Caribbean Irish

Irish 'Slaves' in the Caribbean....

"A rose by any other name would smell as sweet" – by that I mean, they were called ‘Indentured servants’ but never the less they were treated as slaves and in many cases worse than the Black slaves.   After all, the indentured servants were far cheaper and no one cared what happened to them.  The black slaves were an expensive means of labour whilst the Irish were cheap.

It all goes back to Elizabeth First when she banished the Irish Earls (O’Neill and O’Donnell) and their clans from Ireland.   Their vast lands, predominantly in Ulster and Northern Ireland, were confiscated and given out to those in favour.   So the ‘plantation’ of Ireland began.   The results still resound today although thank God, peace has held for many years since the ‘Good Friday Agreement’.

In the 1600’s the native/nationalist Irish rebelled against the newcomers.  At first the majority were executed but soon the British realised that with a little offer of survival, a large profit could be made from the prisoners.   They were offered ‘Indenture’ status whereby if they paid for their own travel, they would be sent to primarily the West Indies and sold into the sugar cane industry.   Most of the men and boys were used in the fields as labour whilst the women and ‘used’ as servants.

The first of thousands were sent to Montserrat, an island in the Caribbean, which was heavily involved in the sugar cane industry.   This island was the territory of the United Kingdom.  My old nemesis Oliver Cromwell (spit and curse at the mention of his name) was heavily involved from an early stage and I would not be in the slightest doubt that it was in fact his idea.

A slight variation to his statement ‘To hell or to Connaught’ when he confiscated all the rich land in Ireland and sent the tenants to the West of Ireland where the land was poor and incapable of providing enough food.   A relative statement by him could as a result of his actions, read ‘To hell or to the West Indies’. 

In any event, the first droves were sent to Montserrat.   Because of the Irish influence and the marriages between the Irishmen and black women, it became known as the ‘Emerald Island of the Caribbean’.   Oddly enough, any children born to these marriages immediately became actual slaves.  

The present inhabitants have an almost fanatical love for the Irish way of life and celebrate Saint Patrick’s Day even better than the Irish people back in Ireland.   The celebrations go on for a week and the day itself is a national holiday.  Their flag has a woman with a harp and cross on it.   The national emblem is a shamrock.   Many of those who live in ‘foreign countries’ fanatically celebrate St. Patrick’s Day and take part in parades.   Most of the population of Montserrat speak English but with a distinct Irish brogue..

Finally, the ‘Indenture’ usually lasted for five to seven years but not many managed to survive and return to Ireland.   Many died from heat related illnesses whilst others remained and became very wealthy.  Some even became plantation owners.

A similar indenture procedure was ‘used’ in the tobacco growing industry in the United States of America.

It should be noted that many thousands of Irish people voluntarily immigrated to Montserrat to work in the sugar industry and in fact almost half the population in the seventeenth century was Irish....................

----------Mike--------

Glendalough and Saint Kevin..

The Glen of the Two Lakes....

My home county back in Ireland is County Wicklow and is known as the Garden of Ireland.   It has so many hidden beautiful and secluded places, some well known but many waiting to be discovered.  

One of the most scenic valleys is Glendalough – The Glen of the Two Lakes.   It can be found about 25 miles south of Dublin on the East Coast.   It was what is known to the Irish as a ‘tourist trap’ and a place to be avoided on account of the numerous ‘visitors’ and their very large coaches.  It is on the itinerary of most Irish Tour companies.   However, usually in the earlier part of the morning they have not yet arrived and the true peaceful aura that is felt can be overpowering.

It is an ancient site with many of the buildings dating to the 10^th and 12^th centuries.  When wandering around the beautiful scene, the feelings that they evoke can literally take your breath away.

One of the most striking is the Round Tower.   These towers can be found all over Ireland and were used by the monks to protect their religious artefacts when attacked by looters.   The Danes, the Vikings and the Normans all raided this and other religious sites.

Saint Kevin was the founder of the monastery and lived a hermit-like existence at the site with his group of monks.  He died about 618 which gives an indication of the age of the monastery.

It flourished as a monastery for over 600 years and when I at last visited it on a trip ‘home’ in around 1988, I honestly felt the history in the surroundings.   It is very beautiful and when not too crowded the serenity is deeply touching.

I could continue to extol its beauty but my writing could not truly convey my feelings on the surroundings.   I shall let some of the following photographs paint a truer picture.

There is a Wikipedia entry which goes into much deeper history on this link:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glendalough

----------Mike--------

A Cottage in the Country

A Little Bit of Fiction....

Leroy Brown knew that he was capable of doing far better than just working in a five-dollar car wash. ‘If it is the last thing I do, I am going back to night-school and get a diploma. I am going to make something of myself. Meanwhile, here we go again. Wax on.......Wax off. Wax on.......Wax off.......wipe, and wipe.....shine and shine’.

Such blues never stayed long with young Leroy for more than five or ten minutes and very soon he was singing again.

He had quite a good voice but his choice of music usually let him down. ‘Ole man river, dat ole man river, he don't say nuttin, he sure..’.

He was cut off mid bar by a fat red-faced little white man, more red than white, so much so that Leroy thought that he could easily be a Red Indian or as he had been told off often enough by his mother, a Native American.

'And I was having such a good day’ he said to himself as he approached the man. ‘Boy, where's the Lincoln. Ain't she done yet?’ he shouted. ‘Yes boss’ Leroy replied.  His mother’s same wisdom had taught him to be subservient to all sorts of ignorant people. If it meant a five-dollar tip, he was not above grovelling.

As he had said only yesterday to his young wife Barbara, 'I ate garbage and crap all day yesterday and I ate more garbage and crap today. But I have an extra sixty-five dollars in my pocket, so I will eat garbage and crap again tomorrow. I hated it and loved it at the same time. But only until I have saved enough money to go to night-school’.

As one of the drivers brought the Lincoln around to the front, Leroy noticed that the little fat man was even redder than before and was leaning against a pillar. He went over and said, ‘Dat be five dollar sur’ laying on the thick southern false accent.

The man took out his wallet and without looking, tore off a fifty-dollar bill and said, ‘Keep the change kid, nice job’.

Leroy had been taught by his old grandfather that you should ‘Never look a gift horse in the mouth’ so he didn't. He merely put the fifty in his pocket, took out a five and handed it to the cashier. He was happy with the result but a little worried for the fat man. He turned to the driver who had brought the car around and quietly said ‘I think he should go check himself out with his physician to make sure everything is fine before things start falling off - I can see it in the man's face’.

Not long afterwards, his young wife Barbara stuck her head around the corner and called ‘Leroy, you eaten yet?’ ‘No, not yet precious, but I got some great news’ he answered. She merely waved a finger at him and scolded him by saying ‘Please don’t say anything important 'till I come back’.

Fifteen minutes later they were sitting on a bench in the park opposite the car wash. They talked very little as they ate their sandwiches and drank their cokes.

Suddenly, Leroy stopped mid bite. ‘Lord, oh Lord’ he exclaimed. ‘What is it Leroy? You look like you've seen a ghost’. ‘I think I have,’ he said, still with the sandwich half way to his mouth. He nodded towards a little fat white man with a red face who was talking to a much younger man who looked slightly familiar.

  

The younger man was heard by both of them to say, "Ooh, a cottage! How charming" and pointed to a gents toilet partially protected by some trees. Both of the men walked hand-in-hand towards it and went inside.

Leroy could have sworn that the younger man was none other than George Michael but records will show that he was at least fifteen hundred miles away at the time performing on stage.

However, Leroy and Barbara still talk to this day about how much the little white red-faced man must have spent in fifties that afternoon........or was it how much he had actually earned………

----------Mike----------

Stop and Think..

No Return to Sender....

Never ever type a complaint or email and send it immediately.

And why not, you might ask? Because I think that old Omar Khayyam got it right many, many years before computers. A wise old man was Omar.

The Moving Finger writes, and having writ,

Moves on: nor all your Piety nor wit

Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,

Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.

----------------Mike---------------

A Little Touch of Poteen...

 A Drop of the Hard Stuff..

Irish Whiskey is not to everyones taste. When I tried the odd drop or two, way back, I found it to be much rougher than Scotch. The word ˜whiskey" comes from the Gaelic word ˜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 the spelling 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 mashed up raw potato mix and sugar made up the mixture (the Mash) 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 mash. It was common to bury it in a sealed containers in turf bogs whilst it fermented.

The warmer the weather, the sooner the mash 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 to warn of strangers approaching.

The Revenue (Customs and Excise) people, (the Gombeens) 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 Poteen is always clear and unlike ˜normal" whiskey.

At the port of entry in Britain 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 it legally, duty paid but somehow I do not think that it has the same, how would you call it ˜forbidden fruit" and excitement aspect to it.

Whiskey you're the Devil, you're leading me astray
Over hills and mountains and to Amerikay
You're sweeter, stronger, decenter
More spunkier than tay
Oh whiskey you're me darlin' drunk or sober.

Oh, now brave boys are on the march,

Off for Portugal and Spain
Drums are beating, banners flying
The Devil at home we'll come tonight
Oh, love fare thee well
With me tiddery idle loodle la dem da
Me tiddery idle loodle la dem da
Me right fol tor ra laddy o
There's whiskey in the jar.

Said the mother do not wrong me
Don't take me daughter from me
For if you do I will torment you
And after death me ghost will haunt you
Oh, love fare thee well
With me tiddery idle loodle la dem da
Me tiddery idle loodle la dem da
Me right fol tor ra laddy o
There's whiskey in the jar.

Now the French are fightin' bouldly
Men are dying hot and couldly
Give every man his flask of powder
And his musket upon his shoulder,
Oh, love fare thee well
With me tiddery idle loodle la dem da
Me tiddery idle loodle la dem da
Me right fol tor ra laddy o
There's whiskey in the jar.

--------Mike-------

The Fighting Irish...

Irishmen and the Victoria Cross:

Going back to the reign of Elizabeth First, and her banishment of the nobel Irishmen from Ulster, known as the Flight of the Earls, many of those men became high ranking officers in armies and navies across the world.

The Ulster Scots who immigrated to America because of the same Elizabeth, fought and helped to conquer large areas of the continent.

It must be something in their blood or the home-made whiskey (Poteen) that gives them the ability to fight one and all.

Ireland also provided large numbers of men for the British Army and many distinguished themselves in battle.

The Victoria Cross (VC) is the highest military decoration awarded for valour "in the face of the enemy" to members of the British Army, soldiers of the Commonwealth countries and previous British Empire territories.

It is not surprising therefore that many medals of the Victoria Cross have been awarded to Irishmen.   The following may put it into perspective:

The first ever VC was awarded to an Irishman.

The first ever VC awarded to a civilian was to an Irishman.

The award to the youngest VC was to an Irishman.

The first VC awarded in the Battle of the Somme was to an Irishman.

II was introduced in January 1856 by Queen Victoria to reward such acts of bravery during the Crimean War (which included the infamous Charge of the Light Brigade) and has continued ever since. It has been awarded to 1,353 people. One in seven of those who received it were Irishmen (188).

Traditionally it is claimed for some unknown reason that the medals are minted from gunmetal from Russian cannon captured at Sevastopol in the Crimea but recent discoveries tend to throw doubt on this story.

There are many avid collectors of these medals due to their rarity and it is highly prized by the same collectors. The price of one at auction can reach over £400,000 ($750,000).

Irishmen have always been a source of ‘cannon-fodder’ for the British Army and hundreds of thousands of Irish men and boys have died over the centuries. There must be something in the ‘Irish Fighting Blood’ that gives them the edge on other nationalities.

One in particular comes to the fore: Michael O’Leary was born on 29th September 1890 in Macroom, County Cork. During the First World War he joined the First Battalion of the Irish Guards of the British Army. He became a Lance-Corporal and was fighting in France.

On 1st February 1915, at Cuinchy, France he was one of a storming party, which moved against the enemy’s barricaded position. He rushed ahead of his troops and killed five Germans who were the first line of defence. He continued across open ground for about sixty yards and attacked the second line of defence. After killing three more of the enemy, he then took two more as prisoners. In fact, O’Leary for all intents and purposes, took the position by himself and saved the remainder of his comrades from being fired upon. For his actions, he was awarded the VC.

The British Army in the hope that his actions would result in many more fellow Corkmen (and Irishmen) joining-up published the above recruiting poster. His father, after making a speech in his hometown, in which he praised his son for his heroic bravery was asked to make further speeches on recruiting platforms. His employment did not last long.

The following is the gist of his first and only speech from an official recruiting platform: "Mr. O’Leary senior, father of the famous VC, speaking in the Inchigeela district, urged the young men to join the British army. "If you don’t", he told them "the Germans will come over here and will do to you what the English have been doing for the last seven hundred years".

Needless to say his speech never made the papers once the censors got their blue pens on the article.

After the war he and his family emigrated to Canada where he became an Inspector in the Ontario Provincial Police. He returned to England in 1925.

He enlisted in the Middlesex Regiment during World War Two and retired as a major in 1945.

He died on 21 August 1961 aged 70.

Personally, I am a pacifist and against War.   Not the infantry and ordinary servicemen but the Generals who are safely esconsed in distance quarters, well away from the actual fighting.................

----------Mike-------

One of the True Little People..

The Little General......

As a child, nearly seventy years ago, I was extremely lucky to have had the opportunity to listen to my country grandfather (and his sons) telling wonderful stories around the turf fire whenever we were ‘down the country’.    They were magical and wonderful times.

Back home, we also had an older half-brother Frank (one of my heroes) who could also tell wonderful stories – more modern for their time – but still nonetheless as exciting to a young child listening to them at bedtime.   

I have since discovered that Frank’s version bore no resemblance to the true versions and with his wonderful endings to each and every one made them in fact better than the originals.   He always ended up adding “.....and they got a penny worth of aniseed balls (childhood sweets) and lived happily ever after”

One of my favourite such stories was about Tom Thumb. In later years I saw films about the story but they have never distracted from my memories. Frank’s tale, such as this and others, always contained frightening mentions of witches, giants, bad fairies and all such frightening things to a child of five or six.

It was purely by accident that much later in life, I came across someone called General Tom Thumb – a real live person.  His real name was Charles Sherwood Stratton and was a member of P.T. Barnum’s famous circus.

The strangest thing is that when Stratton was born on January 4^th, 1838 at Bridgeport, Connecticut, he weighed in at 9 pounds 2 ounces – a big baby by all accounts. He appeared normal size and grew for the first six months of his life. At six months old he was 25 inches tall and weighed 15 pounds. Then he stopped growing.

The family doctor could offer no explanation or help. By the time he was four years of age he had not grown a further inch nor put on any further weight. Apart from the growth and weight factors, he was a truly normal child. He had several brothers and sisters who did not share the same problems.

An old friend, and in fact a relative of the family, P.T. Barnum heard about the child and after convincing the parents that what he intended to do for them and the boy was for his good and future prospects.  He began to teach him to sing, dance and in particular, impersonate famous people.

Barnum entered a partnership with the boy’s father with an agreement to share any profit from the scheme.

In 1845, at the age of five, the youngster made his first tour of America. It was a huge success and the tour expanded. A year later, he was taken to Europe and became an international celebrity. He appeared twice before Queen Victoria and on one of the occasions the Queen’s pet poodle attacked him after a performance in Buckingham Palace. He was introduced to the Prince of Wales who was later to become King Edward V11 who was three years old at the time. He towered above young Stratton.

The tour was also a financial success and he was mobbed wherever he went. He had his own carriage and made vast amounts of money for both Barnum and the Stratton family.

In 1847, at the age of nine, for the first time since he was a few months old, he began to grow but only ever so slightly. In January 1851, he stood 2 feet 3 inches tall. On his 18^th birthday, he measured 2 feet 6 and a half inches.

In 1863, he married another tiny person, Lavinia Warren and this made international news. The best man was another similarly small performer called Nutt and the Bridesmaid was Lavinia’s even smaller sister. Following the wedding, the couple was received by President Lincoln at the White House.

In 1868, at the age of 30, he measured 2 feet 11 inches and finally reached a height of 3 feet in the early 1870’s.

He continued to earn a considerable amount of money and bought a house in a very fashionable part of New York. He also owned a steam yacht. He later purchased a specially adapted home on one of Connecticut’s Thimble Islands. He was so wealthy in fact that when Barnum got into financial difficulties, Stratton bailed him out. They soon became partners.

He and his wife made a tour of Europe and Japan and made his final appearance in England in 1878. On 10^th January 1883, a fire broke out where he was staying in Milwaukee, which became known as "one of the worst hotel fires in American History". Stratton and his wife were uninjured but 71 people died in the fire. It is said that the memory haunted him for the rest of his life.

In fact, six months later, he suddenly died from a stroke. He was 45 years old when he died, weighed 70 pounds and measured 3 foot 4 inches. Over 10,000 people attended his funeral.

It is most probable that his height deficiency was caused by the malfunctioning or damage to his pituitary gland but it wasn’t until 1915 and the advent of X-rays, that it was determined that the pituitary gland was responsible for the Human Growth Hormone.

So, that is the ‘true’ story of Tom Thumb, but I still prefer my brother Frank’s version.  

And the end? Why of course, "Someone bought them a penny worth of aniseed balls and they all lived happily ever after"……….

--------Mike--------

A Magical New Invention...

There’s a Hole in my Bucket, dear Lisa…..

Or so the Sonny and Cher song used to tell us, but my story is – well – not exactly a hole in it so much, but more of, let us just say, a catastrophe……

The year I speak of was about 1947.   My Mum’s family, the Gormans came from a little village in the centre of Ireland. They were small farmers – not in stature – merely in the amount of land they had. They lived in a small cottage that was actually thatched, whitewashed, no toilet and no running water. I might also mention, no electricity and no gas. All the cooking was done on a large fire and the fire area actually had a seat almost inside the chimney breast.  It was my favourite spot in the evenings.   I loved it.

They kept some pigs and chickens and the main crop cultivated was beet (for sugar refining). The family also contracted themselves out during harvest time gathering in other larger farmers’ crops. There were three boys and three girls in the family along with Granny and Granddad.

Because they had no running water, it was necessary to go to the village pump some distance away with one of the large stainless steel buckets that were kept for the purpose. Even empty they weighed a ton to a small boy of seven or eight.

The fun and games used to start when there was heavy rain and the race began between Granny Gorman and Mrs. Doyle her next door neighbour. The Prize – I hear you ask. Well, it was the use of the school drainpipe opposite to fill the buckets with precious soft rain water, thereby saving several trips to the water pump.

Just after the war, my two brothers and I would be sent off on the train and bus to be collected by Granny at the nearby main town, with the donkey and cart. She loved having us visit and stay for a week or so.

In that part of Ireland, in high summer, it is still bright almost until midnight and it was the only time when we could stay up really late. They would take us to an abandoned orchard where we gathered gooseberries and as many apples as we could carry. I won’t mention the rabbits, as they were part of the staple diet of all country people in those days.

So….. On one of my dad’s return home trips on leave from the RAF in England, he brought with him a new invention. He probably nicked them from the RAF stores knowing him. ‘They’ were two plastic buckets which quite honestly we had never seen anything like them before in our lives. We were to take them with us on our next visit to Granny Gorman. We were very happy to do so as they weighed less than one tenth of the stainless steel buckets.

Not long after they arrived, away we went on the train, the bus, the donkey and cart and arrived at Grannies. We presented her with the buckets and other small presents from home. 

Now if you think that we were surprised when we saw the buckets in the first place, you should have seen her face. She looked at the buckets from all angles; raised them above her head; pushed the sides in to see them spring out again. Whilst doing all this she never spoke. Eventually she exclaimed ‘Mother of God, will you look at that. Sure what will them Yanks invent next’. To her it was some sort of magic…………….

Much to our surprise, she insisted on going with us to the water pump to show off her new presents to her neighbours. She must have filled both buckets at least six times and emptied them again. I can still see the look of pure pleasure and joy on her face.

All went well for a couple of days until – and we never had any idea that this was part of Grannies ritual she half-filled one of the new buckets. You see, normally on Thursdays she used to boil up her underwear and small items in one of the steel buckets. So, in went the water, in went the soap and in went the clothing. Onto the hook over the roaring fire went the bucket. Not the stainless steel one a plastic one.

Within minutes, a loud hissing sound and steam everywhere caught our attention. We ran to the fire and saw the bucket melting, the water escape onto the fire and Grannies drawers and such now congealed with melted plastic. ‘Mother of God’ she cried ‘the blinking bucket is melting. That’s impossible…………’.   She stood there transfixed and utterly amazed.

You know something? I now reckon that was Grannie’s introduction to modern inventions. God only knows what she would have made of the latest mobile phones, computers and such.

----------------Mike---------------