More Magic...

Magic Toads and More Mushrooms:

In my last blog on mushrooms, I included a few lines on ‘magic mushrooms’. I did not mention ‘magic toads’.

It is a fact that ‘Toads secrete a thick, white, hallucinogenic substance from skin glands when they are injured or provoked. This toxin (C24H34O5) is called bufagin, bufotenin, or more colloquially, ‘toads' milk (Guiley 1989 341). The secretion acts like digitalis in biological action, and was believed to have been used by witches for various nefarious purposes. Toad excrement was theoretically used as an ingredient in flying potions by Basque witches (Levack 45). - ( http://www.shanmonster.com/witch/familiar/toad.html Toads, Magic, and Witchcraft).

Such witchcraft was practised in the British Isles going back to Pagan Times and beyond. There is little doubt that Merlin the Magician of King Arthur fame was a master of the craft. Certain ingredients that he placed in the gathered knights’ food before he did his magic often helped his wizardry. Again there is little doubt that he used the same Toad’s Milk and Magic mushrooms to create mass hypnosis.

Witches without any doubt used them and it is probably from such stories that the ‘flying broom’ comes. The story of the Princess kissing the ‘frog’ whereby it turns back into a handsome Prince is also based on the Toad principal. Many writers in the past, and some in the present, considered some form of hallucinatory drug an aid to writing their stories and songs. There is a story about the Beatles and ‘Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely-Hearts Club Band’ but that is best left unsaid.

There is also no doubt that Ireland, in particular the deep rural areas of Munster and Connaught were heavily into so called ‘magic’. There were people in the areas who would have known all the ‘secrets’ of what other cultures call ‘shamanism’.

The ‘shaman’ of Peru claimed that with the use of certain ‘drugs’ they were able to fly. The amazing designs of humming birds and such on the plains are not visible from the ground, yet they are almost perfect in every detail when seen from height in an aircraft. I am not of course suggesting that the shaman could in fact fly, I merely say that they claimed they could and by some means unknown to present day science, managed to do the near impossible.

Likewise when the Irish emigrated to America, they took with them their beliefs, many of which were of Pagan origin which some still practised alongside their Catholic religion. The ones who used ‘magic mushrooms’ or licked ‘magic toads’ without doubt continued to do so in America.

It is scientifically claimed that many Irish people in America fully believed that, using those means, they were able to ‘step aboard a vision’ and float back to Ireland to visit. Of course they were unable to do so, but by their stories they were able to convince other members of the community that they did.

However, one frightening example, which I shall give, is the one of Sheamus MacCarroll who wrote the song ‘Spancil Hill’. He left Ireland at the age of 15 with his parents in 1890 and sailed to New York. Both his parents died on the journey. Sheamus only barely survived the hard times on the streets of New York. When he was 22, he discovered the countryside and became a rambler. He met up with other Galway Irishmen and they formed a harvesting crew. They followed the work from State to State.

Sheamus was well versed in the old ways of Ireland and had been well taught by his grandmother. Sheamus would regularly pick ‘magic mushrooms’ in the fields whilst he worked and the toads less frequently. He would lace the communal tea with the milk or mushrooms and feed it to his compatriots. They would then of course ‘trip-out’. Sheamus being more or less in control of himself whilst under the influence, would ‘step aboard a vision’ and ‘anchor at the cross in Spancil Hill’.

This is the best-known set of circumstances that are fully recorded in the local Parish records. They would each year harvest two local widow’s corn and other crops and it was an exceptional act of charity in that they also rethatched several cottages and rebuilt dry-stone walls in the area – all for no charge.

Sheamus and his friends from the same area never did in fact return to Ireland, not even for a visit. Yet, the fully authenticated Church records clearly show that they helped to harvest several cereal crops and other acts of charity in the locality of Spancil Hill during the years, 1935,36 and 37.

They were in fact killed in a train crash in America in 1938.

There is quite a good version of the song on this link: http://youtube.com/watch?v=hdk95PeSFFw

Nothing I have said in the above report should suggest that I recommend eating Magic Mushrooms or licking Toads Milk for you never know where you might end up making a fool of yourself.

A happy April to all you readers.
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Mushrooms – Magic….

When I was young, my father would rise at about 4.30am throughout June, especially after a good night’s rain, and traipse across the country fields searching for his favourite meal – mushrooms. After a few hours he would return most times with a pillowcase full of mushrooms of all sizes. It was one of his favourite pastimes. I went with him several times, but the early rising used to leave me shattered for days.

Oddly enough, he would only pick those from the meadows well away from trees and hedgerows. It was only when I went to Italy and my daughter’s in-laws took us up the mountains that I realised that there were dozens of different varieties that were edible. Bearing in mind that the Italians are willing to eat almost everything, they were all delicious in their own way.

Once whilst playing golf in Ireland, we turned around a corner and saw on the fairway ahead of us, about six young men on their hands and knees. We called ‘fore’ and hit through them. When we reached them, I saw that they each had a large plastic bag containing very small mushrooms. When asked, they informed us that they were ‘magic mushrooms’, which they sold in the clubs in Dublin. They had enough to ‘turn-on’ half the population of Ireland, let alone Dublin

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I was once on Duty in my Police Station in London when a (then) famous rock singer answered bail for possessing such mushrooms. It appeared that the law required that the mushrooms had to be changed from their natural state, such as by chopping up etc., before a criminal offence was committed. When handed the mushrooms, he was reluctant to take them. When the matter was fully explained, he took the property bag, opened it and still looking at us, stuffed them into his mouth and swallowed them. He left the station floating on air.

In the forest where I now play golf, at different times of the year, various types of mushrooms are in abundance. The photographs in this blog are mine and were taken over a period of a couple of years. Some of the types, (the ones that look like brown bread rolls), are highly sought after by London restaurants and are a delicacy. Because of my upbringing I would not dare to try them.

Another interesting aspect of mushrooms is that research scientists have discovered that fungi (which includes all mushrooms) are more closely related to human beings and animals than to other plants.

It probably goes to prove that when we used to call certain senior police officers ‘The Mushroom’ we were not far wrong. We used to say ‘Feed him loads of bullshit and keep him in the dark’ – in reference to the manner in which cultivated mushrooms are farmed.

A final thought is that the ‘honey mushroom’, which grows in parts of America can be enormous. Enormous - that is underground. The largest known living organism on earth was discovered in the Malheur National Forest in Oregon. It lives three feet underground and is judged to cover 2,200 acres. A tiny proportion sprouts mushrooms above ground and testing from various sites within the acreage proved them all to of one organism. To put its size into more perspective, it is 3 ½ miles across and would cover 1,655 football fields.

And finally, finally: Whilst humans and most other species are limited to two sexes, mushrooms have 36,000 sexes.

So, what do you call a mushroom with a ten-inch stalk? ….. A Fungi to be with !
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It's a Fair Cop Guvnor...

Who Nicked the Fingerprint Ink….

Way back in history when I joined the police there were things I had to learn quickly and others that took a little more time. One of the first was to learn not to leave your helmet unattended. That was tied for first place with not leaving your sandwiches unattended on night duty. I learned those two basic rules rapidly. Apparently, according to a reliable source, the going rate for a London Bobby's helmet in the 60’s was £25. More than a weeks wages then. As for the sandwiches, well there was nowhere you could get anything to eat after midnight. The East End of London used to ‘close down’ at midnight.

In those days, and right through to the 90’s, the majority of prisoners had to be fingerprinted after being charged. I always noticed in the early days that the tube of fingerprint ink was squeezed and twisted into oblivion with little or nothing left inside. I found it very frustrating.

When I became a trainee detective, I soon learned that full detectives, especially the Detective Sergeants or Inspectors were prone to ask us youngsters for fingerprint ink whenever they needed it. They also used it as a test – exactly testing what, I am not quite sure. As a result, whenever we were passing one of the local police stations, we would make a beeline for the fingerprint room there and see if there were any tubes of ink. If there were, it, or they, immediately disappeared.

It so happened that a retired police officer whom I had worked with, became the ‘Stores Liaison Officer’ at my station and part of his job description was to order supplies. I asked him to get me some fingerprint ink and he made a phone call to Central Supplies. "Oh no" he was told "It’s like gold dust". However, he was told to put in a requisition. When I heard that I decided to make him an offer that he could not refuse.

"Taffy" I said, "If you get me a good supply of ink, I will give you a bottle of Scotch". "How many is a good supply?" he asked. "A couple of boxes of ten tubes" I asked not knowing what to expect. "I’ll put in for a gross" he replied "they will probably cut it down to a dozen". Excuse me for saying so, but some of you younger ones may not know what a gross is, or was. It was twelve dozen equalling one hundred and forty-four.

About a fortnight later, old Taffy called me down to the store. He was in a bit of a panic. "What’s the problem?" I asked. "Wait until you get down here and you’ll see" was his only answer.

When I got to the store, he produced a cardboard box, which measured about two-foot square. I knew that the tubes of ink came in boxes of ten, which measured about six inches square and a third of an inch deep. I quickly broke the seal of the box and there to my surprise were hundreds of boxes. Someone at Central Store had sent a gross of boxes. Instead of receiving 144 tubes, we received 144 boxes containing 10 each – 1,440 tubes of ‘gold dust’. "Take the lot" Taffy said "I’ve never seen them".

I went up to the office and hid them under my desk. A few minutes later, I knocked on the Detective Inspector’s office and when I entered, I merely said to him "A little present for you sir" and handed him two packets of ink totalling twenty tubes. He could hardly speak. I then went to each of the Detective Sergeants and also presented them with two packets each. I then gave each of the other officers a packet each but I still had nearly one hundred packets.

I then decided what I would do. I went to the fingerprint room and put a full ten tubes in the fingerprint drawer. Each morning afterwards, I would return and check to see if they were still there. Sure enough, someone had taken them. So I merely put another ten tubes in it.

For about a week, they kept disappearing until it suddenly stopped. Every police station fingerprint room in the locality now had enough ink to print the entire local population.

I can say in all honestly that since that week, I never entered a fingerprint room that did not have plenty of ink. If they did not, I merely left some of my supply, which I always had in reserve. Old habits die hard………………….

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'No Popery'....

Papists in Great Britain and Ireland..

The Popery Act 1698 was an Act of Parliament in England passed in 1700 during the reign of William theThird. Its jurisdiction included Ireland. It had many clauses, which in fact persecuted Catholics and the clergy. One of its main provisions was that it provided that any person who caught a ‘Popish Bishop, Priest or Jesuit who was then prosecuted for saying Mass or exercising any other part of his office within the Realm’ was to receive £100 from the Sheriff of that county within four months of the priest’s conviction. It was in fact a bounty. It further made it a criminal act for any Catholic clergy or lay person to run a school or provide for the education of children. For that offence, upon conviction, they could be liable to ‘perpetual Imprisonment’ at the discretion of the King.

Catholics were forbidden from joining the English Army without swearing an Oath of allegiance. It also included numerous other clauses, which basically prohibited Catholics from doing anything, saying anything or thinking anything that might be considered anti-Protestant.

However, as I said before ‘Necessity is the Mother of Invention’, and the English at the time were masters at making changes when changes were necessary – irrespective of beliefs.

You see, the American War of Independence began in 1775. There were also ongoing conflicts with France and Spain. England was short of soldiers. Irish and English Catholics could, if the law was changed, be admitted to the Army and sent overseas to quell the rebellion in the Americas and fight on the Continent of Europe.

It was therefore prudent to introduce such an act. The Papists Act of 1778 was pushed through and became law. It provided such fine words as ‘relieving his (George Third) Majesty’s subjects, of the Catholic Religion, from certain penalties and disabilities imposed upon them during the reign of William theThird (the Popery Act)’.

The most important clause in relation to the military was the removal of the necessity of Catholics taking the religious oath when joining up. It also returned the right to freedom of worship and the education by priests and lay people.

Everything seemed perfect; enlistment began to increase dramatically as ‘joining-up’ gave employment to the poor Catholics of England and Ireland.

Meanwhile in England, the majority of the population being Protestant, rumblings began to be heard. In 1780, The Protestant Association was set up by Lord George Gordon in an attempt to repeal the new act. He was a clever, articulate yet eccentric character who with his oratory was able to inflame the mob. He played on the fears of ‘papism’ and ‘absolute power’ of the monarch returning. He suggested that Catholics in the military would probably join forces with the co-religionists on the Continent and in America and attack England.

Within months of the formation of the association, huge crowds were mustered. As many as 40,000 to 60,000 people carrying banners and flags shouting ‘No Popery’ marched on the House of Commons where Gordon entered the Commons and presented a petition. Outside, a riot erupted.

Newgate Prison was attacked and largely destroyed. The prisoners were released and they too joined the mob. Churches, homes, embassies, the Bank of England, other prisons and houses belonging to the well to do were destroyed.

Among the mob, two men in particular were observed. John Glover and Benjamin Bowsey are described in reports from the time as ‘Black’ or Mulatto. Both were ‘free men’. Glover was charged with ‘riotous and tumultuous assembly, setting prisoners from Newgate free and setting fire to and destroying the prison’. One of the observers of the behaviour was another Black writer, Ignatius Sancho.

Bowsey, a General’s footman, was charged with being a ‘disorderly person’. General Honeywood, for whom he worked, described him as a very honest and very foolish fellow who got into idle company whilst working in the kitchen of a Tavern.

Records show that both were sentenced to death. However, there was a stay of execution in both cases.

On 30th April, 1781, many of the prisoners involved, including Glover and Bowsey, were informed that they were to be pardoned on condition they entered and continued to serve as soldiers in the Corps of Footmen on the coast of Africa.

Why hang prisoners when you could turn them into ‘free’ soldiers for life……..

Eventually, the army was called out in June with orders to fire upon groups of four or more who refused to disperse. About 300 people were shot dead and several hundreds more injured. Many of the rioters were arrested and after a quick trial, about 25 were executed. Gordon himself was arrested and charged with High Treason. However, he was found not guilty.

And meanwhile, the War of Independence in America continued for another two years……………

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A Terrible Beauty is Born..

A Terrible Beauty is Born….

At a couple of minutes past twelve noon on Easter Monday 24th April 1916, silence fell upon the inquisitive passers-by in O’Connell Street Dublin. They stood and looked at the soldiers in green uniforms on the steps of the General Post Office. One, Patrick Pearse began to read from a large document: "Irishmen and Irishwomen: In the name of God and of the dead generations from which she receives her old tradition of nationhood…………..". He continued whilst the crowd stood in total silence until he came to the end. "……..In this supreme hour the Irish nation must, by its valour and discipline and by the readiness of its children to sacrifice themselves for the common good, prove itself worthy of the august destiny to which it is called".

The reading was from the Irish Declaration of Independence, which was then posted on the door of the Post Office. The soldiers then entered the building. With that he crowd of onlookers began to break up and continue with their business. Some laughed, others sniggered whilst all looked about themselves to see ‘if the police were coming’. Young men were handing out copies of the Declaration to anyone interested and one copy was placed under a stone at the base of Nelson’s Column opposite.

A sudden interest was shown at the strange flags now flying above the Post Office. There was a Green, White and Yellow tricolour and a green flag with some print on it.

In theory, if not in conflict, the Easter Rising of 1916 had begun.

The British Intelligence Service in Dublin was taken completely unawares by the action and although many of the Dublin Metropolitan Police may well have been aware, there was no visible sign of their presence. After all, the British Army, which included a great number of Irishmen in its ranks was entrenched on the Somme in the eighteen month old World War.

In fact, the start of the plans for the Easter Rising began being made literally within days of the August 1914 declaration of war with the Germans. At a meeting of the Irish Republican Brotherhood it was stated that ‘England’s difficulty is Ireland’s opportunity’. A motion was passed at the same meeting 1. To establish a military council. 2. To seek whatever help possible from the Germans. 3. To secure control of The Irish Volunteers.

The organisers never envisaged that a rising would result in a military victory; far from it. They did however believe that it would enable them to declare a ‘Republic’, to gain full Irish support for the cause and to claim a place at the post war peace conference.

Various other groups such as Trade Unions, Gaelic League, Sinn Fein and others had already been infiltrated by the Brotherhood in anticipation of such a move.

Ireland and England had been at each other’s throats for well over three hundred years and there had been many uprisings during the period. When William of Orange was put on the English throne in the late 1600’s and James Second was kicked off it, there were many battles including the infamous Battle of the Boyne in 1690. James was defeated and Ireland was put firmly under the control of the English Crown.

There had not been an uprising in Ireland since the failed 1798 Rebellion so almost 120 years had passed before such a good opportunity arose.

The Ulster-Irish were in uproar at the same time, as for some 30 years there had been attempts in London to give Ireland ‘Home Rule’. This would have been accepted by the Southern Irish but was fiercely defied by the Ulstermen. The first Home Rule Bill in 1886 was defeated in the London Parliament. The second attempt in 1893 was passed by the Commons but rejected by the House of Lords. However, on the third attempt in 1912 it was again passed by the Commons, rejected by the Lords and passed when the Parliament Act was invoked. Ireland would get Home Rule on 18 September 1914.

The Ulster people protested throughout the entire process and formed the Ulster Volunteer Force on 13 January 1913. This resulted in the formation of the Irish Volunteers in the south to defend the up-and-coming Home Rule. However, with the outbreak of war, the bill was suspended until after the war ended.

The Germans had been watching the process in Ireland carefully for the previous thirty years and were of the opinion that England would be too busy to enter any war on account of such problems. The German Kaiser was convinced that this assumption was correct when he saw the warlike attitude of the Ulster people towards Home Rule. He and his Generals were happy that England would be too busy with such problems, as the Ulster Volunteers were now a fully armed militia. When the Irish Volunteers in the south were formed, they too were armed. A civil war in Ireland was anticipated which would keep the English army busy. Germany also believed that the large number of Irishmen in the British Army would revolt causing more problems.

(An interesting point that arose as a result of the rising was that England had to station 50,000 soldiers in Ireland. Recruitment to the British Army basically ceased in Ireland, which in theory made a net loss to their army of 100,000 men. Men she could ill-afford).

As we all know, England fought a prolonged war against Germany, the Easter Rising took place and after the Irish rebels were defeated, the leaders were court-martialled and shot.

And so ‘a terrible beauty was born’.

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Easter 1916.
William Butler Yates.

I have met them at close of day

Coming with vivid faces

From counter or desk

among greyEighteenth-century houses.

I have passed with a nod of the head

Or polite meaningless words,

Or have lingered awhile and said

Polite meaningless words,

And thought before I had done

Of a mocking tale or a gibe

To please a companion

Around the fire at the club,

Being certain that they and I

But lived where motley is worn:

All changed, changed utterly:

A terrible beauty is born.

That woman's days were spent

In ignorant good-will,

Her nights in argument

Until her voice grew shrill.

What voice more sweet than hers

When, young and beautiful,

She rode to harriers?

This man had kept a school

And rode our winged horse;

This other his helper and friend

Was coming into his force;

He might have won fame in the end,

So sensitive his nature seemed,

So daring and sweet his thought.

This other man I had dreamed

A drunken, vainglorious lout.

He had done most bitter wrong

To some who are near my heart,

Yet I number him in the song

;He, too, has resigned his part

In the casual comedy;

He, too, has been changed in his turn,

Transformed utterly:

A terrible beauty is born.

Hearts with one purpose alone

Through summer and winter seem

Enchanted to a stone

To trouble the living stream.

The horse that comes from the road.T

he rider, the birds that range

From cloud to tumbling cloud,

Minute by minute they change

;A shadow of cloud on the stream

Changes minute by minute;

A horse-hoof slides on the brim,

And a horse splashes within it;

The long-legged moor-hens dive,

And hens to moor-cocks call;

Minute by minute they live:

The stone's in the midst of all.

Too long a sacrifice

Can make a stone of the heart.

O when may it suffice?

That is Heaven's part, our part

To murmur name upon name,

As a mother names her child

When sleep at last has come

On limbs that had run wild.

What is it but nightfall?

No, no, not night but death;

Was it needless death after all?

For England may keep faith

For all that is done and said.

We know their dream; enough

To know they dreamed and are dead;

And what if excess of love

Bewildered them till they died?

I write it out in a verse -

MacDonagh and MacBride

And Connolly and Pearse

Now and in time to be,

Wherever green is worn,

Are changed, changed utterly:

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The Year There Was No Summer...

The Year There Was No Summer…..

1816 – also known as Eighteen hundred and froze to death – a summer that changed the world in more ways than one.

I am not sure if this winter is the worst I can remember, or if it is the fact that since on Multiply, I hear (and see) weather conditions from all around the globe. I am not used to seeing enormous drifts of snow as those that have hit Canada constantly since last November. I just wonder if that is why I always feel so cold. Then again, I am now old and feeble.

In any event, the major effects were felt in the northern hemisphere, in particular Northern Europe, the American Northeast and Eastern Canada. It was a major disaster throughout these areas. The temperatures for summer in these areas are generally stable with the average being between 68 – 77 d.F. They rarely fall below 41 d.F. and summer snow is seldom if ever seen.

The first signs of what was to come, came in May 1816 when severe frost killed off most of the crops that had been planted. In June two major snowstorms hit eastern Canada and New England which caused many human deaths. More crops, which had survived the earlier frosts, now succumbed and died. This caused localised famine from which many died. Those who were weakened by hunger quickly fell to various diseases adding to the death list.

In July and August, lake and river ice was seen as far south as Pennsylvania. However, within the same period temperatures would be normal or above average one minute and within hours plummet to near freezing. Some farmers in the south area of New England managed to harvest some crops, in particular maize and other grain, but the prices rocketed. The cost of oats jumped from 12 cents a bushel the previous year to 92 cents – an eightfold increase. This would be the equivalent of petrol at $3 a gallon jumping to $24 inside twelve months.

I can hear someone saying ‘So What?’ Well the point is, there were no cars in 1816 and the main mode of transport was by horse. They were also used for all the heavy farm work. Horses need ‘fuel’ and the ‘fuel’ was oats. Most of the roads were in poor condition or non-existent, which caused more problems. Food and feed could not be transported from an area of plenty to those in severe distress

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In Europe, the problem was even greater. The Napoleonic Wars had just ended and even without the ‘new’ problems, food was short. There were food riots in France and Britain with grain stores being looted. On the continent huge storms raged causing abnormal rainfall and flooding of the major rivers. Frost began to settle in August. Thousands died as a result.

Hungary and Italy experienced ‘brown’ or ‘red’ snow, which provides modern scientists with the root cause of the problem. There were amazing colourful sunsets from the same cause. In fact, in some of Turner’s famous seascape paintings, the colourful, misty yellow tinge impression that can be seen is also attributed to ‘volcanic ash’.

There had been two large volcano eruptions the previous years. In 1812 on Saint Vincent in the Caribbean and in 1814 in the Phillipines. These played a major role when between 5th April and 15th April 1815 further eruptions on Mount Tambora in the now Indonesia, ejected enormous amounts of dust into the upper atmosphere. This volcanic ash circulated around the globe preventing sunlight passing through the atmosphere and thereby lowering temperatures.

The summer of 1816 caused much panic on the eastern side of America and Canada. News that the western regions were more or less unaffected caused an exodus of tens of thousands who struck out for the better growing conditions of the Upper Midwest, then known as the Northwest Territory.

Because of the weakness shown in the lack of horse-feed and the impassable road conditions, other means of transport were being experimented with. There is little doubt that the German, Karl Drais invented the first type of bicycle at this time. This led to further and better means, which would eventually end up with the motor engine and it’s associated benefits. After all, ‘Necessity is the Mother of Invention’.

Finally, can I suggest that we all keep our fingers crossed that the weather soon improves – I doubt if I could continue with what we are now having.

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Money, Money, Money..

Money, Money, Money…..

Today, Maundy Thursday, 20th March 2008 a fourteen hundred-year tradition was broken when Maundy Money was distributed in Ireland for the first time and for the second time ever, outside of England. Queen Elizabeth Second, accompanied by The Duke of Edinburgh, presented 82 ‘poor’ men and 82 women each with 82 coins. Each coin represents one year of the Monarch’s life. Face value of the coins comes to 82 pence but in the very rare event of someone selling them at auction, there would be a very high demand and therefore a very high price paid.

Up to 1820 ordinary silver coins of the realm were presented and do not attract as much attention when up for sale as do the modern versions. They are specially minted and are of sterling silver. Unlike other coins in circulation, they show the Queen’s head as a young woman.

The distribution was known in England since 600AD but the first ‘recorded’ instance of the ceremony was during King Edward Second’s reign (1307-1327). The ‘washing of the feet’ was part of the ceremony for many centuries but ended in 1736. During the 2003 ceremony, the Archbishop of Canterbury, Dr. Rowan Williams reinstated it.

So, today, Maundy or Holy Thursday, the Queen attended St. Patrick’s Church of Ireland Cathedral, Armagh, Northern Ireland and presented the sets to 82 men and 82 women who were nominated by the various Church denominations.

The four-penny coin was known as a ‘Groat’ or in London back-slang, a ‘Rouf’.

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Brendan Behan/Luke Kelly.

Brendan Behan – Luke Kelly…

I was looking up a previous posting (Molly Malone’s Friends), when I looked at the statue of Brendan Behan. Suddenly my eyes were attracted to an object on the bench between Brendan and the pigeon. It was the ‘triangle’ in the centre of the seat. I was suddenly reminded that this was the Bold Brendan’s ‘signature tune’ – ‘The Auld Triangle’.

A quick look at Youtube revealed a truly haunting and beautiful version by Luke Kelly and the Dubliners.

Someone mentioned in a recent comment about Luke. He was a wonderful strong singer and many of his songs have stood the test of time and he remains the one that all up-and-coming young folk singers strive to imitate.

Luke was born less than a quarter of a mile from O’Connell Street in the heart of Dublin on 17th November 1940. He had a wonderful career with The Dubliners and was feted all over the world. I saw him many times but never saw him in drink. He apparently had a problem. In June 1980 he collapsed on stage in Cork. He had a brain problem, which caused him to forget lyrics.

On a European tour in 1980, he again collapsed on stage and the tour had to be cancelled. He was later flown home to Dublin and hospitalised. He had a brain operation and was allowed home for the Christmas of that year. He returned to hospital in the New Year but sadly died on 30th January 1984. He was 44 years old.

He is buried in Glasnevin Cemetery in Dublin where his tombstone bears the inscription,

‘Luke Kelly – Dubliner’.

(Can I suggest that those unfamiliar with the Dublin accent, listen to the song on the links shown whilst reading the lines for either on their own will make little or no sense).

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The Auld Triangle…

http://youtube.com/watch?v=yje5MHHp_fM&feature=related

A hungry feeling, came o'er me stealing

And the mice they were squealing in my prison cell

And that auld triangle, went jingle jangle

All along the banks of the Royal Canal.

Oh to start the morning, the warden bawling

Get up out of bed you, and clean out your cell

And that auld triangle, went jingle jangle

All along the banks of the Royal Canal.

Oh the screw was peeping and the lag was sleeping

As he lay weeping for his girl Sal

And that auld triangle, went jingle jangle

All along the banks of the Royal Canal.

On a fine spring evening, the lag lay dreaming

And the seagulls were wheeling high above the wall

And that auld triangle, went jingle jangle

All along the banks of the Royal Canal.

Oh the wind was sighing, and the day was dying

As the lag lay crying in his prision cell

And that auld triangle, went jingle jangle

All along the banks of the Royal Canal.

In the female prison there are seventy women

And I wish it was with them that I did dwell

And that auld triangle, went jingle jangle

All along the banks of the Royal Canal.

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The Rare Ould Times
[Originally by Pete St. John]

http://youtube.com/watch?v=GeEFlZhX1hM

Raised on songs and stories, heroes of renown

The passing tales and glories that once was Dublin Town

The hallowed halls and houses, the haunting children’s’ rhymes

That once was Dublin City in the rare ould times.

Ring a ring a rosey, as the light declines

I remember Dublin City in the rare ould times.

My name it is Sean Dempsey, as Dublin as can be

Born hard and late in Pimlico, in a house that ceased to be

By trade I was a cooper, lost out to redundancy

Like my house that fell to progress, my trade's a memory

And I courted Peggy Dignan, as pretty as you please

A rogue and child of Mary, from the rebel Liberties

I lost her to a student chap, with skin as black as coal

When he took her off to Birmingham, she took away my soul.

Ring a ring a rosey, as the light declines

I remember Dublin City in the rare ould times.

The years have made me bitter, the gargle dims me brain

Cause Dublin keeps on changing, and nothing seems the same

The Pillar and the Met have gone, the Royal long since pulled down

As the grey unyielding concrete, makes a city of my town.

Ring a ring a rosey, as the light declines

I remember Dublin City in the rare ould times.

Fare thee well sweet Anna Liffey, I can no longer stay

And watch the new glass cages, that spring up along the quay

My mind's too full of memories, too old to hear new chimes

I'm part of what was Dublin, in the rare ould times.

Ring a ring a rosey, as the light declines

I remember Dublin City in the rare ould times.

Ring a ring a rosey, as the light declines

I remember Dublin City in the rare ould times.
---------------------------

The Tears of an Emigrant..

The Tears of an Emigrant…

"So here I stand broken-hearted. Not only am I leaving my parents behind but also the only true love of my life. And yet, sure I’m betwixt and between whether I will miss them as much as the place where I was born. Ah, Bunclody, sure if it pleases the good Lord above, maybe one day I will return and see you for one last time".

Sean O’Loughlin stood on the deck of the steamship as it eased its way out of the harbour at Rosslair bound for the English port of Liverpool. As he looked back for the final time, Sean burst out in tears for in his heart he truly felt that he would never see Ireland again. Liverpool would only be a stopover whilst he awaited the ship to take him across the Atlantic to his new home, America. He cried like a newborn baby and he showed no shame in front of the many others who were doing likewise.

He was aged 18 years and had been born in the village of Bunclody in County Wexford on a cold winter’s night on Friday 13th January 1908. He had four brothers and two sisters who had begged him not to leave. His mother was broken hearted whilst his father was resigned to the fact that as there was little or no work for young men in Ireland at the time, he was right to emigrate and seek his fortune in a distant land. Afterall, hadn’t he seen it all before and hadn’t his second son left two years previously. He could not understand why Sean wanted to leave as the eldest son, Brian, had offered to keep him to help work the small farm.

Sean had little or no education other than a few days here and there at the village school. Most of his time was spent working the farm and any spare time he had was taken up with his wanderings through the hills and fishing the local rivers.

"Sure never again might I see the Clody as it flows down into the Slaney and I doubt if I will ever again take a salmon or sea-trout during the June run" he spoke aloud but none of the other passengers took any notice of his ramblings.

He was proud to call himself a ‘Wexford Man’ for although the county border with Carlow passed through the town, he was indeed proud to be connected with the Wexford rebels of the 1798 rebellion.

Only once had be been more than ten miles from the village and that was when he was fourteen years old and his father had taken him to Dublin for the All-Ireland Hurling Final which Wexford had won with flying colours. He knew that was a memory he would never forget no matter how far away from the village he travelled.

He remembered that day well but it was nothing compared with the day when he had first set eyes on her. She of the long black hair and rosy cheeks. In her white summer frock and red bonnet she had stood out on the riverbank like an angel from heaven. His mind had been miles away and he almost fainted with shock on seeing her. He had never seen anyone or anything so beautiful in his life. He was seventeen at the time.

They had spoken briefly merely to talk about the beautiful June day. It was she who had pointed out the sound of the cuckoo from close nearby. Sean had told her all about the cuckoo’s habits and she was pleased to hear it. On leaving, she told him that she regularly visited the spot.

For the next week, he had visited the riverbank at every opportunity but she was not there. He had in fact located the nest where the cuckoo had laid its solitary egg. In the weeks that followed he saw the egg hatch and the reed warblers in whose nest the egg had been laid, make frantic and almost impossible attempts to provide food for the rapidly growing chick. Within days, it was six times bigger than the warblers.

It was on a Saturday afternoon in late June that he next met the young lady at the same spot. She it was who had called to him. He was delighted with the fact and through nerves was unable to speak for some minutes. She began to tease him and stroke his long blonde hair. He showed her the nest with the cuckoo in it and she screamed in both horror and excitement.

Without warning, she put her arms around him and kissed him on the lips. It was the first time in his life that he had been kissed by anyone other than his mother. He thought he was going to faint. They lay on the grassy riverbank with their arms around each other. As quickly as she arrived, she had to leave. She said something about a large gathering ‘at the big house’. As she ran along the riverbank, Sean followed silently and in the shadows.

About a mile further on, he saw her cross in the shallows and run up a path towards what he knew was the Manor House. He thought for a moment that she could be one of the maids but as he watched from some trees, he saw her being welcomed at the front door by a beautifully dressed lady and a gentleman in fine clothes. He was heart-broken.

He did not walk the riverbank for over a week and when he finally did, he saw her again dressed in white. He cried at the sight of her. He cried at the thought that she could never have anything to do with him. He cried because he was poor and that she was wealthy. He knew he loved her but knew only too well, that his love could never be fulfilled. He did not approach her but quietly made his way back home.

Over the coming months, his heart ached and he longed to see ‘his beautiful queen’ once more but knew only too well what would happen to him if he were seen with her. For her sake he kept well away from where they used to meet. His love for her was breaking his heart in two. He had read a letter from his brother in New York to his father and decided that if his love could not be cured, it would have to be endured – but in a distant place. It was then that he decided he would leave everything behind.

He had confided in his mother, who although broken hearted at the prospect, promised him that she would help him in any way that she could. It was she who had managed to make up the fare for the journey together with some ‘spending money’. She had wished him well with only one request. That he keep the faith and attend church every Sunday.

And so it was, Sean stood on the deck of the ship as Ireland faded away in the distance.

Again he cried – the tears of the emigrant……………….

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The Streams of Bunclody…

Oh were I at the moss house, where the birds do increase,

At the foot of Mount Leinster or some silent place,

By the streams of Bunclody where all pleasures do meet,

And all I would ask is one kiss from you, sweet.

Oh the streams of Bunclody they flow down so free,

By the streams of Bunclody I'm longing to be,

A-drinking strong liquor in the height of my cheer,

Here's a health to Bunclody and the lass I love dear.

The cuckoo is a pretty good bird, it sings as it flies

,It brings us good tidings, and tells us no lies,

It sucks the young birds' eggs to make its voice clear

And the more it cries cuckoo the summer draws near.

If I were a clerk and could write a good hand,

I would write to my true-love that she might understand,

For I am a young fellow who is wounded in love

Once I lived in Bunclody, but now must remove

. If I was a lark and had wings I could fly

I would go to yon arbour where my love she does lie,

I'd proceed to yon arbour where my true love does lie

,And on her fond bosom contented I would die.

'Tis why my love slights me, as you may understand,

That she has a freehold and I have no land,

She has great store of riches, and a large sum of gold

,And everything fitting a house to uphold.

So fare you well father and my mother, adieu

My sister and brother farewell unto you,

I am bound for America my fortune to try

,When I think on Bunclody, I'm ready to die.

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There is a beautiful shortened version by Luke Kelly of the Dubliners on:
http://youtube.com/watch?v=3RPaE0VMtWo&feature=related

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US: Baptists vs. Presbyterians..

U.S. Baptists vs. Presbyterians
(with the Catholics In-between).

The history surrounding the Presbyterians in the US begins as far as this posting is concerned when in 1638 and 1641, in Scotland, the Presbyterians signed a Covenant. This stated that they desired the Presbyterian form of church government and would not accept the Church of England as its official state church. Many signed in their own blood and wore red pieces of cloth around their necks as a sign of their religious beliefs. They became known as ‘Rednecks’. As late as 1940, at least one Scottish Presbyterian minister insisted on wearing a red clerical collar. In Ireland and Scotland such bitterness has a long-lasting taste.

Because of their dissatisfaction with the British government in Scotland, thousands took up the offer to move to Northern Ireland (Ulster) as the first Plantationists. The Irish chiefs and landowners, who were also in total dispute with the English had been dispossessed of their lands and many were forced into exile – The Flight of the Earls.

The Presbyterians lived a haphazard lifestyle in Ulster and were hounded by the Irish and badly treated by the English – Anglican - landlords. Their Churches were burned down and many were killed. In fact, on many Sundays, hundreds would sail from Ulster to Scotland merely to attend church.

The Test Act of 1704 caused particular hardship to the Presbyterians, as marriages conducted by their ministers were invalid. They were also barred from worshipping in their churches or holding public office. At this time they also became know as 'Blackmouths' due to the fact that during the summer, whilst holding their services outdoors in the hedgerows and fields they would eat blackberries. They were a hardy set of people through necessity.

Many were involved in the Linen trade and when the English placed additional tariffs on the Irish industry, they found the situation untenable. The exodus began.

The first small group of families began sailing to America in the 1690’s but by 1740, over a quarter of a million men, women and children had left. Their Presbyterian ministers sailed with them and as they had the basis of a well-organised church with them, Presbyterianism began to spread rapidly across America. Many moved to the South and mountainous regions. They wore red/orange neckerchiefs to signify their origins and became known as Rednecks. The later arrivals, after the Battle of the Boyne in 1690, when King William of Orange beat the Irish/Jacobites, became known as the ‘Billies from the Hills’, later changed to ‘Hillbillies’.

It is at this stage that the problems began. All Presbyterian ministers were required to have a university education and to be bible school trained. The Baptist Church did not require the same standards for their pastors so it grew in numbers. It soon overtook the Presbyterian Church and became the leading form of worship in America.

Because of the adversities the Ulster-Scots had suffered in the Lowlands of Scotland and later on in Ulster, they became the frontiersmen that forged their way westward in America. They were lured with the offer of free land and gladly accepted it. They would move into unknown territory and set up their homes and churches. As soon as such areas became peaceful, others would follow and once again they would move forward.

They became the backbone of America. When the war against the British started, they were well aware of the bigotry that would once again be forced upon them so they fought on the American side with great distinction.

When the Great Famine hit Ireland in the mid 1800’s, it was the turn of the poor Irish Catholics to follow the trail set by the Ulster-Scots. Once again, hundreds of thousands emigrated to the Americas. However, they were badly treated and most of the young men were basically press-ganged into the Military. The women and children, together with the old people were left in the major ports and cities to form ghettos. They were treated as outcasts and one of the few jobs open to them was as Firemen and Police Officers. That tradition continues to this day.

At present, in the US, there are estimated to be 27 million Scots-Irish (Ulster-Scots) – Presbyterians and Baptists whilst 17 million claim to be Catholic Irish.

So at the closing of this Saint Patrick’s Day, have a little thought for the Rednecks and Hillbillies – for without them, America would not be such a great Nation as it is.

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Saint Patrick's Day...

Thoughts on Saint Patrick’s Day.

To day, Monday 17th March is Saint Patrick’s Day. It is a day when tens of millions of people all over the world will claim, rightly in most cases, some Irish ancestry. It might, without taking away any of the enjoyment of the day, also be a time to reflect why Irish men, women and children were scattered to the four corners of the globe.

Starvation. Transportation. Exploration. Enforced Exile. To name just four reasons.

A couple of songs for the day, I could not find a recording of the first……..

Poor Old Dan O’Hara…

Arra, my cushla, gal mo chroi, won’t you buy a box from me,
And you’ll have the prayers of poor old Dan O’Hara,
I sell them cheap and low, so buy a box before you go,
From poor old broken Dan from Connemara.

In the year of sixty-four, I had acres by the score,
‘Twas the finest land you ever ran a plough through,
But the landlord came, you know, and he left me poor home low,
So it is here I am today, broken hearted.

Arra, my cushla, gal mo chroi,....

In the year of sixty-four, sure misfortune crossed me door,
And me poor old wife and I were sadly parted,
We were scattered far and wide, our poor children starved and died,
So it is here I am today, broken hearted.

Arra, my cushla, gal mo chroi,......

---------------

Spansil Hill..

http://youtube.com/watch?v=_iUEwB4ME3I

Last night, as I lay dreaming, of pleasant days gone bye,
Me mind being bent on rambling, to Ireland I did fly,
I stepped on board a vision, and I followed with the wind,
When next I came to anchor at, the Cross on Spansil Hill.

And on the 23rd of June, the day before the fair,
When Irelands sons and daughters, and friends assembled there,
The young and the old, the brave and the bold, came, their duty to fulfil,
At the parish church at Clooney, a mile from Spansil Hill.

I went to see me neighbours, to see what they might say,
The old ones were all dead and gone, the young ones turning grey.
I met the tailor Quigley, he’s as bald as ever still,
Sure he used to make be breeches, when I lived on Spansil Hill.

I paid a flying visit to my first and only love,
She’s as white as any lily, and as gentle as a dove,
She threw her arms around me, saying, Jonnie, I love you still,
Oh, she’s Ned the farmer’s daughter, the pride of Spansil Hill.

I dreamt I held and kissed her, as in the days of yore,
Oh Jonnie, you’re only joking, as many a time before,
The cock he crew in the morning, he crew both loud and shrill,
I awoke in California, many miles from Spansil Hill.

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Have a wonderful day, and sure if there is not a drop of Irish blood coursing through your veins, you are welcome to join in the festivities - Failte agus Slainte go leir…..

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Irish Whiskey..

A Drop of the Hard Stuff..

Irish Whiskey is not to everyones taste. I found it to be much rougher than Scotch. The word ˜whiskey" comes from the Gaelic ˜uisca" meaning water and the full Gaelic name for the spirit is ˜uisca beaha" meaning the ˜water of life". Irish Whiskey always has the letter ˜e" in it whilst the Scottish variety does not.

The first written record of Whiskey is in 1405 in Ireland. It is also mentioned in Scotland in 1496. However, it is likely to have originated centuries earlier, probably in the Middle East and brought to Ireland by the early Monks.

Home-made whiskey in Ireland is known as Poteen (Gaelic ˜little pot“ and pronounced potcheen). Its smoothness and in fact its pureness depends on the number of times it is passed through the 'still'. Before drinking it, a small amount should be placed on a metal spoon and lit. It should be allowed to burn until the spoon is dry. If you rub your finger on the spoon and get a show of carbon, it is not yet pure. Bad quality is said to turn you blind.

I have not seen or heard of it for many, many years but in my youth it was quite common. The basis then was that a potato mix and sugar made up the mixture (the wash) and was allowed to ferment for about two weeks, depending on the weather. Purists, and those with the necessary finance used malted barley or other wheat as the basis for the wash. It was common to bury it in turf bogs whilst it fermented.

The warmer the weather, the sooner the wash was ready for distilling. It was then put into a sealed container (the still) which had a ˜worm" connected. This was invariably a copper tubular coiled pipe. The still with its contents were then brought to the boil and the alcohol was released through the worm in the form of steam. The worm may have been cooled with water but during cold weather that was not necessary. The liquid, the poteen, then dripped out the end of the worm into a container.

The liquid obtained was often returned to the still several times to improve purity.

It was usually made up the mountains and well away from any form of road network. Lookouts would be posted and sometimes an elaborate warning system was devised. Probably nowadays, if it is still being made (as I am sure it is), cellphones are likely all that is required.

The Revenue people make many raids to stop the production as do the Gardai (the Irish Police Service). Oddly enough, and I have no evidence whatsoever that the following is true, but it was said when I was young, that the best source for the best poteen was the local police Sergeant.

A wonderful story from the West of Ireland is that after a large seizure of poteen (top quality it is said), a senior officer from police headquarters attended the local police station to supervise its destruction. He watched it being poured down a drain. After he left, the local officers, ably assisted by some of the locals, lifted the drain cover and recovered the liquid, which had in fact gone straight into a large tub.

I well remember a woman police officer I worked with telling me a story about her parents who were Irish. It appears that they had the contacts for the stuff and were returning to England in their car on the car-ferry. They had ten two-litre lemonade bottles full of the stuff on the back seat of the car covered by a travelling rug. I should have mentioned that the liquid is always clear and unlike ˜normal" whiskey.

At the port of entry they were signalled to stop by the Customs and Excise Officers and asked if they had anything to declare. They of course said that they did not so the officer asked what was under the rug on the back seat. As cool as a cucumber, the lady lifted the rug and said "Our radiator started leaking in Ireland and it was too expensive to have it fixed there; we keep topping it up with that water until we get back to London". Needless to say they were waved through.

Finally, the odd thing is that Poteen has been made illegally in Ireland for centuries. About twenty years ago, someone had the bright idea of registering the various spelling of the word as brand names. You can now buy the stuff legally, duty paid but somehow I do not think that it has the same, how would you call it ˜forbidden fruit" aspect to it.

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Time after Time:

It was quiet early one morning in the Control Tower at Dublin Airport when suddenly the radio crackled. "Time check please Dublin" a voice rang out. The controller replied "If you are American, the time is zero-three-twenty hours. If you are European, the time is three twenty AM. If you are English, the little hand is at three and the big hand is at four"..

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Molly Malones Friends..

Molly Malone’s Friends….

In my blog on Molly Malone – she of the Cockles and Mussels fame in Dublin, I mentioned the fact that as soon as a statue is erected in Dublin, there seems to be an unwritten competition to ‘rename’ it. The two that I previously mentioned were Molly Malone herself who immediately became known as the ‘Tart with the Cart’ or ’The Dish with the Fish’. The other was ‘The Floozy in the Jacuzzi’ – she was supposed to represent the flowing River Liffey from nearby. More disrespectfully, she was known also as ‘The Hoor in the Sewer’ – (The Whore).

She used to be sited in O’Connell Street where Nelson’s Column used to stand before it was blown up by the IRA in the 60’s. She was replaced by ‘The Spire of Dublin’ – quickly changed to ‘The Stiletto in the Ghetto’ or ‘The Erection at the Intersection’ or ‘The Stiffy by the Liffey’ or ‘The North Pole’ or finally ‘The Nail in the Pale’.

Famous writers do not receive any special dispensation from the Dublin wit. The statue of Oscar Wilde quickly became ‘The Quare in the Square’ – (quare = queer).

The world-renowned James Joyce leaning on a walking stick became ‘The Prick with the Stick’ whilst the statue of two Dublin women sitting and talking became ‘The Hags with the Bags’.

I have kept the best of all to last. They (Dublin Corporation), and this is no Irish joke, put a Digital Clock under water in the Liffey close to O’Connell’s Bridge. (I still think it was done as a joke). It rapidly got covered with Liffey muck and equally as fast got renamed ‘The Time in the Slime’.

I could not find any statue of Brendan Behan * – I am sure that the Corporation completely bottled out on that one. However, no trace of the following can be found in his writings so it too must have been penned by some Dublin wit. He is supposed to have said of himself that he was ‘A Drinker with Writing Problems’. Again, he is supposed to have answered when asked the difference between ‘poetry and prose’:

‘There was a young fellah named Rollocks,
Who worked for the Farrier Pollocks.
As he walked on the Strand,
With his girl by the hand,
The tide came up to his knees’.

He is supposed to have added "Now that’s Prose. If the tide had been in, it would have been Poetry".

----------------------------

Dublin – what a beautiful, what’s the word?…………………. Ah yes, dump……………

------------------------

Addendum: As a result of a further search I found the statue of Brendan Behan. I am sure old Brendan would not mind me calling it 'The Turd with the Bird'...

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Paddy Who?

Paddy Me Boy….

"But Paddy" the helmsman pleaded "everytime we try to land the blinking boat, the crowd keeps throwing rocks at us. I thought you knew these people and this blinking coastline". Paddy shrugged his shoulders and answered "It doesn’t look familiar, but then again the whole blinking place looks the same". "But" the helmsman continued "you said you had been here for more than six years".

"Yeah" there was a chorus from the other two members of the crew.

"Look here" Patrick seemed annoyed "we can either turn around and go back and you can all report that our mission was impossible or" and Paddy raised his arm and pointed "We can try somewhere else". With that they turned the boat around and headed north along the coast. Within minutes they were caught in a strong tide and were being pushed northwards at a great rate of knots.

When they had been travelling for more than two hours, the tide slackened and they drifted towards the shore and a sandy beach. They dragged the boat up onto a grassy bank and lay down to rest. They had been at sea for the best part of two weeks.

A foggy mist began to swirl down from a nearby hill and it began to rain. "Blinking hell", John, one of the crew complained "Is it always like this here?". Paddy replied with a smile on his face "No, not always John, most of the time it is much worse. I think we better head for a more sheltered spot". They took their baggage and began to move inland.

Close to the top of the nearby hill, they came across a rocky outcrop where they decided to rest for the evening. "We will continue in the morning" Paddy explained "and we should reach where we are going by tomorrow night". They ate what food they had left from their journey and rolled up in their bedrolls to sleep.

Half an hour later, Peter stood up and began to pace up and down. "Blinking hell Paddy, but this weather would test the patience of a Saint. Is it always this cold here in March?" "Not always" replied Paddy with a large grin on his face "sometimes it even snows". "Well how about lighting a fire?" John asked. "Sorry John" replied Paddy "but you know these people’s rules, only the King can light the first fire after the the spring equinox". "I’ll be careful Paddy" John moaned "otherwise we will all catch pneumonia and our journey would have been in vain". "Be it on your own head John" Paddy answered then rolled himself up in his bedding and closed his eyes

John, Peter and Claud, the other crewman, gathered up wood from beneath nearby trees and literally within ten minutes, not only had they a fire going, but an enormous one at that. As they sat around it, they began to sing.

Meanwhile, about five miles away, the fire was seen by some of the King’s men. When the King heard the news, he sent out a team of men to capture and kill if necessary, the person or persons responsible.

As the armed guards rode up, the three crewmen woke up Paddy. "I think we have cocked–up Patrick, you might be up to your knees in pig-shit once again". "Why is it that everytime I close my eyes for just one minute, you trio of amadans (idiots) create havoc". The Captain of the Guard rode up and ordered that the fire be extinguished immediately. When he saw Paddy and the strange clothing he was wearing he asked "And who are you?" Patrick stood erect and answered "I am Patrick from Rome, I have been sent back to Ireland by his Holiness the Pope, to convert your people to Christianity". "I don’t give a blinking damn who sent you, you are all coming with me to stand before the King of all Ireland where you can plead for your lives".

As they were marched away, John turned to Peter and whispered "I hope to God that Paddy has some clever tricks up his sleeve that will help save us. These soldiers are frightening the crap out of me".

And so began the task of Saint Patrick to do God’s work in Ireland………..

-----------------------------