population of 39.6 million at the time, the French lost almost 1,800,000 people during the 4 years of World War 1 and 4, 266,000 were wounded.
St Martin of Tours (Hungary AD 316) is associated with generosity, military personnel, food and the weather. He is Patron Saint of beggars, vintners, wine makers, equestrians and horses, soldiers, tailors, geese, hotel and inn-kepers and reformed alcoholics. In Ireland (at least until recently) the fishing fleet of County Wexford did not put to sea on November 11th but in some countries, fish was traditionally eaten on that day and in Portugal, mussels. In Germany it is goose, the symbol of St Martin and in Britain and Ireland, pork. It is when the first of the newly-produced wine is ready for drinking and the end of the preparations for the winter larder, including the killing of hogs, hence “he will reach his Martinmas” or “everyone must die.”
We had a vegetarian Martinmas supper of risotto made with the last of the sorrel from the garden – the plants I brought from our garden in Cork a decade ago are pale green and quite tender, the locally bought French plants have tougher and darker leaves – and walnuts from the trees at the end of the driveway, which Himself dutifully collected every day for the past month and I dried outdoors on racks in the sun. (Then, if it has not already sloughed off, I peel away the blackened skin, crack the shells and freeze their meat; the perfect nuts I store whole in the dark, north facing garage. They easily last the year.)
I am still searching for my ‘definitive’ Christmas pudding recipe amongst the greats, stored in the garage mezzanine (in one of the 9 plastic boxes of Christmas decorations, household linens and intimate apparel, china, son globes, books, light garlands and 4 polar bears.) They are led by three generations of Shanagarry Allens – the doyenne Myrtle, her daughter-in-law Darina and her daughter-in-law Rachel – Delia Smith who might be annoying but is eminently sensible, and the original of the species, Mrs Beeton I haven’t found it yet, and think the ‘definitive’ may be hand written in a lined copy-book. The recipe uses butter and grated carrot instead of suet. I would love to use almond butter, but it is €10 a 450g. jar and doesn’t cook well (as we’ve found substituting it for dairy butter in oatmeal crumble topping and [Martin Dwyer’s recipe] granola.)
I did get wrapping five presents……but cursorily; later, under the Tannenbaum, they will be more embellished. At Christmas, more is more.
It is the fading of the year. The clocks have gone back, and with the evenings dark and long we have started lighting a fire, the woodpile is neat and full against the house and the logs are dry. There is snow on our highest visible mountain, La Tournette. The morning glory and the sweet peas have finally lost their energy and no longer give us flowers every day, the fig and white peach trees are all wrapped up in their fleece coats and each morning, steam rises from the winter cover of the swimming pool.
It is the fading of the year, and as we head towards the solstice, in an ancient primal urge to hibernate, our bodies and our metabolisms want to slow down against the cold and dearth of food…..but these are modern times and instead we set ourselves to creating light and warmth.
Ramadan and Divali are over and Christians approach one of the two most important festivals of their religious calendar. It’s early November, but Christmas is icumen in! “Christmas” may be the Christian name for the festival which culminates on December 25th, but industry knows it as “the season of greatest commercialism.” In the West in particular it is the Festival of Spend. Everywhere, we are urged to “make it a Christmas to remember” and “a magical Christmas” by buying stuff, from red candles to reindeer sweaters to boy band Advent calendars. You could do that and hope it will be memorable and magical, or you could do it your own way, but however hard you try, you are not going to be able to ignore the human festivities that lead up to the end of the old year and the start of the new. There is also the catch that if, after all your endeavours – starting now in excited anticipation, including the buying of red candles and Advent calendars – it doesn’t in fact, turn out to be a magical Christmas, we will suffer; guilt, loneliness, depression, deflation, exhaustion and resentment, feelings more commonly associated with Christmas than comfort and joy……unless you’re five years old.
But hey, let’s pretend we’re five years old! That was the year I wore dangly diamanté earrings to Mass in Sacred Heart Church on the Western Road in Cork – for even by then, Santa Claus had detected my tastes – and this year I will wear their like again. So sorry people, if this offends your sense of …whatever….but with the taking-down of the cookery books and the trawl through the Christmas pudding recipes, the slog to find raisins sans sulfites, the season begins…..and just now (day one of 58) I’m full of excited anticipation!
A friend posted yesterday the musings of her young step-daughter: “I like my cities. I like my sisters. I like peacocks when it snows on them.”
When we bought a place in Berlin some years back, we had to choose a bank to handle the finances, but had no quotidian intel of life in the city.
Berlin, not long re-unified politically and geographically, was at the time united in its love affair with a polar bear, Knut, born in December 2006 in Berlin Zoo. Rejected by his mother at birth, he was raised by zookeepers. Knut became the center of an international mass media phenomenon dubbed “Knutmania” which spawned toys, film, DVDs and books. He was photographed by Annie Leibovitz for the cover of Vanity Fair magazine, featured on stamps and as a mascot for Global Warming awareness. In 2007 Berliner Volksbank issued a bank card with Knut’s picture on it. Since a sojourn on Baffin Island (then the Northwest Territories, now Nunavut) twenty years ago, I have had a soft spot for polar bears. I wanted a Knut card so told my husband we had to open our account with Berliner Volksbank. We have been banking with them ever since.
Winter weather in Berlin can be harsh and the annual February ‘Berlinale’ Film Festival is often held in bitter cold and heavy snow. We don’t usually ‘do’ St Valentine’s Day and I don’t like zoos (or circuses, anywhere living beings are confined) but one bitter cold, white mid-February, I asked that as a St Valentine’s Day treat, I wanted to visit Berlin Zoo, not just to see Knut, but also to see peacocks in the snow.
The image of a peacock in the snow has been with me for nigh on 40 years, since seeing Federico Fellini’s 1973 film “Amarcord.” When living in Cork, I would anxiously watch the weather forecast, the barometer and the skies, ready to hop in the car and go down to Fota Island wildlife park where the sounds of (contented) animals mix with the screeches of peacocks, who have lived in the grounds of Fota House for maybe 200 years….but we never get enough snow in Cork for white flakes to fringe a peacock’s fan.
In Berlin, in February, in the snow, on St Valentine’s Day 2011, my husband and I had a flaming row. There would be no cards or chocolates, red roses, or other commercial tokens of love, no moon eyes over Moselle that day…..there would be no visit to Knut the polar bear, no peacocks in the snow.
In March 2011, Knut died unexpectedly, aged four. His death, according to the longest and most extensive animal autopsy in history, released this year, cited drowning, following the polar bear’s collapse into his enclosure’s pool, while suffering from encephalitis.
I never got to see Knut. I have not yet seen peacocks in the snow. My Knut bank card expired at the end of August.
After a weekend of age-tailored, females-only parties to celebrate the forthcoming betrothal of niece/goddaughter Rachael, which meant that we missed out on the events of Culture Night on Friday, we Members of the Wedding were unwilling to end the excitement, so last night my two sisters, daughter, (another) niece and myself all went to Ballincollig to see the new film “Pride.” It is a film about the support of London lesbians and gays for the striking miners in Wales in 1994/5. There were 2 other people in the cinema; an elderly woman and her middle-aged daughter.
Saturday’s Irish Times had described “Pride” as “the Four Weddings and a Full Monty of the year” but I would actually make that the “Four Weddings and a Full Monty Calendar Girl” of the year. It is a warm and thoroughly enjoyable film based on the true story of a small group of London Lesbian and Gay activists who got involved with the people of a Welsh valley village during the crushing by Margaret Thatcher, the media and police of the miners striking against pit closures in 1984/5.
“Pride” is a big budget, professionally acted version of a film based on the same subject; a film so good, so moving, that I still remember it from 1986. “Miss Rhymney Valley 1985″ was directed by Karl Francis, a political, left-wing Welsh film maker. The strength of both films is not only the passion and tragedy of the myriad stories of the Miners Strike but is most surely the determination and humanity of the characters. “Miss Rhymney Valley” (Karl Francis for the BBC 1985) should be re-shown and receive its due recognition as “Pride” wins a popular international audience. (Francis, a brilliant and controversial figure, has since fallen foul of the law under circumstances with which I am not familiar and am not eligible to comment.) “Ms Rhymney Valley” has not been screened for 20 years and does not seem to be available. This is a clip which illustrates “Pride’s” similarities: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_LF6cvnrI1w
…and this is a reference: “Eight months into the miners’ strike, South Wales remains solid while other coalfields slowly cave in to pressure and despair. But with winter approaching, things worsen in Rhymney Valley: violence erupts and a taxi driver is killed. In order to raise morale and money, Abe Roberts, the local Labor Party Chairman, decides to organize a beauty competition, but in the course of his plans he comes up against a community of women who have been radicalized by the strike. Miss Rhymney Valley 1985 is the story of those coalmining women who must stop in the middle of a momentous political upheaval, to prove to their men that beauty is more than skin deep. The people of Rhymney Valley portray themselves in this remarkable film by Karl Francis, whose “Boy Soldier” had its U.S. premiere at the San Francisco International Film Festival ’87 (as did “Ms. Rhymney Valley”.) Viewing the film at the Cork Film Festival in 1986, Greek director Costa Gavras (“Z”) called it “one of the great British political films… [It] speaks with an authentic voice rarely experienced in the cinema. A rare combination of poetry, politics, and pleasure…. What great women.”
It must have been at the Cork Film Festival I saw it, and I remember meeting Karl Francis some years later – at, I think, a Celtic Film Festival – but when voicing my enthusiasm for his work, was met with a less than gracious response from the director. However, in the cause of art and fairness I say again: See “Miss Rhymney Valley” as you laud “Pride”…..and if it is not accessible, it should be re-issued. It is surely The Real Thing.
p.s. Did I see sculptor/jewellery designer Andrew Logan in a crowd scene at a LGSM benefit party in “Pride”? He’s not credited even as not being credited, but it would be fitting to feature in such a film – even for the craic like – the founder of the “Alternative Miss World” pageant, which he is to head up next month for the first time in years!
An excellent 30th anniversary article on the Miners Strike, with reference to Rhymney Valley which gives historical background pertinent to both films, by Gareth Hill in The Caerphilly Observer:
A few days ago, a friend named me to take up the Ice Bucket Challenge. Sorry, no d’ice. I am not taking up the Ice Bucket Challenge, because I don’t want to….which in a way is more difficult than doing it, because it is going against the herd.
“She’s a rebel and she’ll never ever be any good,
She’s a rebel and she’ll never ever do what she should
But just because she doesn’t act like everybody else does….” that don’t mean to say she can’t send you lots of love (and a few bob.)
I don’t open videos of people with assorted hideous plastic containers being upended over their heads, after which they would run screaming. It is, I believe, for a good cause and people are making right eejits of themselves publicly to remind the rest of us that the pain of suffering Motor Neurone is akin to being doused with a bucket of ice water.
Yesterday I set myself a challenge…..which is very different to being told to do something one does not want to do, and therefore, having gone against the herd, I have some explaining to do:
Two years ago, on a beautiful early autumn day just like yesterday, I put my fold-up bicycle into the back of the car and drove for an hour and a half or so up the mountain road to the foot of Mont Blanc, straddling Switzerland, Italy and France. In the centre of Chamonix I parked the car, unfolded the bike and began to cycle through the Alpine town. Going down a narrow one-way street, a car, instead of holding back, came aggressively close up behind me and to make room, I went up on the pavement. The little wheels of the bike didn’t make the low kerb and I ended up on the ground with a broken wrist as the car headed off into the hills.
Enter an ambulance, an interim plaster in the local mountain hospital, a full anesthetic and another operation a week later in Annecy, a metal pin and 5 screws in my arm, 6 weeks of elbow immobility, sleeping awkwardly, unable to wear long sleeve clothes or to do very ordinary things; butter bread, type, sew,or garden…….6 weeks of physiotherapy (some in Singapore) and then an electric rotary blade cutting through the plaster ‘till I fain would faint…… Then followed 18 months of beeping and excuses at airport security, another op to get the screws out and 2 weeks of thrice weekly dressing changes followed by The Taking Out of the Stitches.
In all that time, I followed the medics’ advice and didn’t get up on a bicycle or clip on cross-country skis or wear flip flops on wet terrain for fear of falling down. I still do be in terror of falling down. The folding bike had long been banished to the cellar in the apartment in Berlin.
Heading to that city this week, friends asked if I’d like to join them on part of their odyssey to cycle the entire ‘Berliner Mauerweg’ the shadow of the old Berlin Wall, which is between 111kms and 155kms depending on what map you choose. The Wall, breached on the night of November 9th 1989, is no longer concrete, though 25 years after the opening of free access between East and West Berlin, it is still very much a hard and horrible memory. The largest extant stretch of Wall, known as “the East Side Gallery” because it is entirely painted over by artists and graffiti daubers, is along the River Spree from the beautiful tiered and turreted red brick Oberbaumbrücke almost to Alexanderplatz. It is 1.3kms long.
Berlin is a huge flat city, a fast city, a rebellious city, a well-behaved city, a cyclists’ city. Everyone, whether punk or banker, anarchist, artist or activist, hippy or hipster, tattooed trendy, tattooed heavy, street juggler, politician, butcher, baker, banker, candlestick maker, cyclist, crusty (with dogs) Angela Merkel or football fan with a skirt of blue and white scarves, waits patiently at the traffic lights for the “Ampelman” – the ‘walking’ man in a hat – to light up green before they cross the street. I don’t drive in Berlin because the choreography of cars (jugglers, juggernauts, fire-eaters, windscreen spongers and bicycles…once I even saw a helicopter in the middle of the road) at intersections is beyond me.
To-day, challenging myself, I pulled on padded pants, donned a helmet, put a bag on my back, went down to the cellar and dusted my bike. Then I unfolded it, clipped it, pumped the tyres and walked it to “Rad laden” a shop down the road, where a nice young fellow with perfect English and a bicycle chain bracelet who self-depreciatingly shrugged “I’m just a bicycle repair-man” looked it over, changed around the handlebars (which he said were facing the wrong direction) adjusted the height and sent me on my way (charging me nothing.) I thought I’d at least buy something from his shop, but his locks and chains I thought too heavy. I asked him if he had anything lighter, but stronger – a super-duper thin wire lock I’d seen with a friend. “There’s nothing stronger than steel” he said “Cryptonite?” I asked. “Sorry, wrong planet” replied the Just-a-Bicycle-Repairman. (I had actually meant carbon fibre.)
The bad thing about my folding bicycle is that its wheels are small and it doesn’t jump footpaths nor glide over cobbles, tram tracks and broken pavements. The good thing about my folding bicycle is that its wheels are so small I can sit on the saddle and walk, like a small child on those (usually wooden) bikes which don’t have any pedals. Challenging myself, I scooted and pedalled down through the Media Spree past Fashion Industry headquarters and the NHOW hotel (where one can rent guitars and grand pianos with one’s room) a satellite uplink facility, the in-your-face red box of the Coca Cola Headquarters, MTV Europe Headquarters, Universal Music Headquarters, to the Oberbaumbrücke and Warschauer Strasse intersection and the East Side Gallery.
“Some challenge” you say…..but I took my life (and my bike) in my hands. We live about 2kms from the East Side Gallery, but I have never, ever, passed by, whether in snow at 2 of a winter’s morning or in lashing rain at 9 at night, on a dull dead Sunday or a bitter March Monday but that there were groups of people walking by, staring, taking pictures. Yesterday, a beautiful early Autumn afternoon, it was mayhem. The street was lined with Eyes Buckets (tour buses) and their rubber neckers were crowding the wide pavement. There were groups and couples, small children wanting ice cream, elders on walking frames, souvenir touts, photographers with tripods and crusties with dogs and buskers accompanied by guys who danced and pranced and wove between the pilgrim-gawkers with plastic begging mugs…and everywhere people stepping blindly backwards taking pictures of poseurs and the inevitable, ubiquitous self-absorbed selfie-snappers immune to anything except the angle of their own mugs, as we cyclists rang our bells trying to keep the red path clear for wheels.
I bravely cycled the length of the East Side Gallery……but couldn’t face it on the way back, so crossed over and cycled home on the other side of the street. I haven’t cycled the perimeter of the Berlin Wall, can’t even do a long section tomorrow as my friends have called off the gig because of the weather but I’ll be back. I’ll find me a bike with big wheels (which doesn’t have one handlebar brake and one backward pedal brake) and I’ll cycle the Berliner Mauerweg. In the meantime, having paid my contribution to Motor Neurone Disease Association (which, the Government having recently rescinded a direction to cut its tiny budget because of general outrage at the outrage, now has enough in its coffers to aid research, and the US Association – known as ALS – is now scratching its cold wet head trying to work out what to do with almost US$100m) I’ll go down and dust off something else which has been banished to the cellar, namely my ‘Soft Berlin Wall,’ a double sided, wall-segment size quilt I made to commemorate the 21st anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall.
Working in the garden I am not alone. Pollen-bummed bees back out of flower mouths in haste to get to the next bloom complaining loudly I block their flight path. A blackbird follows me around, tweeting all his friends that this is HIS freshly-turned long- worm territory. All kinds of little creatures ignore me completely, they are busy doing The Bold Thing. (Milkweed bugs particularly like my hollyhocks and also each other, they mate for up to 10 hours at a stretch.)
When I emptied my high-backed plastic wheel barrow of rakes and spades the other day to work on a new flower bed, I found a cowering timerous beastie at the bottom of it. “Hello little field mouse” I said amicably – to quell the panic in its breastie – but his nose was long and he was not at all like the mice which used to plop into the cereal bowl on the breakfast table at home long ago (my mother kept the cornflakes pack in the hot press [ours not to reason why.]) He could have been a vole (aka meadow or field mouse and a rodent) or a shrew or a mole which are insectivores. His eyes were big, his colour uniform, but I could not count his front toes. Anyway, he was good company for a few minutes until I tipped the barrow over and bid him au revoir.
Bless the gray mouse
that found her way
into the recycle bin.
Bless her tiny body,
no bigger than my thumb,
huddled and numb
against the hard side.
Bless her bright eye,
a frightened gleaming
that opened to me
and the nest she made
from shredded paper,
all I could offer.
Bless her last hours
alone under the lamp
with food and water near.
Bless this brief life
I might have ended
had she stayed hidden
inside the insulation.
Bless her body returned
to earth, no more
or less than any creature.
“Prayer for a Field Mouse” by Pat Riviere-Seel from Nothing Below but Air.
© Main Street Rag, 2014.
This is a piece I wrote several years ago, about the May Day procession in a convent boarding school in Limerick. I’m dusting it off for May Day, as a trove of bittersweet memories and sentiment is stirred by hearing Canon Sydney MacEwan singing the Marian hymn “Bring Flowers of the Fairest/Rarest”……
In the summer term at Laurel Hill Convent in Limerick, the big events were the school sports, the picnic at the nuns’ summer house in County Clare, sometimes an “educational tour” to somewhere fascinating such as Shannon Airport, and the May Day Procession.
On the first of May, Marian altars throughout the school were adorned and bedecked with fresh spring flowers. There was a carefully choreographed procession, purportedly venerating the Mother of God but with a decidedly pagan undertone of pattern dancing, ribbons, flowers and new beginnings. Senior girls in long white dresses and white shoes, wearing small wreaths of flowers on their heads, walked in procession carrying between them, a statue of the Virgin on their shoulders and singing “I Sing a Hymn to Mary” and “……bring flowers of the fairest and blossoms the rarest/from garden and hillside and woodland and glen…….” to crown the statue of Our Lady in the centre of the quadrangle lawn in front of the long school building. Behind the white-robed girls walked the newly enrolled Children of Mary, proud that they had been deemed ‘good’ enough (the worst threat for misbehaviour was that one would not be accepted as an “Enfant de Marie”) with their silver medals on wide blue ribbons gleaming in the early spring sun.
The nuns of the Faithful Companions of Jesus were very good at ceremony, very good at creating a sense of occasion. This extended from the clothes we wore to the songs we sang to the food we ate and the manner in which the study hall was decorated. On feast days and holy days we wore a different uniform – green instead of school-day wine red, with and a white lace mantilla in lieu of the daily black – and there would be cakes for tea.
In the mid ‘Sixties when I was a boarder in Laurel Hill, many of the customs were exactly the same as those which were observed in the school sixty years earlier when the writer Kate O’Brien was a student, and about which she wrote in her novel “The Land of Spices”. We no longer wore gloves, nor drank coffee with meals, nor spoke French in the refectory, but still took the Taj Mahal paperweight from the desk of the supervising nun at the top of the study if we wanted ‘to be excused’. If the paperweight was not in its place on the high desk, then it meant some girl had already gone to use the lavatory, and no two girls could ‘be excused ‘ at the same time. In my day, it was still the Taj Mahal which decided the urgency of one’s calling.
Despite its whiff of snobbery and its rigidity in many matters, manners and mores (“Girls…..knees, legs, feet together……”) I remember the occasions with the same affection for the institution as did Kate O’Brien: the green shamrocks on the white iced cakes for St Patrick’s Day, the singing of the “Immaculata” on the the 8th of December, the Feast of the Immaculate Conception, with the first candle lighting on the Advent wreath at the top of the study and the excitement of Christmas to come.
The “Immaculata” for me is more evocative than Christmas carols and the music of “Bring Flowers of the Fairest” is the smell of lilac. Always, when I hear that hymn, I smell lilac.
Yesterday we left Cork to return to France after ten days in Ireland over Easter. I’m always sad to leave, but yesterday I was desolé because Jimmy (“Ride On”) MacCarthy was playing a concert last night in the Cork Opera House. I’ve been in love with Jimmy MacCarthy for about forty five years. One day, having done an interview with the singer/songwriter, my next appointment was with my solicitor. I came into her office and sat down dreamily, sighing “I’m in love with Jimmy MacCarthy”. The lawyer turned her eyes to heaven as though I were a right eejit to be stating the obvious. “Half of Cork is in love with Jimmy MacCarthy” she snorted, briskly unsnapping a sheaf of documents on her desk, rolling the rubber bands onto her elegant wrist.
A Facebook ‘update’ I posted last week: “Strolling through Dublin on a sunny Wednesday; al fresco lunch in a trendy new restaurant, coffee in a trendy new restaurant, two little girls of about 6, one Asian one a red-head, walking down Grafton street with (real) daisy chains in their hair, holding a long chain linking them…they had come with their adults from the grass of Stephen’s Green; an Indian family beaming from a horse drawn cab, the little girl waving, so I waved back and called “Happy Easter” (which daughter Lucy though extremely odd) the wonderful Dorothy Cross exhibition ‘Connemara” in the Royal Hibernian Academy….(thanks Rosita for the intel) and now chips in Sandymount and back to the hotel for “The Good Wife” and a bottle of wine (contented sigh.)”
One of my Fbk friends commented: “I can almost hear Noel Purcell singing this.” The song was “The Dublin Saunter” by Leo Maguire, which was recorded by Noel Purcell in the 1940s and later by Paddy (“Fields of Athenry”) Reilly. Born in 1903, Leo Maguire was a musician and broadcaster who wrote over a hundred songs (including “The Whistling Gypsy”) and presented The Waltons Programme for nearly thirty years on Radio Eireann. The tagline of the Waltons programme was “If you feel like singing, do sing an Irish song” and on which Leo often featured “Charlie Magee and his gay guitar. ”
“For Dublin can be heaven
With coffee at eleven
And a stroll in Stephen’s green…..
…..Grafton Street’s a wonderland
There’s magic in the air……
…..And if you don’t believe me
Come and meet me there
In Dublin on a sunny Summer morning”
Last week in the sunshine, Grafton Street was indeed a wonderland of flower sellers and competing buskers, though its magic is currently marred by the Big Dig for the extension of the LUAS tram line (known locally as the ‘Daniel Day LUAS.’) I missed seeing Phil Lynott (though there is a statue) strolling by and The Dice Man (though there is a statue) performing and dallying with Pete the “Hot Press” magazine seller outside Bewleys. This is the terrain of the film “Once” and many of the characters are plucked from this city centre pedestrian area.
One day there was a picture of Jimmy MacCarthy on the cover of his Hot Press mags and I stopped to drool, telling Pete that Jimmy’s father had said he was a naughty boy because he got up too late in the mornings. Pete (a gentleman) replied gently that Jimmy was an artist so he was allowed leeway in his sleeping habits. I had rung Ted MacCarthy (also a gentleman) for Jimmy’s telephone number in mid morning and after a chat, his father added “….and tell that young fella to get up out of the bed!”
Magical moments in my memory bank woven by Jimmy are from a concert in the Opera House when he asked for the audience to join in and sitting behind me, Adi Roche of Chernobyl Children International (former Irish Person of the Year and University of Alberta Canada and National University of Ireland Galway Honorary Doctor of Law) began to harmonise. It was the sound of angels. In 1999, Jimmy, unannounced from the choir loft, sang “The Bright Blue Rose” at the funeral of the artist Deirdre Meaney (a perfect creature, natural in every feature.) I thought the church on the North side of Cork city would explode with the pure intensity of the background silence, the depth of sadness and regret in the congregation of misfits, city elders, drunkards and burghers, politicians, drop-outs, teachers, academics, atheists and art collectors, priests, poets and no-goods, gallery owners, museum curators, writers and artists…..all of us; her family, friends, loves, admirers and contemporaries with whom she had shared life in Cork. It was angels lifting her to heaven.
Because you’re also probably in love with Jimmy MacCarthy you probably know most of this already, but, as he embarks on his Irish tour (National Concert Hall Dublin April 27th, then Kilkenny and onwards……..) here is a “Weekend Profile” from November 1991, one of a regular series I did with well-known people for the Examiner Weekend Supplement. It was in formulaic Question and Answer format, which I usually don’t like, but through which I often managed to winkle a good portrait of the subject.
BIOGRAPHY: Born in Macroom in 1953. Educated at Glasheen School, Presentation and Christian Brothers Colleges Cork. Apprentice jockey in Tipperary and Newmarket. Rode out for Fergus Sutherland in Killanadrish. A riding instructor in Blarney, car park attendant in Conway’s yard, van driver for his father’s newspaper distribution business. Began writing songs at age 21 and has been a professional musician since.
FAMILY: Second eldest of a family of 12. His parents (Ted and Betty) live in Curraheen Drive in Bishopstown, the rest of the family “all over the world.” The youngest, twins, are aged 24.
RESIDENCE: Spent some time in Cork, Dublin, London and three years in Switzerland. Now living alone in an old rented house in Delgany, County Wicklow.
INTERESTS: “Music, art and mythology, holistic healing – and horses of course. I’m extremely interested in the I Ching and study it constantly. I work on the Alexander Technique for posture, breathing and voice training.”
LEISURE ACTIVITIES: “I ride friends’ horses in Wicklow and Leixlip if I get a chance. Swimming, reading, going to the theatre and punishing the piano.”
WORK IN PROGRESS: “I don’t have enough time at present to give to writing. The songs are there all the time, but one must be willing and able to receive them.”
FUTURE PLANS: “I hope to record an album every year or every couple of years as part of my life from now on. I’m singing with the Clancy Brothers in Upstate New York in November an I’d love to gig across the States.”
CONCERNS: “All the basic clichéd humanitarian concerns for the environment, including the culture of the disposable; the music that pours out and doesn’t do anything for the world, also for the effects of alcohol on all levels of society. Its abuse can have a devastating effect on the lives of those it touches.”
GRIPE: “With the exception of a few such as ‘Mulligan’ ‘Solid’ and the token ‘Mother’ record labels, up to now there has been no indigenous recording industry and studios in Ireland; it’s just a warehouse for the majors such as EMI and WEA. Only 5% of all the music played on the new independent stations licensed by the Government is Irish – RTE is an exception to this.”
THUMBS UP: “To my mother and father for rearing twelve of us and instilling us with strong values and a sense of the real meaning of wealth, and to them also for the fact that they continue to grow and thrive in their own lives together now that we are all gone from home.”
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u1RfNeBdp10 this is Jimmy last year singing about himself at that time, “when I was young and I was in my day” and what he might have been…..
Ted MacCarthy died in 1998, Betty MacCarthy in 2009.
Ride on Jimmy. Love, Isabel xxx
Families have tragedies and bear them – or not – and we never know, because they are not famous. Bob Geldof of Dun Laoghaire, south county Dublin, didn’t just have 15 minutes of fame in the mid 1970s as lead singer with the band “The Boomtown Rats” he re-invented himself as a fund-raiser, then as a TV producer and now as a media mogul and international activist. Now there are 3 generations of Geldof lineage and they are still famous.
This week the Geldof family is in the headlines again, because of the death of Bob’s daughter Peaches, a beautiful young woman who at 25 had already been married twice and was the mother of two children. It is a terrible, terrible time of tragedy for the family and those close to them, and I am full of sympathy.
I met Bob Geldof only once, when I interviewed him and the band during their “In the Long Grass” tour. I remember the occasion because Bob Geldof was one of the politest, most charming, gracious and generous people I ever talked to in a professional capacity as a journalist. It was in the City Hall in Cork and backstage there were drinks and a lavish buffet, of which Bob – and his equally well mannered band – kept inviting me to partake. (Conversely, my mother [also a journalist] always held a wee grudge against the Irish balladeers the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem as, when she interviewed them backstage before a concert, they were drinking tea and whiskey and never so much as offered her a cup.)
When we met Bob and his partner Paula Yeats had one toddler daughter. I remember voicing concern that the noise levels of a Rats concert couldn’t be good for little ones. (The gig was so loud that my body reverberated for hours afterwards.) Bob pooh-poohed the notion saying that such loud music was the family’s permanent sound-track. Conversationally, I asked when he was going to “make an honest woman” out of Paula Yeats…..a stupid euphemistic (and actually sexist) cliché of the times, meaning “are you getting married?” He was appalled and answered “Paula IS an honest woman” and I was ashamed for being so flippant because, yes, Paula was an honest woman.
Paula Yeats was beautiful, wrote beautifully and honestly and was true to herself, even if it meant defying convention. I remember reading a piece she wrote in a magazine (“Honey”? “19”?“Company”?) about the strange and not unexciting feeling of her boobs getting bigger (she only weighted about 7stone) and then telling Bob Geldof she was pregnant, and her apprehension that he might be angry. He immediately sent her a bouquet of 24 red roses. She grumbled mildly about how, owning a big house where people constantly came to stay, her days were punctuated by trips up and down stairs to the hot press (airing cupboard) with armloads of sheets and pillowcases. No matter how cool the company, somebody had to strip the linen and make up fresh beds. She also wrote “even rock stars get piles.” Her idea of luxury was to lie in bed with a mound of newspapers and a box of violet cream chocolates.
Then Paula Yeats died, tragically, when she was coming into her own, when she had swapped pneumatic rock music for the newly discovered pleasures of Radio 4 talk radio, when her youngest daughter was barely big enough to stand on a chair and snib the lock on the front door of her home the day her Mummy was “asleep and won’t wake up.” The friend who was at the door that morning immediately rang Bob and asked that he take the little girl, Tiger Lily. He thought she meant ‘take in’ though the friend only meant ‘come and get the girl’ but he said later that he never had to consider “not for a nano-second” but that he would adopt the child as his own.
This is the third time in his six decades – two thirds of which have been in the spotlight of fame – that Bob Geldof has lost a woman who was a part of him, a woman too young to die, a woman whose loss has left him with a gaping wound. When he was only 10 years of age, his mother Evelyn died suddenly and unexpectedly one night of a brain heamhorrage at their home in Dun Laoghaire in 1961. She was either 41 or 44. Almost 40 years later his ex-wife and love of his life Paula Yeats died at 41 and now his beautiful second daughter Peaches, “the wildest, funniest, cleverest, wittiest and most bonkers of all of us” is gone.
No wonder he says he is “beyond pain.”