The Young Shall Inherit the Earth.....

The Old Oak.

See the old oak on the village green,

For three hundred years it has been

Standing sentry as the world passed by,
Saw poor men born and great men die.

The simple acorn where it lay,

Buried in autumn by the Jay,

For winter food when snows abound,

Left, forgotten in the ground.

In year one, it was one foot high,

Fighting, reaching for the sky.

The sheep that ate the short sweet grass,

Grazed around it, left it fast.

Five years after its life began,

Now as tall as a grown man,

Many saplings from nearby,

Wither, dry and sadly die.

At twenty years it was twenty feet,

Now a tree, almost complete,

It was a feature on the green,

From a distance, could be seen.

Children who had watched it grow,

Were fathers, mothers, married now,

Some were taken, in their prime,

Many years before their time.

Others to the wars had gone,

Noble causes to be won,

Some returned, limbs astray,

Others buried where they lay.

Kings and Queens came and went,

In a twinkling, their time was spent,

Dictators too, came one by one,

Just like mortals, they too are gone.

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

The train that passed, oozing steam,

Shocked the tree, from out its dream,

Infernal engines, soon the car,

Rolled on by to places far.

The aeroplanes, the early flight,

Now fly past, both day and night,

Taking people to distant places,

Bringing back, so many races.

Houses by the green were built,

All around trash and filth,

Peace and quiet, no longer known,

Courtesies, no longer shown.

Why must the past be undone,

Where is the happiness, where is the fun?

Life will never be the same,

Yet what is life, nought but a game.

Three hundred years, have gone so fast,

But all that now is in the past,

The sapling growing by its bough,

Is the future, its time is now.

In its life, what shall it see?

So much more than the old tree,

But unless man shall contrive,

He and it shall ne’er survive.

………..Mike...............

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream.....

My Favourite Boyhood Haunt....

There are occasions in life that remain solid in one’s memory over the years.  This little memory has stayed fresh in my mind for well over 50 years.

I was born and lived in Ireland until at the age of 25 I did what most young Irishmen of my era did – I left and immigrated to London where I took up the truncheon and became a London Bobby – a member of the Constabulary.

I regularly visit my home town just south of the capital Dublin and all of my childhood memories are associated with the town and surroundings.    One of my favourite haunts is/was The Dargle Valley.    It is situated about four miles out the Wicklow Road where you take the turn-off to Enniskerry.   About a quarter of a mile along you turn left and come to the entrance to the wild and wonderful valley.

As a Cub Scout, every Sunday we would take a ‘hike’ there with our sandwiches and bits and pieces where we would spend the day with our friends at the Scout campsite.   In the evenings, we would stroll home in some semblance of order, singing all the songs of the day.   They were wonderful times for a nine year old boy and the memories I have of that period of my life are as fresh in my mind as the day they were put there.

The river Dargle rises in the Wicklow mountains and flows slowly and surely through the county where it meets the Dargle Valley.   In places, the sides of the valley are about half a mile wide and I suppose about 500 feet deep.    The adventures we had there are legend.............

As can be seen from the above photographs, it has changed very little in the one hundred odd years between them.    There is a very high rock known as ‘Lovers Leap’ and I remember when I first saw it wondering how anyone could be so silly as to jump off it ‘just for a girl’.

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

A couple of years ago, I took a flying visit ‘home’ and stayed at my sister’s home.   Having played golf for a couple of days, I made up my mind that I would take a walk through the valley as I had not been there, other than to fish for the small trout there, for many years.

The first thing I noticed was that the old lodge at the entrance was derelict.   It was there that we used to pay the old lady one penny to enter.    This time, I went through the overgrown entrance to find that the tracks I had known had changed very little.   I was once again ten years old and remembered every inch of the many paths.

 I reached the area that is shown in the first photograph and after the long walk; I sat down by the riverside on a large rock in the flowing river and took in the still warm October sunshine that was streaming through the encroaching sides of the valley.

There was not a sound to be heard other than the rippling of the water through the rocks on its way to the seaside at Bray Harbour.

I lay back on the rock as we used to do years ago, smoked my pipe for a few minutes then closed my eyes.   It must have been merely minutes until I opened my eyes again and immediately noticed the strong smell of burning wood.

Remembering that only senior Scouts were allowed to light fires on the estate I sat up and looked around me.     Over to my right I saw that there were now a group of about twenty boys.   They were all aged about ten years with the exception of two who were I suppose close to twenty.   They had a large fire burning and the smoke was now covering the enclosed area.    I sat and watched.................

To my utmost surprise they were singing the same songs of my childhood that we used to sing – in the same spot.    Some were gathering firewood whilst others were climbing and swinging from the branches of trees.   I stayed perfectly still and they did not appear to notice me.   I was mesmerized and everything seemed strange and far away.

One young boy came across the rocks by the riverside and appeared to notice me.   He stood still and stared at me.   I looked but did not say anything.   You see, it was as if I was looking at an old photograph of myself.    I could not understand it and merely said to him “Hello there, what’s your name?”    He did not answer but ran over the rocks back to the campfire and spoke to the two older young men.   They looked towards me and shouted something or other which I did not quite fully hear.

The words rang out clearer the second time.   They were shouting “Are you alright old man?”    I sat up and my pipe fell out of my hand into the flowing eddy between the rocks.   I reached down and managed to grab it before it flowed away.   I then looked again to answer the boys that I was safe and in no danger.    They were gone as had the smoke from the campfire.    All was once again as quiet as the grave.......

I sat for a few minutes with sweat forming on my brow.   I knew that I must have been dreaming of my boyhood.    I almost laughed out loud thinking that I had seen myself as a boy – how stupid can one get?

I got up and gingerly made my way back across the rocks to the river bank.   I could still smell wood burning and made my way to where the fire had been during my ‘dream’.    Of course there was no fire, nor ashes nor anything else to suggest that there had in fact been a fire there in many, many years.

However, there was a small leather schoolbag which I picked up.   You can believe it or not, but it was identical to one that my father had made for me when I was eight years old – same colour, same stitching and same buckle.    It looked clean and quite new and had inside it some wrapped up sandwiches which were fresh.   They were exactly the way my mother used to make them and wrapped in the same grease-proof paper that she always used.

Surely they couldn’t have been the same?     Or could they?................

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

Abra-Cadaver....

Burke and Hare…the Body-Snatchers....

In the early 1800’s in Britain, medical science was proceeding at an ever-increasing pace with great advances being made in surgical techniques. Many new types of operations were being ‘practised’ on dead bodies by budding surgeons and their teachers. The prisons, where there were hangings on almost a daily basis, provided most of those bodies for dissection. There was little or no shortage for the trainees....

However, early in the century, what was known as the ‘Bloody Code’ was repealed.   Since 1688, it had made the punishment for fifty criminal offences death by hanging.   However, The Judgement of Death Act 1823 reduced this punishment from the original fifty down to two – Murder and Treason.   Needless to say, this caused a sharp decrease in the number of executions and with it the number of bodies that were available.   A new source was urgently required......

The law of ‘supply and demand’ quickly came into play with characters that became known as ‘resurrectionists’ taking up the gruesome art of ‘body-snatching’. They would watch for funerals and later at night they would literally dig up the coffins, remove the body and in many cases return the coffin to the grave and fill in the hole. In order to prevent such a thing happening many relatives or friends of the deceased would hold a vigil and stand guard over the grave for several nights after the burial. In many other cases, iron railings protected the graves.

As even grave robbing prevented the surgeons and their students from having a regular supply of bodies, once again the law of ‘supply and demand’ again took over to provide for the shortage. Several unscrupulous people, not only men but these also included women, decided to not even wait for the funeral but began claiming the bodies before the person even died.

Burke and Hare were two such likely-lads who were born in the North of Ireland and moved to Scotland about 1820.  William Burke was born in County Tyrone in 1792 and was a ‘Jack of all Trades’. He left his wife and two children in Ireland and moved to Scotland about 1817. He was working as a ‘navvy’ on the Union Canal when he met and began living with Helen MacDougal. He began working at different types of jobs and they moved into a lodging-house in Edinburgh, which was owned by Hare, a fellow Irishman who lived with Maggie Laird.

William Hare was born about 1800, probably in Newry or Derry. He too immigrated to Scotland and worked on the Union Canal. He moved to Edinburgh where he met a man named Logue. Logue died in 1826 and Hare moved in with his widow as his common-law-wife and they ran a lodging house. It was to this house that Burke moved. It is probable that they already knew each other from their Canal work.

It was around 1827 that the pair began their campaign, which became known as the West Port Murders. By the time they had finished they had killed 17 people and sold the bodies to Professor Robert Knox, a leading Edinburgh anatomist at the Edinburgh Medical College.

Hare later admitted that their first body was that of a dead tenant, an army pensioner who owed Hare £4 rent. They stole the body from its coffin and sold it to Professor Knox for £7. This was their first meeting with Knox who must have let them know that there was a ready market for such bodies.

As their murderous scheme progressed, with the help of the women, they would ply their proposed victim, usually any sickly tenant, with whisky and then suffocate them. The professor paid £15 for such bodies ‘as they were fresh’. When they ran out of such tenants, the women would lure proposed victims from the street, do likewise with the whiskey, and then suffocate them.

One of their next victims was a well-known local prostitute, Mary Patterson. They did the usual with her but problems arose the next morning when students at the College recognised the victim. Some of them were well acquainted with good old Mary.....

Vagrants and beggars were the most common victims, as Burke and Hare believed, rightly in many of the cases, that such people would not be missed or recognised. On another occasion Burke ‘saved’ a woman from the police by claiming that he knew her. She too appeared at the College a few hours later. An old woman and a deaf boy were the next two victims but when there was a shortage, they even went as far as murdering one of MacDougal’s relatives.

Two more prostitutes quickly followed but the murders almost came to light when they murdered a well-known retarded young man with a limp. He was called ‘Daft Jamie’ who was eighteen at the time. When Professor Knox uncovered the body the next morning, several students recognised the young man. Knox quickly removed the head and feet and totally denied that it was Jamie. It appears that he then began to dissect the face to totally prevent identification.

Their final victim was Marjory Docherty. Burke lured her into the house by claiming that his mother’s family was called Docherty. Another couple called Gray met her at the lodgings. The next morning, Mrs. Gray became suspicious when Burke would not allow her to approach a bed where she had left her stockings. When Burke went out, Mrs. Gray discovered Marjory’s dead body under the bed. On their way to the police to report the matter, they met MacDougal who offered them £10 per week to remain quiet. They refused and continued to the police station.

MacDougal quickly informed Burke and Hare who removed the body from the house before the police arrived. They were all questioned but their stories of Docherty did not tally. They were arrested. It was then that the police received an anonymous tip-off that led them to Knox’s classroom where they found her body. The Gray’s identified it. Hare and Burke’s wives were then arrested.

Although they had murdered seventeen people over the previous eighteen months the prosecuting authorities did not consider that there was sufficient evidence to obtain a conviction. They made an offer to William Hare of immunity if he testified against Burke. That evidence led to Burke being convicted and sentenced to death by hanging. Professor Knox never faced prosecution, as there was no evidence that he had known the origin of the corpses.

Helen MacDougal was almost lynched when she returned to the lodging house. She is supposed to have immigrated to Australia. Margaret Hare is supposed to have returned to Ireland when she too was almost lynched. William Burke was hanged in Edinburgh on 28^th January 1829.

William Hare was released in February 1829 and his following years are unknown. There was a story about him being a blind beggar in London having been thrown into a lime pit in Scotland but this was never confirmed.

A couple of strange facts regarding Burke after his execution are that his body was passed to the Royal College of Surgeons in Edinburgh for research. His skeleton remains there to this day. His ‘death mask’ is also retained at the College. For some unknown reason there is also a book, the cover of which is alleged to have been made from his skin. A similar business card case made from his skin is also present.

Perhaps Professor Knox or one of his students was having the last laugh on Burke……

For years afterwards, and who knows, probably still today, Scottish children sing the following rhyme when playing hopscotch or skipping:

‘Burke the Butcher,

Hare the Thief,

Knox the boy who Buys the Beef’.

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

A Cure to Clear your Head....

A Little Snuff is Enough........

I do not know what made me think of my Granny Gorman’s one and only ‘addiction’.     She drank very little alcohol except a very occasional bottle of Guinness ‘for medicinal purposes’.

 She did however quite often smoke a small ‘scut’ of a clay pipe.    Never, ever in front of Granddad but whenever she was on her own and thought that no one was looking she would get it out, light up and have a few quick puffs.

 She obviously enjoyed it but in those days the tongues would have been wagging in the village if any of her neighbours had seen her smoking.

She was not quite so devious about taking a few pinches of snuff every now and again.    She loved it as much as many addicts love their favourite narcotic.    Her enjoyment definitely bordered on a similar addiction.

Many are the times when she came ‘up town’ to visit us when the first thing she would do was to send me down to the tobacconist for ‘half a gram’ of the powder.

For those not familiar, Snuff is a form of tobacco, very finely ground with added flavours and tastes.   She preferred the strongest blend.

I have not seen anyone using snuff now for well over forty years but it was a very common habit.    Heavy users were recognised by the brown stains down the front of their clothing, the colour of their handkerchief and if a male or female had some hair over the upper lip, it too would be stained brown.

I have used it myself and did in fact have quite a habit at one time.   However, just like alcohol, it too is a thing of the past......................

I wrote the following little poem about it which is based on an old story I heard somewhere or other but most likely from either Granddad or one of my country uncles......................

The Snuff.

Paddy was a decent man, a man who rarely swore,

Peter was his oldest friend, since they were twenty-four.

But now that they were ancient, though still quite hard and tough,

They lived just for their evening pint - and a hefty pinch of snuff.

The snuffbox sat upon the bar, with compliments and free,

And while the lads sipped at their pints ‘twas plain for all to see,

That both had quite a habit, like addicts and their fix,

Each night they met and could be seen, in the bar just after six.

Until the dark day came about, when Paddy on his own,

Found the snuffbox empty, on his forehead, a deep frown.

But Paddy was a gentleman, not a rude word did he say,

So he called upon a young boy, outside the door at play.

‘ Run down to Coynes tobacconist, buy half a gram of snuff,

Here’s half-a-crown in money, I think it’s quite enough,

And if you’re back in minutes, the change it’s yours to spend’

The boy was gone in seconds, at last he’d found a friend.

Misfortune fell upon the boy, for as he passed the cross,

He came upon a group of men playing pitch and toss.

And as he watched he felt the urge, temptation was too strong,

He tried to fight the evil off, he knew that it was wrong.

Three tosses later, he was broke, the half-crown, it was lost,

He weighed up all the options, and knew what it would cost,

A solution it was called for, somehow to make things right,

When suddenly he became aware of a large dry white dogshite.

Without thinking twice, he ground it up, in a twist of old white paper,

Ran quickly back to Paddy’s pub and handed him the taper.

He never stopped to see the result of the nasty thing he’d done,

Within seconds he was far away now thinking it was fun.

Paddy quietly placed the stuff, into the old snuffbox,

Then smartly tapped upon the lid, gave it three gentle knocks,

Between his thumb and index finger, with stuff he struck a pose,

And without delay, a wait all day, he sniffed it up his nose.

Minutes later Paddy asked of others in the pub,

‘ Can you smell shite’ he called out loud, he gave his nose a rub,

All checked their shoes and boots to see, in what they might have trod,

Then with united chorus, called ‘No, no, not me, begob’.

Now in strolls Peter, his best friend as I have just said,

‘Sorry Paddy that I’m late’ his hand up to his head.

‘I have a heavy cold’ says he ‘my nose is all blocked up’

‘Sit down’ said Pad, hands him a pint ‘just take a gentle sup’.

‘ Can you smell shite in here tonight’ asks Paddy of his mate,

‘I can’t smell nothing’ Peter says ‘’Till now at any rate’.

‘I’ve had this cold for three days now, it’s going to my chest,

Tonight I’m leaving early Pad, I need a decent rest’.

‘Try a pinch of snuff’ says Pad and passes him the tin,

Again three taps upon the lid, then quietly watches him,

Peter takes a hefty pinch and sniffs it deep, deep down.

Then sits and looks around the pub, upon his face a frown.

‘ You know what’ Peter asks of Pad, his sniffle its now gone,

‘Tis the finest snuff this pub has seen, I doubt if I am wrong’.

‘And how do you make that out Pete’ asks Pad, he knows he’s right,

Then Peter answered soft and slow, ‘I now smell that dogshite’.

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

The Curse of Drink......

Slightly (?) Intoxicated…..

After the Tower Bell incident (see previous post), sure I might as well continue on a similar vein – after all even if there is no ‘Statutes of Limitation’ in the UK, I doubt if anyone would bother to report me for being ‘unfit for duty through drink’ after 50 odd years.   Even so, try to keep this little episode of my police career a secret among yourselves.

It was 1966 and I had been at Hackney Police Station for about six months, still single and living in what was called a ‘Section House’ – single officers’ quarters - some miles away.   It was my home from home whilst in the service before I married.

I was being paid weekly and having a good time.   I ate well, slept well and drank well.   (I really must boast that having been a heavy beer drinker for many years, I have been dry (on the wagon) for the past thirty-nine years),

I was very fond of my beer in those days and when I talk of fondness, that ran to as many as a dozen pints at a session.   That was nothing extraordinary or exceptional for those days as there were many men who would drink ten, fifteen or even twenty pints in a day.

In any event, this little episode came about because of the rota system that we were working under in those early days.    Because of the constant changes, Early 6am to 2pm, Lates 2pm to 10pm and Nights 10pm to 6am, it was almost impossible to keep track   One week blended into the next and with a leave system that was enforced on whatever shift you were working I and many other young officers became totally confused.

And so it was that I thought I was ‘weekly leave’ on the Wednesday of Night Duty and decided to take advantage of the wonderful opportunity.   I wore civilian clothes and went on the beer.    After many pints I wandered (staggered?) back to the Section House where I was greeted by the Warden.   He told me to phone my Station urgently.

Luckily enough I spoke to a constable whom I knew was acting Sergeant.  “Why are you not at work?” he asked.   In a classic slurred voice I replied “Weekly Leave”.   “Not tonight you idiot” he replied “tomorrow night you are supposed to be off.   Get changed into uniform and get here as quickly as possible and don’t let the Inspector see you”.   I looked at the clock over the Warden’s desk and it said 10.50pm – I was already almost an hour late.

I got changed in record time and caught the bus from opposite where I lived.   About half an hour later I walked up the back entrance to the station with the beginnings of a first rate hangover starting to hammer in my head.    I saw the acting Sergeant and when he saw the state I was in he told me to get out on the streets and keep out of the way until I was sober.   In fact I was in a far worse condition than many of the drunks I have taken into custody during my service for their own safety.   I certainly was not in a fit state to do anything...........

Luckily enough, in those days – the 60’s – Swinging London had not extended to the East End so things had begun to quieten down considerably as it was now 11.30pm.

I decided to try and walk myself sober but after a mile or so through the back streets I realised that the attempt was completely futile.   I was knackered............

I found a dark doorway which was not lit, sat down and began to smoke a cigarette.   The hangover was now as good, or should I say as bad, as anything I have ever had before or since.   I threw the cigarette away, closed my eyes and not realising it, I fell into a deep sleep.

 At some stage, it must have been around 2am someone kicked my boots and said “Are you OK guvnor”.   I awoke with a start and realised that I had in fact been lying flat out on the tiled entrance to the shop.   Whoever it was who woke me up did not stay around to see what was going on for he was now running up the road as fast as his feet could carry him.

I tidied myself up, dusted myself down and realised that I was no longer staggering.  I decided to make my way back to the station.    As I entered, who should be coming out at the same time but the Inspector. 

“Where have you been all night?” he asked.   I decided to bold him out and quickly and confidently replied “Down the shopping area sir where we have been having those smash and grabs last week”.   “Well done officer” he replied “a damn good idea.  Glad to see that someone is using his initiative”.  

I had gotten away with it and he was happy with my story.   The only problem was when for the remaining nights of night duty he posted one or other of the remaining officers on a static observation on the shops.

And would you credit it – for I did in fact get some of the credit – on the Saturday night the man who had been smashing the windows and stealing from the displays was caught in the act and admitted several other previous offences.

I actually got a thank you memo from the Chief Superintendent – not for being drunk of course – but for using my initiative to solve a troublesome series of crimes......

I have mentioned before that many of our guvnors, from Inspector rank up to Chief Superintendent were nicknamed ‘Mushroom’.    As long as you kept them in the dark and fed them tons of bulls**t, they were happy...........

Another saying we had in those days:  ‘In the police service you are always in the s**t, it is merely the depth that varies’.............................

-------------Mike------------ 

The Snakes were Banished from Ireland....

Tales Around an Open Peat Fire.....

It was late 1947 and I guess that mum, (God Rest her soul), must have been pregnant once again.   That was nothing unusual for it seemed to me, a seven year old, that she was always either just about to have a new baby, just had one, or she and the old man were thinking of having another.    In any case, off we were sent – and I must say not reluctantly – ‘down the country’ to the village in the centre of Ireland to stay with Granddad and Granny Gorman for a week or ten days.

Winter was coming on and when the wind blew across the local bog with rain coming down like stair-rods, there was little to do especially during the dark evenings.    In the summer it was the most wondrous place for a young boy and at such times, we, that is my brothers Ger and Jackie, would spend from dawn to dusk playing in the fields getting up to all sorts of mischief.    We drank water from the bog-holes or little stream and ate anything that we considered edible.   How on earth we never poisoned ourselves, God only knows........................

I suppose we survived on the principle that Granddad had taught us – ‘that anything a bird can eat, so also can humans’.    Proving his theory at times took some great willpower as I, as the youngest, was always the taster.   Anyway, we always had Granny Gorman’s doorstep cheese or jam sandwiches to fall back on.......

Well, as I say, there was little of that this time of year and we spent most of the darkening evenings sitting around the open peat fire singing songs, reciting poetry and telling stories.   Leastways, the older ones, especially Uncle Mick or Uncle Paddy told some of the most gruesome horror stories that I have ever heard and I would have been quite ashamed of myself if I had not been sitting in my favourite spot – the hob, right up against the fire under the chimneybreast.

You see, some of Uncle Mick’s stories used to frighten me so much that I sometimes peed in my pants.    Luckily, the heat from the fire usually dried me off before it was time for bed.

With the oil lamp flickering and throwing its dim light and shadows across the room and the fire cracking and spitting from the damp turf that was on it, it is now obvious why we as children could be frightened out of our wits with some of the ghost stories that were told.

“Hold your tongue now Mick” Granddad spoke aloud after Uncle Mick had finished a most horrible yarn, “sure I’ll tell the lads a more gentle tale”.

He paused as he lit his pipe and began puffing the smoke towards the chimney.     We of course sat as if transfixed in anticipation for some of Granddad’s stories told of beauty, love and magic with not a trace of horror unlike those of my uncles...................

“If you all stay as quite as mice, I’ll tell you about the Oillipheist he began in that wonderful accent he had.    This animal or whatever you want to call it was a bloody big odd looking character with a body like a big snake and a head of a dragon that could breathe flame and smoke”.

He paused and looked around as if someone was listening from outside the front door.    “Oh Lord” I thought to myself “I better be careful because I think this might be a little bit of a horror story after all”.    Granddad must have guessed what I was thinking, as he always seemed to be able to do, then added “There’s no need to be frightened Mick, sure ‘tis a lovely story”.

“Anyway” he continued, “who can tell me when Saint Patrick came to Ireland?”   Both Ger and Jackie came out with the reply “432” – whilst I did not have the slightest idea.   “And what was he famous for besides the religious things he did?”  Granddad again asked.    “Snakes” Jackie shouted, “He got rid of all the snakes out of Ireland”.

Personally I had never heard about that but Jackie was the one who knew all the gory bits about such things.

“Bedad, sure you’re dead right” Granddad congratulated Jackie.    He puffed on his pipe then continued.   “And like I said, when his holiness Patrick heard of this big fellow swimming around in the river Shannon, sure didn’t he say to himself ‘Begob now, sure I’ll not leave that so-and-so to spoil everything’.    He did nothing more but left the church he was building in County Clare and head straight for the river just above the town of Limerick”.

Granddad relit his pipe and looked around the room.   He cocked his head towards the door and window as if listening for someone or something.    I moved further into the alcove where I was sitting whilst Granny Gorman stoked the fire.

“Now sure wasn’t the old Oillipheist a clever and wise old bugger and realised what Patrick was up to.    He moved into the shallow water by the river’s edge and waited patiently for the good man to arrive”.   Once again Granddad cocked his head towards the door and window.   I was getting a little more nervous by the minute..............

“Now guess what happened next?”   Granddad asked.    I did not have the faintest idea but hoped beyond hope that St. Patrick would not arrive and be eaten.

Again Granddad read my mind and continued “No, not that.  He just waited and waited for you see it was a long walk for the holy man to get from Clare to Limerick.   Anyway, now as it so happens, there was a famous bagpipe player in the town called Seaneen O’Rourke.   When I say he was a famous player I mean it, but only when he was sober and sure didn’t he have the curse of the drink upon him.    He had been on the poteen whiskey for the best part of a week and was as drunk as a lord.

He insisted on playing his bagpipes but after some very deadly threats from his neighbours, he made his way down to the river.    Lo and behold, sure now didn’t he choose the river bank exactly close to where the Oillipheist was waiting for Patrick”.

Jackie was getting impatient to hear the gruesome bit that was expected and called out “Go on Granddad, tell us what happened.   Was he gobbled up by the snake?”

“Hold your whist now Jackie and I’ll tell you.   O’Rourke began playing his pipes and it sounded like half-a-dozen cats being skinned.   It was horrible and sounded more like a banshee screeching than music”.     “Oh lord” I said to myself, “here we go – I knew there were ghosts”.....................

However, Granddad continued, “His music was so bad that the Oillipheist had enough after about five minutes.   He did nothing more than slither up onto the bank and swallowed O’Rourke, his bagpipes and his bottle of poteen all in one big gulp”.    He then slid back into the water....................

“Seaneen O’Rourke was so drunk that he did not know where on earth he now was and was not in the slightest bit worried” Granddad continued picking up the pace of the story.   “He took a couple of more swigs of his homemade whiskey and began to play the pipes again as badly as before.    Well now, let me tell you” Granddad paused “the poor animal could stand it no more; he slithered back up onto the river bank and threw-up O’Rourke and everything with him.    At the precise same time, who do you think should arrive on the scene but Saint Patrick himself”?   Granddad paused to light his pipe once more then continued his story.

“Begone from these shores ordered Patrick and waved his staff – that’s like a big stick - at the evil serpent, begone from these shores forever” Granddad used a deep voice to tell this part of the story as if he was imitating Saint Patrick.    “With that” he added “the snake grew a set of wings and breathing smoke and flames from his mouth flew up into the clouds never to be seen in fair Ireland ever again”.    That was it I thought, I managed to stay calm for most of the story which I now believed to be over.......

“At the same time” Granddad added, “Sure didn’t all the snakes in Ireland, gather up in a ball and on Saint Patrick’s command, slid into the sea, never ever to return.   That’s why we don’t have a single one left in Ireland”.

Once again, and I never figured out how Granddad managed to do it, he read my mind and added “Not quite the end of the story yet Mick, you see, the Oillipheist only flew away a few hundred miles and landed in a lake in Scotland, sure isn’t the lake called Lough Ness and the snake is now called the Lough Ness Monster”..........................

Granny put down her knitting and looked at me with that wonderful great big smile she always had for me and me alone....................She winked..............

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

Wealth Beyond Compare....

Yet They Never Lived to Spend it.............

There were many ‘Gold Rushes’ in the 1800’s that drew tens of thousands of people to travel all over the world at the mere whisper of such an event.   Poverty can make the dream of huge wealth a very strong magnet.   And so it did when such information arrived in Europe about an Australian Gold Rush in the 1850’s.   The promise of vast fortunes caused many to sell everything they owned and make their way there.   The discovery of gold and the quantity being recovered was second only to the Californian Gold Rush of the same period.   In the Australian Victoria area where this rush was based, the miners gleaned over three million ounces of gold.

In the ten years covered by the gold rush, the population of Australia almost tripled.

Many of the miners were from England but also included many Irishmen who had come to England to escape the Great Famine in their homeland.   Many struck it rich and with their newfound wealth began the homeward journey and the dream of future happiness.   For many that dream was to turn into a tragic nightmare and instead of spending their riches, they and it were to end up at the bottom of the Irish Sea.

In 1855 on the River Dee, at Sandycroft, North Wales, a new type of ship was launched.   She was steel hulled and along with her clipper style masts and sail, she was equipped with auxiliary steam engines for use in calm weather.   She was commissioned primarily for the voyage to and from Australia.   There was room for 600 passengers on board with a crew of around 112.   There was luxury accommodation for the rich and basic quarters for the poor.   There was limited room for some cargo.   She was one of the fastest ships on the route and the company’s advertising boldly claimed that she was capable of completing the journey in‘Under 60 days’.   This boast probably lead to the disaster that I will relate.......

She was named The Royal Charter.

In September 1859, she sailed from Melbourne Australia with the aim of reaching her home port of Liverpool within the sixty days as advertised.   She had about 371 passengers on board with a crew of 112 together with some company employees.   Many of the passengers were successful gold miners who had large amounts of gold in their possession.   A large consignment of gold was also carried as cargo – it was insured for £322,000 (a vast amount of money in those days).    Many of the passengers had placed their wealth in the ships safe but equally, many of the miners who did not trust anyone, carried large amounts of gold strapped to their bodies.

Late October, 1859 she entered the home stretch from the Atlantic and on the night of 25/26 October, as she passed Anglesey on the west of Wales, she was about 400 miles from Liverpool, her home port and destination   The barometer was rapidly dropping signalling a severe storm.   Some claim that the Captain of the Charter was advised to take shelter in Holyhead Harbour and to sit out the storm.   However, Captain Thomas Taylor decided to stay on course in order to protect his 60 day boast.

As they passed the safe harbourage of Holyhead, the wind had increased to storm force 10 with signs that the weather was yet to worsen.    During the night, the wind did in fact increase to force 12 – ‘hurricane force’.   The night’s storm was later to become known as ‘the Royal Charter Gale’.     As they continued to slowly make their way towards Liverpool, the wind changed direction forcing the ship towards the coast of Anglesey.

At 11pm they anchored at sea, the Captain now deciding to ride out the storm in open water.   However, and tragically, at 1.20am the port anchor chain snapped quickly followed by the starboard chain doing likewise.    They were being forced towards the coastline.   In desperation, Captain Taylor ordered that the masts be cut in order to reduce drag but it was to be of no avail.   The steam engines were unable to fight against the atrocious wind.   The ship struck a sandbank and held firm......

Later that morning the wind forced her free, if one can use such a word, for having done so, she was forced onto the rocks just north of a fishing seaside town of Moelfre.   The 100 mph winds continued to batter her and she quickly broke up.

An extreme act of bravery by one of the crew, Joseph Rogers, was performed when he swam ashore with a lifeline tied to his body which resulted in a few people being saved.   Most of the remaining passengers and crew were actually killed by being dashed against the rocks rather than by drowning.   Many of the gold-miners, weighed down by their gold strapped to their bodies, sank to the bottom and drowned.

Out of the initial estimated crew and passengers of almost five hundred people, over four hundred and fifty perished.   21 passengers and 18 crew members survived.   No women or children were saved..............

Before the wrecking of the Royal Charter, the fishing village of Moelfre was a poor community.   Almost immediately they became wealthy beyond their wildest dreams.  Fabulous new houses were built – many say by means of the gold that was washed up along the shore.   Occasionally small items, including gold coins are still to this day washed up on the nearby coast.

Two final facts about the disaster are:

 1.  In October 1959, almost a century later, another ship struck the rocks almost at the same place in a gale.  This time however all hands were saved by incidentally, the Moelfre lifeboat.

2.   The celebrated writer, Charles Dickens visited the scene shortly after the disaster.   He wrote about it in The Uncommercial Traveller and describes the night from witnesses’ statements thus:   ‘So tremendous had the force of the sea been when it broke the ship, that it had beaten one great ingot of gold, deep into a strong and heavy piece of her solid iron-work: in which also several loose sovereigns that   the ingot had swept in before it, had been found, as firmly embedded as though the iron had been liquid when they were forced there’.

I find it ironic that many of the men who drowned that night had spent many years of hard labour in the goldfields of Australia and having travelled half-way around the world to return home and an expected life of luxury, died that night unable to give up the gold strapped to their bodies – a fact which might well have saved their lives.

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