Ronan Quinlan

Après Dinner

2011-12-29T21:46:00.001Z

The invitation came to me only because I happened to answer aphone in the newsroom. The caller wondered would I like to join him for dinner in(what I heard as) Bearna on Saturday night. “Bearna?”, I said, “Sure Galway is a long way to go for dinner.What’s the occasion?” I asked, thinking this was some restaurateur looking to plughis new venture.

“No, no”, not Bearna!" came the response, "Varna! It’s in on theBlack Sea, in Bulgaria.” I hesitated for all of two seconds before accepting this kindoffer from a stranger. This was the early 1980s and jetting off just to have dinnerin Bulgaria was pretty exotic in an age before cheap flights. Bulgaria was in the Soviet bloc and nothing like the commonplace tourist destination it has transformed into since he fall of the wall.

The plane took off from Dublin a couple of days later with abouttwenty-five journalists on board, all on the same vital mission as myself - to have agood time. It turned out to be a charter flight that had only half filled with paying passengers and the opportunitywas taken by the organiser to invite some journalists to sample the delights of this Soviet bloccountry and hopefully to promote his business.

Two of us sat in the very back row and were the first to be offereda glass of sparkling Bulgarian red wine. Fizzy red was new to me but, after a briefapproving taste, we kept the bottle, starting a trend which was followed by most of the hacks in front of us. We had a good flight, even being invited to the cockpit, as youcould in those pre-911 days.

By the time we landed we were in good form, new converts to Bulgarian bubbly. Our first task was to briefly reconnoitre the airport bar before boarding a coachwith a local guide excitedly telling us about the unquestionable benefits of communism as he proudly highlighted the endless and ghastly apartment blocks. He was trying his best to extoll the idylic virtues of a socialist regime, but we heard little of what he said. We stopped at an hotel for the official tourist briefing and immediately spotted another bar that warranted serious investigative journalism and adjourned there without further ado. Once again, we were not found wanting in our dedicationto professional research.

After that brief respite, we were off again, this time to a night club and restaurantthat was a magnificent outdoor amphitheatre where there as a show ofsome kind - we didn’t see much of it because were still in working mode as traveljournalists and checked out the bar. A slight haze descended, notwithstanding the starryskies overhead.

Dinner came and went, an lavish banquet for our benefit, andwe sampled more of the locally fermented grape in their interests of our readers.The evening went quickly and before long we were on the bus back to the airport,homeward bound.

Queuing at check-in, I spotted a desk with the overhead legend:“Have Gun, Won’t Travel”. This was a wordplay of the old TV western series from my childhood memories with Richard Boone playing a gunslinger called Paladin in "Have Gun, Will Travel". I just had toget a picture of this!
I took a few shots in black & white and then switchedto my other camera loaded with colour film (as we did in those not-so-long-ago days!) Suddenly, my elbowswere forcibly lifted from behind but I assumed my colleagues were messing, ignored the unwelcome intrusion as best I could and carried on clicking. I soon realised that it was not my travelling companions but two hefty uniformed policemen, complete with sub-machine guns!

“No photos!” they barked. In my relaxed state, I was not too botheredand took a few more shots. This was frowned upon. “No photos here! You go now to yourairplane”, and tightening the grip on my elbows, they started me towards the airsideexit!

I protested, gently (machine guns have the effect of dampeningaggressive urges), and pleaded with them to let me buy duty-free, never one to missa chance of some cheap booze and something for the other half (returning from atrip abroad without a present is never a great help in maintaining the old maritalbliss). They declined my request at first, but I prevailed, and they frog-marchedme (gently) up a stairs to the duty-free shop. They were still holding myelbows when I asked the woman behind the counter for “perfume”.

Her English was almost as bad as my Bulgarian (zero) and thesingle word didn’t get an immediate result. I gestured, sniffing my hand, and thatdid the trick; she produced a box with a brand I recognised. Even with my limitedknowledge of perfumes (none!) I knew that at US$50 in a dutyfree shop in an Eastern bloc country this had to be a serious bottle, so I blew my remaining dollarsand pocketed the prize before the nice policemen resumed escortingme to the plane.
“See you lads”, says I, with a laugh, when we reached the steps.
“I don’t thinkso!” came the sharp reply. He was smiling, but he didn’t seem to be joking!

The journey back was uneventful - most of us were asleep beforethe plane cleared the runaway. We skipped the bar in Dublin airport, it beingof no great travel interest to our readers and it also being closed at that hourof the morning. After a short taxi ride, I was home, straight to bed, and asleepin no time, having paused briefly to deposit the perfume on the kitchen table -a nice surprise for my wife when she woke.

I slept for the whole day, waking late in the evening. My wifecheerily enquired about the trip - great, pretty quiet, etc., not a lot of informationfrom me.

“Nice present”, she said. (yes!) I was glad she liked it butshe seemed less than totally enamoured with my magnanimous gift.

“You didn’t by any chance get anything with it?” she enquired.I slightly surprised at this breath-taking lack of gratitude fora very expensive bottle of smelly (and she would know!). I was beginning tothink her question was a tad selfish. There had to something more to thisthan I knew.

“Like what?”, I ventured, sheepishly.

“Like a razor!” she laughed.

Best après-rasage I ever had!

A Christmas Tale

2011-12-19T20:50:00.005Z

'Twas the night before Christmas ...

Thechildren screamed with delight, frantically fidgeting in the queue and dragging their faltering parentsthrough a tinkling cardboard kingdom of reindeer, elves and animated cartoon creatures,into the magic castle and the great man in his bright red suit. The smaller onesanxiously clung to their mothers’ skirts withfrightened frowns, waiting to meet this mysterious stranger called Santa. The older ones chattered andmarvelled at the lights and the tinsel as they anticipated Christmas goodies.

Santawas thinner than most would expect, but it didn’t matter; his beard was fulland bushy and snowy white and not made of cotton wool, and he laughed for everychild as he set them on his knee and put his arms around them and asked themwhat he would bring for Christmas, promising nothing but his arrival on theimportant night. The children hung open-mouthed and wide-eyed on his everyword.

Eachchild was given a souvenir badge and a fancy printed certificate to testify totheir visit. No presents were given in the shop. Santa would bring all thepresents at Christmas.

Santasat in his big chair for ten hours each day, two hours at a time with shortbreaks. He laughed and talked and there was a genuine glint for every child inhis old eyes. Everyone agreed he was the best ever Santa, his love for the childrenshining through and the children responding with laughter and sparkling eyes.

OnChristmas Eve Santa left the store with great ceremony for his long journey tothe North Pole. His mission tonight was too important to wait until the storeclosed. He disappeared through huge doors with an enormous forbidding sign:STAFF ONLY. He turned as he went and waved to the children who were stillexploding with excitement.

It wasquiet inside the doors, none of the lavish adornment that gave the store its statusof quality. Slowly, Santa pulled back his hood and sat himself on an old stool.He lit a cigarette, drawing deeply on the much needed drug as he sipped from asmall flask he took from his pocket. He took off the jacket and pants andreached for the old worn trousers that hung on a coat hook in the closet thatserved as his dressing room. Under the red and white hood was a lined andwrinkled old face, a lifetime's tiredness in the eyes.

No onesaid goodbye when he left by the back door to walk home. Snow was falling andturning to slush on the pavement as he shuffled towards his one-roomed flat.The room was cold, the fire was out, there was an air of stale dampness. Hegulped from the half bottle of whiskey he had bought in an off-license on theway home. He contemplated his Christmas, alone, as it had been these manyyears. He had no plans for tomorrow. Slowly the alcohol made the thought lesspainful and he drifted into nothingness.

Christmasdawned with excited children frantically ripping the wrapping from theirpresents. Everyone was busy being at home beside cheerful fires, being withfamily, eating and drinking and enjoying their newly acquired riches from theman whose sleigh sped across the starlit skies of their dreams.

Hewould not be found for a few days; no one missed him. Thedeath certificate would say that he died of hypothermia. The papers would print a short paragraph telling of an old man found dead in a shabby flat. There would be few details. They would notknow that he was old before his time, that he lived in a desperate isolation,or that he had spent his last few weeks making so many children happy.They would not even name him. There was no mention of Santa. There would be no follow-upstory.

Floundering (the one that nearly got away!)

2011-08-15T17:05:00.029+01:00

Seriously manipulated image
(click image to enlarge)

We were on a scuba diving trip to Fethard-On-Sea in Wexford. The weather was lousy, the wind howling, the shore an impenetrable avalanche of angry ocean. There would be no diving for us that day - we were having a bad diving weekend.

The warm embrace of a local hostelry beckoned, but we resisted - at least until afternoon. A snorkel off a beach would pass an hour or two so we headed for a sheltered shallow shore in the lee of Hook Head.

It is almost inevitable when you arrive on some isolated seashore encumbered with the paraphernalia of aquatic immersion that curious strangers will congregate, suspiciously scrutinising, and someone will invariably ask the same sharp question: “Are yis divers lads?”.
This time the onlookers were a few local fishermen. The temptation to answer their query sarcastically was too simple, so we held our peace. But these onlookers were not merely inquisitive, they had a request: they had lost a mooring in the bay and could we have a quick look for it.

Everyone who ever asked us to look for a lost mooring always knew exactly where it was - and they were usually right, to within a half mile or so! The last thing we wanted to do was search for this mooring but it was an excuse to get wet and waste air in a couple of metres of water on a sandy bottom, a heresy to the normally adventurous activity of diving.

The four of us swam from shore to a point they had loosely indicated beside a moored half-decker boat. We split into pairs, using the boat as a transit - not exactly textbook search technique but we didn’t mind, we were just getting wet.

Myself and Harry started finning gently along the bottom, visibility about a metre, looking from side to side with no great hopes or expectations of discovering anything.

Then Harry saw a flounder. Quick as a flash, his big dagger style diving knife was pulled from it's sheath and poised menacingly over the unfortunate fish. As I wondered if he would be quick enough, the knife plunged downward in a frenzied movement and Harry disappeared in a cloud of sand. Then slowly, from sandy soup, I saw a fleeting glimpse of a fish emerging, flapping furiously, the knife standing up in its back like a statue on a plinth, then disappearing like greased lightning into the watery fog.

Harry emerged from the cloud empty-handed, staring with incredulous horror at his bare hand, robbed by a lousy flounder! He headed for the surface without further ado. I followed, and we dragged ourselves awkwardly onto the half-decker, no mean feat with a big tank on your back. Harry’s loss was expressed in profanities long and furious and best not repeated.

About ten minutes later I was still sympathetically trying not to laugh too heartily when the other pair of divers surfaced some distance away on the other side of the boat. They emerged with the excited chatter of novices, a bit strange for experienced divers on a particularly dull dive.

“Look what we found!”, they roared, and they held Harry’s knife aloft like Excalibur, complete with the impaled flounder.

Washed down with creamy pints, it made a grand supper.

We didn't find the missing mooring, but Harry still has a diving knife!

Rules of the Road - Dublin style

2009-01-28T20:00:00.006Z

"The driving is like the driving of Jehu, the son of Nimshu; for he driveth furiously". (Kings 2 [9:20])

Prophetic words - the biblical writer undoubtedly had the benefit of a crystal ball and was gazing upon the streets of present-day Dublin.

For the unwitting, the unschooled or the downright foolhardy who are contemplating taking to the roads of our Capital city, we present a helpful guide - a few tips that are not found in that unread tome, the Rules of the Road.

LEARNERS: Avoid using "L" plates - they only identify you as a soft target for "experienced" drivers.

Taxi parked in "cycle lane"

TAXIS: Every taxi licence comes complete with a copy of the "Rules of the Road for Taxi Drivers". The secrets of this booklet are about as accessible as Salman Rushdie's phone number. Taxis are allowed supplementary privileges not bestowed on the common man, e.g., u-turns regardless of traffic, stopping anywhere at all for ay time at all, using bus lanes like race tracks, and driving contra-flow on one-way streets. Don't even try to figure them out. Taxis can park anywhere.

WHITE LINES: Nobody has discovered the purpose of these mysterious markings on the streets of Dublin. Every street is lined with them, like giant versions of those cardboard cut-outs that bear the legend: "tear along dotted line". Apparently, that's just what you do.

Alternative Cycle Lane
(this is why they
use the footpaths!)

BUSES: There is a sign at the back of Dublin buses: "Please let buses pull out".
This is a private joke by the bus company - Dublin buses never pull in!

THE HORN: Use at will. Great contraption for venting anger at the masses. Musical varieties are best for enraging other drivers - entertainment at its very best to pass the time in traffic.

LIGHTS: Driving with parking lights only gives you a better chance with the walking sub-species. Using dipped heads will give the average pedestrian the unfair advantage of seeing you coming.

RED LIGHTS: Colourful ornaments to brighten our city streets (possibly erected as part of an earlier millennium-type occasion). Stop only if car in front stops first. If you have to stop you can usefully pass the time clearing your nostrils of the accumulated debris from airborne pollutants.

GREEN LIGHTS: It is wise to slow to a crawl going through green lights - remember what you do at red ones...

HAZARD LIGHTS: Probably the most useful addition to the modern mechanically propelled vehicle. Park anywhere, any time - even double park. No matter where you are, just switch them on, and leave the vehicle. There is no time limit on this facility. Especially useful on vans and taxis.

REAR FOG LIGHTS: Brilliant inventions that totally dazzle everyone behind you. Some fools will try to retaliate by flashing headlights at you. The solution is simple - make sure none of your mirrors are pointing towards the rear.

CYCLISTS: Lawless louts who weave around like they own the place. They all hate motorists and blame the car for all the ills of the world. Ignore them. Extra marks for hitting one at night as it needs great skill to spot one in the dark.

A typical cycle lane on Dublin's O'Connell Street

FOOTPATHS: Also known as cycle lanes, they are fantastic for pedallers in a hurry to avoid the mad motorists.

MOTORCYCLES: Noisy anti-social machines, customized and stripped for maximum noise/pollution emissions. Couriers are the worst as they have special permission to ride on footpaths, pedestrian areas, one-way streets and may park across office building doors.

SUNDAYS: Church goers are given special indulgence which grants them invulnerability, giving a whole new meaning to the old expression: "Praise God and Pass etc". The careful motoring habits are discarded as they load ten kids into the back of a mini with windows covered in stickers declaring prayer to be what is holding the family together and others calling for the abolition of various practices and devices (which accounts for the ten kids). Their antics are beyond the comprehension of mere mortals. The best course is to stay tucked under the blankets with your hot water bottle until Sunday lunch if at all possible.

YELLOW BOXES: Believed to be some form of pavement art. No known purpose.

STEREOS: The louder, the better - buy in decibels. Greatly assist in blocking out unwanted noise like car horns.

WOMEN : You will come across a diminishing few who drive slowly but don't be fooled for a moment by this creative feminine ploy; it is a winsome distraction to inveigle the insurance companies into embracing the sexist practise of giving them discount on the grounds of gender.
Sometime called the gentler sex, no such attribute applies when they drive; keep you doors locked.

Parking for Coaches

PARKING: Daytime can be a problem with clampers sadistically scouring the city in search of unwitting creditors for the national coffers. Best places are footpaths, entrances, double yellow lines and taxi ranks (see hazard lights section), as clampers busy themselves with those who overstay the meter time by a minute or two.
Judicious use of the space markings in car parks is well worth learning. Park with the space markings under the centre of your car or at an angle, using two spaces. This stops other cars getting too close and scratching your precious paintwork.

PEDESTRIANS: A misnomer for jay-walkers. When approaching one, keep your head down, eyes front, headlights furiously flashing and horn blaring and watch them scatter like the seeds of a dandelion in a hurricane. Ignore response finger signals indicating IQ (or sperm count) of sender (1 or 2).

THE SERVICE STATION: Pull into a filling station and the neatly dressed attendant is quickly there enquiring which grade is required and while it is filling, checks the oil, tyres and water and washes the windscreen - cheerfully accepting a small tip for same courtesy ... then you leave the cinema to drive home, stopping for petrol on the way where you wait for the pump to be turned on, only to discover that you must pay in advance because some jerk once drove off without paying. Then you fill the thing yourself, in the pouring rain and go to pay, standing in line as people check their week's groceries in front of you.
Oil, water or air are only available at certain times. These times are unknown to the attendant, who "only works here". You have a better chance of finding a litre of oil in a supermarket.

GARDAI (POLICE): One of the unavoidable hazards of modern motoring. Always call them "Sergeant" unless, of course, it is a Sergeant, in which case use "Inspector". Higher ranks don't tend to bother with such mundane matters (except to sort out the unpleasantness for their friends) so you needn't worry about them. If the Guard is a female of the species, do not try some old line about the flawless way she fills the uniform - too blatantly bogus (the prosaic wisdom of this advice will become be self-evident when you've seen the uniform). Traffic rules do not apply to Gardai, especially if they are rushing for lunch.

AND FINALLY: Of course, all of this is just a minuscule morsel of the encyclopaedic knowledge needed for even moderate proficiency in this most highly hazardous, but splendidly stimulating of adventure sports. It would take a fair size manuscript to relate all of it.

Best thing is to take your courage (and your steering wheel) in hand and when in doubt, keep the right foot down, eyes front, and horn honking. Sure, its a little precarious, but what's a little daring diversion if it passes away the hours of incomparable tedium in the endless impasse we call traffic, that has become an intrinsic part of life in our fair city.

Go West Young Man, but Slowly!

2008-10-05T20:18:00.002+01:00

An Irishman's Diary

President Cearbhall Ó Dálaigh:
a funny thing happened on the
road to his house in Cahirciveen

IT IS enormously embarrassing when you have to reverse back to a speed checkpoint. Such was the case as I headed west out of Portlaoise one fine Monday morning many years ago, writes Ronan Quinlan

My colleague and I were travelling to Caherciveen in a bold attempt to do a "cold call" interview with the recently resigned President of Ireland, Cearbhall Ó Dálaigh, me to do the pictures and he to write the words. My colleague was Gerry McMorrow, a steadfast Sligo man and a reporter of exceptional talent who, before very long, was to leave us forever at the untimely age of 32.

The best thing I could think to say after backtracking to the patiently waiting policeman was nothing, and that's how I started. I wound down the window and murmured a timid salutation. The garda, a stout middle-aged man who had, to my youthful eye, the appearance of having always been that age, eyed me with a confident authority for what seemed like an age before opening his mouth. "Do you know what speed you were doing?" he enquired, evidently anticipating a full confession. I confessed immediately that I had no idea what speed I was doing.

"Sixty!" he barked, and followed it with another long silence. "The speed limit is thirty!" I knew this was tantamount to a capital offence, so I kept to my silent strategy, mainly because I did not know what I could say to spare me the consequences of my folly.

He stood, and I sat, me looking up, and him looking down, in silence, for about half a minute. It seemed like an hour.

Eventually, he crouched halfway to my level, frowned with authority and said: "Have you no story?"

"Story?" I ventured, weakly.

There was another long silence, longer than before."Do you know what I love about this job?" he asked.

"No, Sergeant," I replied, promoting him.

"The thing I love about this job," he said, "is the stories. You hear great stories on this job."

I slunk deeper into my misery, convinced now that I would surely perish because I had no entertainment for this guardian of the peace.

"You're not going to a funeral, are you?" he ventured.

"No, Guard, no funeral," I suggested, helpfully.

"You would be amazed at the number of people I stop that are going to funerals," he said.

"No, not a funeral," I repeated. "I'm not even in a hurry."

Another long silence followed, another eternity. Gerry began to giggle aloud and this amplified my panic.

"Do you know what I'm going to tell you?" the garda said. "In all the days I have stood on this road doing this job, you're the first fella I have ever pulled over that had no story at all for me." Images of Flann O'Brien's Sergeant Pluck and Policeman MacCruiskeen flashed before me, and Gerry began to giggle even louder - this is a very bad idea when you are trying to get away with something and I struggled to keep a straight face.

Another long pause. Then he asked me where we were bound. I told him our destination.

"Caherciveen?" he said, as if I had just announced a trip to the moon. "Sure that's an awful long way. You must be in a hurry," he enticed.

"No, Guard. In fact, I'll be in plenty of time if I'm there by tomorrow," I said, desperately trying to reinforce our lethargic approach.

His curiosity led to more questions and he eventually wormed from me all the details of our business in Kerry. I thought it better not to mention that we were going to meet a man who did not know we were coming, who might not even be there, and whom we suspected would probably have us banished on sight from the Kingdom.

"Well, you must be in a hurry if you're meeting a man like that," he said, encouragingly. Again I stressed the laid-back nature of our timetable.

It was time to tempt fate so I ventured: "I suppose, eh, I'll be seeing you in court so, Sergeant?"

"Could be," he said, softly, "could be. But I think I might let you away this time. Far be it from me to be holding you from a meeting with an important man like that."

I could not believe my luck, but I quickly thanked him and nearly made the mistake of burning rubber in my haste to get away.

They don't make speed checks like that anymore.

By the way, we arrived in Caherciveen around teatime, and as we considered our approach strategy, the former president himself walked out of a shop in front of us, newspaper in hand, heading towards his Triumph Vitesse.

We gingerly approached and introduced ourselves. Ó Dálaigh had not spoken at any length to the media since his dramatic resignation from the highest post in the land. He said straight away he didn't have time to meet us, but could we come to the house at eleven the next morning?

And we did go to his house, and we had tea and scones served to us by his charming wife, and we got the grand tour of his beloved library. And we got our story. It was a good story, but not on a par with "Sergeant Pluck".

This article first appeared in the Irish Times 5th May 2008

On Yer Bike!

2008-08-28T20:04:00.002+01:00

Day in and day out, on television, radio and in every paper and magazine I pick up, there is an unending effort to convince me that I am unhealthy and I will die painfully in my prime. Up to now, I have studiously ignored the pressure.

But now the midriff is bulging, the stairs seem mountainous, the lungs are protesting wheezily and the scales are groaning to tell me something. After years of the lazy life, when youth takes care of it's own fitness, I need to listen to their advise. I must exercise.

This state of affairs has come about after two decades of youthful abandon when the only health one worries about is that of the bank balance and it's ability to afford one the kind of lifestyle which nature never intended, i.e. haute cuisine and a desirable model of mechanically propelled personalised transportation. A not-so-odd little drop of the vino completes the picture of decadence.

With this in mind (and body) I spent some time checking on the options available to one with needs such as mine, i.e.: to get fit with the least fuss and bother and minimum effort to mind, body and pocket. Physical jerks seemed a bit strenuous and boring and I was afraid of rupturing something if I "pumped iron" (what a dreadful expression!). Jogging looked cheap (if unbelievably tedious - you end up where you started, which seems like an awful lot of trouble for nothing) until I found out that you need designer track-suit and three hundred Euro trainers. I draw the line at paying that kind of dough for what are fundamentally a pair of sneakers!

Finally, having considered all the options, I invested some of my hard earned (and, of late, scrupulously saved) drink money in a shiny new bike. It is the first bike I have had since Santy gave me one, although, sadly, the thrill of newness is a child's when it comes to bikes. It cost me the same again to rig myself out with what the salesman convinced me was compulsory paraphernalia, consisting of what seemed like tons of special clothes and sophisticated pumps and extra large capacity water bottles and heavy duty locks and, of course, the trusty old puncture repair outfit. Thus kitted, and with thoughts of the Tour De France in mind (I could hear the roar of the crowds already) I began my belated two-wheeled career.

On the first day I went for ten minutes. I based this on what I read about Stephen Roche doing twenty minutes a day after his over-indulgent couple of months of awards and thank you dinners. I reckoned if I was doing half of what the world champion did, that can't be bad. Anyway, I had no heart attacks or wheezy nights afterwards, thus proving the value of a studied scientific approach to such matters.

All went well and in no time I felt I could venture a little further than the safe confines of the cul-de-sac outside the house. This was where it all started to go wrong.

Cycling is strictly for the brave. I quickly discovered that it is absolutely essential to ride about four feet from the kerb, the gutter being about three feet wide and about a foot deep. Successive attempts to re-tar the road have stopped about a foot from the kerb and the juggernauts have finished the job nicely, turning this area into an obstacle course which would challenge a professional BMX rider. On most roads, this margin means that traffic is a little tight (keep-your-elbows-well-tucked-into-your-sides type tight!).

An average pothole

Being a driver of many years I am well used to bad roads and potholes. I know the rules and of course I always drive with courtesy to others (!). Don't we all? Maybe there is another perspective.

I can see myself on the inside looking out - bloody cyclist! The stereo is blaring (in high fidelity), the heater is keeping the wintry weather at bay, the wipers are going full trottle, and you are generally enjoying the comfort of your hard-earned wheels. It's just too much that these cheeky masochistic maniacs on bikes keep getting in the way and slowing you down. Why don't they go to a bike park or some other out-of-my-face place. Hells bells, they don't even pay road tax!

When you hop on a bike, the motorist takes on a different mantle. You begin to see these pompous, stupid, arrogant drivers a little differently. What is it about being in a car that allows people to pick their noses or adjust their bras in the middle of a busy street and think no one sees them? The same people turn left at the last minute, ignoring your existence on the inside, neatly forcing you into the pole on the corner, having first carefully chosen the junction to ensure there is a convenient pole or traffic light control box to lessen your chances emerging in one piece. It makes hang-gliding and deep sea diving look like sports for active grandmothers.

The joy of impossibly narrow cycle lanes

City cycling is a joy all of it's own. I have to smile when I see the ad on television that uses the slogan: "Think twice - think bike". If we could get morans who aim these four wheeled monsters to think at all it would be progress.
To the motorist, the cyclist does not exist, at all. Whether it is at a junction or the centre lane of the road as the cyclist foolishly attempts to do right turn in the manner proscribed by law, the motorist simply cannot see anything on two wheels. Add to this the indescribable experience of being passed by a bus with misted up windows and you will quickly head for the peace and quiet of the countryside.

I have also discovered why bikes are such lightweight affairs these days: it's because you need a light bike to save energy to be able to carry the weight of the lock and chain you need to park it. Even stopping for a newspaper requires a bit of study...

First you find a solid railing - inches thick and without the offensive sign: "do not chain bikes to this railing" (all the best railings have them). Then secure the bike making sure that both wheels and the frame are securely wrapped in chain. Take all lights off and pocket them, together with pump and saddle bags. Enter shop, looking like you are heading for the Himalayas. Buy newspaper. Leave shop and return all accessories to bike. Remove chain and you are on your way. This whole thing will only take about fifteen minutes - after some practice!

Then there's rain. Take my word for it - you haven't been out in the rain until you have been out in it on a bike - wet, miserable, cold and dreary. The hours of fun kitting up in the finest of rainwear (it only cost a another couple of hundred) is futile. The makers of the gear have made one silly assumption: that rain comes from above. This is true for all but the cyclist. For him/her, rain comes from below. Mudguards are strictly old world, which means that in the interests of fashionable cycling, you get a continuous spray of water from the front wheel to the chest and face and the rear wheel compliments this with a neat vertical line of mud all the way up your back. To complete the scenario, every car waits for a large puddle before overtaking. Timing is crucial, but most drivers seem to get it just right.

Another thing I quickly discovered is that bikes have no shock-absorbers. This means that potholes are really potholes, i.e. things which effect you immediately and personally (enough said).

I have come to the conclusion that this cycling lark is for the birds! These weary bones will gladly forsake the dubious pleasures of pedal-power and take their chances with the more comfortable alternatives. Never again will I complain about bus queues or traffic jams or the cost of petrol. Whatever the cost, it beats pedal power. I have forwarded the following to another section of the paper:

For sale: Hardly used ten speed racing bike. One careful gutless owner. Will swap for safe, dry, warm exercise bike in working condition - or not!

Eat and Die

2008-07-28T19:59:00.003+01:00

Some time ago on the radio I heard an American actress enthuse about the delights of dining out in Paris. Her interviewer's ingratiating assumption about the superior quality of French cuisine drew a hasty rebuttal: "Oh no, honey, the food in California is the best in the whole world. No, I like eating in Paris because, unlike at home, I can get through a whole meal without some jerk telling me which things on my plate will kill me!"
Of course, it had to catch on here. Most fads and crazes that come and go in an endless stream begin in the sunshine state and it's only a matter of time before they find their way across the pond. It was inevitable that we would reach the point when we have to search our souls before indulging in our favourite culinary delights.

Remember food before fads? Remember when you could sit down to a grand feed of bacon and cabbage and relish its saltiness, or order a steak and sautéed onions without agonising about the little sliver of fat on the edge? Remember you used to think this was the best bit!

When did anyone ever see a burger
that looked like its promotion picture?

I once had the misfortune to be button-holed at a bar by a relative of mine home on holidays from California (where he had lived for only a couple of years) while he sipped a single half- pint of stout for three hours explaining the phenomenal properties of the twenty or thirty different vitamin supplements he carried in his pocket and expounded with missionary zeal the virtues of confining his kids' drinking habits to pure orange juice! He needn't have bothered because as he spoke I was copiously consuming countless pints of the same black brew and, thankfully, I forgot every word he said - lucky me! Or lucky rather, you dear reader, that I am unable to pass on this fascinating information.

Now its here - the health food kick. Low fat everything. Now you have to examine every morsel in minute detail before you bring it near your oral orifice. You have to watch for a million pitfalls and dangers. Fat is not fat anymore: it is saturated fat, unsaturated fat, monounsaturated fat, polyunsaturated fat, vegetable fat, animal fat, non milk fat solids. Each is listed on the label is such a way as to suggest that only things not mentioned are harmful. It tells not just the fat content, but the calories, carbohydrates, nutrients, proteins, vitamins, salt, sugar, calcium, iron and water, and a plethora of other things I can’t spell.

The Food Additives Bible

When E numbers came out first, we all thought we must avoid them, nobody seemed to realise that these were the PERMITTED additives. Who permitted them was the first thing that came to mind. I tried the Department of Health and the EU commission office. They both told me the best thing to do was to buy a book by Maurice Hanssen (E For Additive) which is the most up-to-date reference on the subject and is what they use!

I studied it for ages. After a few months I began to think that there is no such thing as a harmless additive and was tempted to give it up as a bad job. The only way I could see to stop poisoning myself slowly to a painful end was to starve to death! It seems the whole world was confused, and now E numbers seem to have disappeared altogether.

Shopping has become a literary adventure, I read more in the supermarket than I do in the library. Time will come when you will have to have a literary degree to buy the groceries.

Even if you check everything on the label there are other pitfalls you have to watch. Hormones and antibiotics in meat and insecticides and chemical fertilisers on everything from corn to cabbage. Nothing is safe from the purge of progress as farmers go to any lengths to increase their yield.

Now it would seem that even the tap in the kitchen can't be trusted anymore. These marketing people - who have ambitions to take over the world - have us all convinced that we should fork out a fortune for a drink of good old fashioned water. Go into any pub and ask for a Ballygowan. You will pay a few Euros for a third of a litre and it will arrive full of ice - made from tap water, the same water they would have us believe is full of sewage and silage and the devil knows what additives from fluoride to chlorine, not to mention the activities of fish in the same stuff.

Pizza - bread with cheese, tomato paste and
a few bits and pieces sold at inflated prices.

Then fibre became the catch word, lots of roughage and the job is Oxo. Straight away, all the mothers in the country began stuffing their offspring with so much brown bread and whole-wheat spaghetti they could run (!) in the Olympics. Not long after this we had reports that too much roughage upsets the constitution and your average kid is overstuffed with it. No doubt it will be cut from diets altogether now and children will have to go back to the trusty old cure-all which was once every mothers definitive elixir and every child’s absolute dread - cod liver oil!

The most recent findings of the British Nutrition Foundation suggest that there are traces of lysergic acid diethylamide (plain ol' LSD to you folks) in your morning muesli. This, we are told, comes from a fungus which grows on wheat called ergot and is what makes us all feel good as we face the day's toil after a good healthy breakfast. We never had anything like that with rashers and eggs! I can see it now as the authorities look further into this latest offering from the scientific world and the headlines scream: "Gang members face life sentence after customs seize 50 kilos of Shredded Wheat with a street value of €3m."

Mind you, all this appears to be based on what they describe as "anecdotal" evidence, what lawyers would call hearsay, but it does make good headlines.

Even the humble fish has not escaped the eagle eye of the food fad fanatics. Time was when you couldn't say a bad word about fish. Here was a pure and wondrous food filled with protein and goodness and it gave you brains to burn into the bargain. Now we have to watch out for fat in shellfish and oil in mackerel and god knows what in the rest. If it is not polluted it is radioactive. The sea has become our dumping ground for chemicals and effluent and radioactive waste and just about every kind of rubbish that can't be economically recycled or disposed of safely.

It seems that watever you eat, if it doesn't give you cancer it will give you a coronary. If it doesn't ulcerate your intestines, it will pickle liver. If it tastes good, its bad for you. If its not full of fat its full of cholesterol. Even if you try very hard to be safe in your eating habits the odds are stacked against you. They have developed a special language all of their own to keep the likes of ordinary Joes in the dark. Did you know that you can develop "atherosclerosis from lipid accumulation, particularly cholesterol and its esters? Of course, maleness is a determining factor in the measurement of lipoprotein density of the blood". Figure that out and you can go into practice for yourself!

How you cook is another important part of the message. The frying pan is definitely a museum piece whereas deep frying is an absolute no-no, even if you break the bank and use groundnut oil. Boiling or baking is your only man - unless you microwave. The microwave is the best of all for cooking and is marred only by the slight disadvantage is that and you'll get cancer from leaking radiation if you stay in the same room when its doing the business.

The message is clear. If it tastes nice or looks good it will kill you. We will end up eating nothing but organically grown lettuce and drinking water from a private well in the some remote island off the West coast if we are to "enjoy" a long and healthy life. As George Burns said on his 90th birthday when asked how he had lived so long and stayed so healthy: "If I'd known I was going to live this long, I'd have taken better care of myself", and blew another puff of cigar smoke at his interviewer. George died shortly after his 100 birthday.

Enough said...

French Fleadh in Brittany

2008-04-03T21:08:00.001+01:00

This article won the Medal for Best French Travel writing from the Comite National des Conseillers du Commerce de la France.

There is body of opinion that believes bagpipes make a great sound, in the distance - the further the distance, the better the sound. Those who love them passionately deny that the reason they march is to get away from the noise!
Every August they travel in droves to Lorient, on the South coast of Brittany, where the huge Festival Interceltique takes place. But it is not just pipers. There is rock music and jazz, country and Cajun, blues and traditional. About two hundred thousand Celtic culture vultures from Ireland, Scotland, Wales, Cornwall, Isle of Man, Galicia, Asturias (our Spanish Celtic cousins) and of course, Brittany itself invade the town for ten days of intense competition, parades, seissiúns and general fun and games; there are more than 250 different events involving 4,500 musicians and artists. You could call it a French Fleadh.
Music is central to the festival but the visual and performing arts play a major role. Last year two Irish painters, Maurice Quillinan and Robert Ballagh, exhibited.
The atmosphere in the town is carnival, with street theatre and buskers, markets and fast food stalls in an international blend of language and music, dance and costume. Conversations are in French, Irish, Breton, Welsh, Scots Gaelic, Cornish and Galician, and often, it seems, a mixture of many, especially as the night turns to morning and the serious business of cultural exchange continues. You will also get by nicely in English.
Workshops are held on anything remotely related to Celtic culture. There are competitions for everything, the crowning glory of which is the clash of the pipe bands at the local football stadium. The sound can be heard in Paris!
There were pipe bands from all over Ireland, with the unlikely cultural mix of the Barrs (St. Finbarr's Pipe Band from Cork) playing with Cullybackey Caladonia Pipe Band from Antrim. The Naval Service Pipe Band, a relative newcomer to the business, marched through the town for the sheer fun of it. By day they competed fiercely in parades and contests. After dark, they joined forces to compete over pints of Murphy's Irish stout (available just about everywhere) and bottles of French wine.
We were distracted early one evening by the sight of a few Barrs entering a Police station, complete with pipes and drums. Journalistic instinct (just plain nosiness) got the better of us and we joined the small party for a very informal recital arranged by band member, Garda Sergeant John Burke of Barracks Street Station for his French colleagues. Any notions we had that the piping in pubs and streets was loud faded fast with the sound of four pipers and two drummers playing in the tiled corridors of the small cell block. Acoustics is a term that cannot adequately cope with the result, which made the efforts of Guns 'n Roses seem like the recital of a string quartet in a large field. The Gendermerie were delighted and responded in traditional French manner - the wine flowed.

There are plenty of places where the night goes on until the morning and the craic is ninety with pipers and fiddlers and all manner of instrumentalists and singers in fine fettle with apparently endless energy. The fun and games begin with the clash (fortunately rare) of the pipes - Uileann versus War. The Uileann fans look with scorn on the Scottish version, adopted by the Bretons in the late 1940's and since made their own. Uileann pipe purists like to think that the Irish invented the bagpipe and in mischievous mood sent it to Scotland. The Scots, we are told, never got the joke.
Apart from happenings musical and cultural, there is plenty do around Lorient. A cheap bus pass brought us to miles of fine beaches and all facilities for sailing, scuba-diving, fishing, horse riding, golf and most other activities.
Much of the joy of Brittany is gastronomical, especially in its fish specialities. Of course this is home to the crêpe, available everywhere, with just about every conceivable filling. It is worth a visit for those alone, and, of course, in these parts the kings of the sea, les moules.
Centre piece of the festival last year was the premiere of the Poeme Symphonique, "Anne des Iles" by Herve Cavelier. Dublin piper (uileann!) Gay McKeon, was the principal soloist and brought the house down with an electric (!) performance. There was talk of a recording being made in Paris at a later stage. Watch out for it.

(first published in The Sunday Press 1993)

What Colour is Your Wind, Daddy

2008-02-28T20:01:00.001Z

(with apologies to Charlie Landsborough's
"What Colour is the Wind?")

What colour is your wind, Daddy

Is it yellow, red or blue,

When it stinks to heaven high, Daddy

Does it smell the same to you

When its dying does its colour fade

Is a silent one a lighter shade

Just like a rotten tree

Your wind seems brown to me

Blow, wind, blow

Smell flows free

My Daddy’s farts

Smell like shite to me

When the room fills with your stench, Daddy

Does your face turn brightly red

Do you blush and hide your shame, Daddy

When insulting words are said

When it casts its scent upon the air

And the stink forever lingers there

Oh I wish I could be drugged

Or your arsehole could be plugged

Blow, wind, blow

Smell flows free

My Daddy’s farts

Smell like shite to me

I know that grass is green Daddy

I’ve touched it with my toes

But your farts are dirty brown, Daddy

I smelled them with my nose

But your favourite habit has to be

Farting loudly after beans for tea

So now Daddy you’ve been told

Your (****ing) wind must be controlled

Blow, wind, blow

Smell flows free

My Daddy’s farts

Smell like shite to me

You can hear Charlie's Landsborough's original song here

The Joys of Fatherhood

2007-11-04T20:05:00.002Z

(An Ode to Mothers ... )

I greeted the announcement of her intention to breast feed with eager, if sceptical anticipation - a bit like realising you have the six lotto numbers but you can’t find the ticket.

Remembering the proverbial female prerogative, and fearing that she might change her mind with no more compelling rationale than the fatuous compulsion known as a woman’s logic, I scoured the local library and searched every bookshop in town, arming myself with facts, figures and elaborate statistics to reinforce her judicious decision. Thus prepared, I pontificated ad nauseam about immunity and nutrient values and the bonding created by the comfort of maternal contact.

Friends (I use the term loosely) recalled harrowing tales of perpetual insatiable feeding and the agony endured by mother if the child has a tooth, as they invariably do. I counter-attacked with repeated recitals of my hastily acquired snippets of scientific wisdom, trying desperately to rubbish the aversive outbursts of these witless wallies.

Despite the negative leanings of these tactless tales and thoughtful tips, we agreed (she decided) that breast is best. And so it began ...

It goes without saying that I had ulterior motives for this apparent altruism. I had planned on peaceful and undisturbed slumbers, since I could not really be expected to feed the little darling, lacking, as I do, the elementary equipment! I prepared all the things to say to make sure herself would not change her mind about the natural approach as I anticipated restful nights. The simple function of child-rearing was well in hand. Mission accomplished.

Alas, it was not to be. Conspiracy rules. Mother and daughter have put their female heads together and targeted me. I now know for certain that feminists are not made - they are born.

The little angel arrived and our lives changed totally, unalterably, sleeplessly and catastrophically. No, she hasn’t given up breast-feeding, far from it, she thrives on it - they both do. I mean I have not had the restful nights - or days for that matter. She has taken on the role of “middle man”, so to speak. She feeds the little darling and I feed her. It falls on me to make tea and toast, check the heating, get all the mother and baby paraphernalia ready, and, to ensure a relaxed and stress free feed, change the nappy.

I really don’t know how they do it. The little angel (not the term I always use) wants food every two hours, twenty-four hours a day. This might not be too bad, especially as she sleeps for as much as three hours (once), except that it’s an hours work in every three.

Between the long and laborious process of feeding (long for her and laborious for me) and changing nappies and trying to get her back to sleep again, it is the full time job that equates to the Herculean labours of deep-sea divers or professional cyclists. The mother’s role is a full time job, so full that she needs a full time assistant – me!

I do try. I get up in the middle of the night to carry the little pet from her cot and I bring her to the dinner table, who is still comatose in the bed and wakes only after I thump her with such an intensity that could get me locked up. I change the little one’s nappy and play with her and do all the things a father should do, indeed, wants to do. I probably do not do them very well or often enough but I think I can say I almost do my best.

The process endured by women to give birth would kill a heavyweight boxer, and are only matched by the tribulations endured by males by merely being present at the birth. Goodness knows what would happen if they had to suffer the process of delivery - probably the extinction of the species. But women make the best of while they can. A few hours hard labour in the maternity ward and then it is holiday time until the kids are ready for school. Maybe a swap really would be worth a try ...

The Pleasures of Gardening

2007-10-28T19:00:00.002Z

To call it, as some do, a nature patch, is an abuse of the English language. It has nothing to do with nature. It is an invention whose sole purpose is to kill off what few small pleasures a man may enjoy in what little time is left for leisure. I speak, of course, of the greatest affliction ever planted upon the already over-burdened suburban man - the lawn.

I have a large garden. It was just fine when I moved in. I loved the avant-garde look of the building materials scattered randomly around. I was happy with my garden - it added a unique character to my plebeian palace. Neighbours commented but, in all modesty, I didn't dwell upon their remarks.

Then it all began to go wrong.

One day I arrived home to find a strange man digging up the place, going hammer and thong with shovel and spade as if his life depended on it, and it probably did, with herself scrutinising his every move. My nature patch was disappearing before my very eyes without so much as a by-your-leave.

In a few short days, he dug the ground a hundred times, then raked, harrowed and flattened to a point I could play snooker on it. Then the seed went down, and I haven't had a day's peace since.

It looked grand for a while, little shoots miraculously sprouting through the brown earth, with nothing to disturb the tranquil scene except herself roaring at me about the poor little birds who were trying their best to rescue me by feasting on the seeds. The birds failed in their commendable task and soon the little seeds multiplied into millions as nature intended, changing the colour of the whole scene, at first a nice chartreuse and then a darker shade of green until before we knew it the grass was six inches high. That was when the dream became a nightmare, and green vanished from my list of favourite colours.

Of course, it was the little woman who planned the lawn and hired the man to do it (my only involvement was paying the bill) but when it comes to cutting it, I quickly discovered where the nickname "er indoors" came about - that's where she stays, issuing orders like a sergeant major expecting royalty to drop by and thinking up new ways to make sure I spend a premature retirement in a wheelchair.

Lest you misunderstand, let me state clearly that I love gardens. They are lovely places to sit in and close your eyes on a warm summer's day (I remember the day well!) as you sup a can of cold lager on the sun bed and soak up the old ultra violet (in ever-increasing abundance - thanks to that fortuitous hole in the ozone layer). Nothing could be nicer - as long as it is someone else's garden. Sit in your own for two minutes and you can only see the faults, the millions of things you know are not up the her standards.

The only hope I have is that some television show will accept my offer to use the place as the "before" in a programme. They could come along every week and keep you all informed of the progress as they devise the perfect garden for the non-gardener, preferably with loads of concrete patios and rockeries - real rockeries with LOADS of ROCKS! A good big shed would render another good-sized lump of grass extinct.

Failing that, I think I'll move into an apartment - without window sills, just in case.

Sleeping With The Enemy

2007-06-06T20:06:00.007+01:00

Ireland has come a long way from De Valera’s vision of a country bright with cosy homesteads, laughing happy maidens and athletic youth. We are heading into the summer of 2007 full of talk about divorce, separation, co-habitation, promiscuity, arranged marriages, all manner of conception prevention and even forced abortion. Yes, we are in that three weeks of chaos called a General Election, a period when political stars promise the moon.

Bertie Ahern

This time we will be asked not so much to elect a government as to approve a conjugal arrangement. This election is not a debate about who will win, but about who will end up sleeping in whose bed. Of all the endless matchmaking possibilities, the two main proposals of wedlock could end up needing fertility treatment before any marriage can be consummated.
Bertie would prefer to remain faithful to Michael, though he is not too pushed about it, and he will play the field if it suits him. Enda and Pat have also agreed to tie the knot, but that looks like being anything other than a monogamous relationship. Whatever happens, there can be no double wedding, but there may well be a threesome, a foursome or even an orgy.

Enda Kenny

So far, the only partner who has not been proposed as a suitable spouse for Bertie is Enda, who harbours hopes of sleeping in the master bedroom himself. Even with our new found multi-cultural and multi-ethnic conversion, this is a mixed marriage the nation might well refuse to recognise, suspicious about the motivation and unconvinced about its fertility prospects, a bit like same sex marriage.

I do, I don’t, I might, I won’t. Labour Party leader Pat Rabbitte protests he doesn’t fancy Bertie and has no wish get into bed with him. But behind all his protestations (or lack of them), there appears to be a possibility of seduction, in the very face of his formal engagement to Enda. Cynics suggest that the wedding of Fine Gael and Labour is a desperate marriage of convenience, contrived just to grab the dowry.

Pat Rabbitte

Pat Rabbitte maintains there is no prospect of marriage to Bertie, nor will there be one, and even if there is a proposal, he cannot say what his answer would be, because he won't be asked the question (no, I can’t figure it either). The family can, apparently, decide for him, but only if he asks them, and he is not going to do that. Is that definite? Yes, absolutely. Well, maybe.
Rabbitte, lusty as his bunny namesake, desperately wants to marry his betrothed, Enda, even though there is little of the affection necessary for lasting nuptials. He says his insuperable differences with Bertie would lead to a loveless and inevitably unstable relationship. However, family considerations could mean we end up with an arranged marriage, even if the groom himself withdraws before the last minute rush up the aisle of Leinster House.

Michael McDowell

The PDs are about to go through a trial parting period, one they hope will only last about three weeks, but as with all these things, it could so easily become permanent, depending on assorted courting activities during the separation. The Rottweiler, like all domestic pets, will be sacrificed to the vet’s needle should family considerations demand. There is a good possibility that his invitation to the wedding will be cancelled altogether, so that could be that for his involvement in the post election hanky-panky.

Sinn Féin won't share a bed with Fianna Fail, not that they have been asked! They say they don’t fancy Bertie and will refuse to get into bed with him in the unlikely event they are propositioned. They are already distracted trying to consummate their marriage to Dr Ian up in Belfast (after a shotgun wedding) but they are virgins south of the border and appear to be holding their purity for a proper church wedding on this part of the island. They would do well to keep in mind that the road to heaven is paved with good intentions and they would not be the first to fall at that virginal hurdle.
Meanwhile, in spite of being legally allowed to have a bigamous marriage, their relationship with Fianna Fail will be confined to occasional weekend flings in Belfast and London.

Trevor Sargent

All is not rosy in the garden with the Green Party either. Their leader, Trevor Sargent is adamant that while he will not share Bertie's bed. He will go to the wedding and will even join the bridal party on the honeymoon, but he will pass his spot in the bed to a brother or sister in the event that his family force an arranged marriage.

West Dublin Kerryman Joe Higgins does not believe in marriage, preferring instead an existence free of any corporate union. Not for him the cosy comfort of a big warm double bed, Joe will slum it alone, if necessary in a single room in Mountjoy. He also has a problem with wedding presents.

Joe Higgins

There are, of course, lots of other suitors. These come from all sorts of backgrounds but they are not really suitable partners. They want to maintain their independent lifestyles while getting all the benefits of a stable marital relationship. They know they will not get Bertie’s hand in marriage but they will fight like Kilkenny cats for a seat at the top table. They are unapologetically promiscuous by nature and would just as soon hop into bed with Enda or Pat, or anyone who would offer them a small slice of wedding cake.

In the muddle of all this match-making we are asked to believe that it is not so much about who sleeps with whom, but how the bed is made and whether we want blankets or a duvet.

Meanwhile Bertie stretches out in his bed, hoping that the forthcoming bout will fluff up his pillow, or maybe change it for a softer, more feathery one.

Whatever the outcome, we can look forward to the wedding of the century. And, like most celebrity weddings that are conducted in a blaze of in-your-face publicity, it will not last very long.

A Dog's Life

2007-06-06T00:00:00.000+01:00

I've just spent a small fortune on dogs. No, I haven't made a successful bid for the Cruft’schampion, my association with man's best friend (I use the expression with tongue-very-much-in-cheek) is involuntary. Myproblem is the nocturnal din of these "domesticated" curs. Too long have I grappled with theenforced insomnia caused by the endless uproar of frustrated four-leggedRomeos.

When I heard about the miser who installed doubleglazing so his kids would not hear the ice-cream man, I saw the answer to myprayers. Ice cream is no worry but the idea of a sound-proof house is likebeing guaranteed a gilt-edged pass through the pearly gates.

Here, at last, was a solution to my problem, a chanceto rid my sleepless nights of theyelping, yapping and howling of these mangy mutts whose owners are either deaf or overdoing theMogadon dosage. I have concluded this because I cannot believe I am theonly one who is bothered by their howling hullaballoo all night long as they tunelessly serenade from high-walled gardens and home-made kennels or garden sheds selected fortheir acoustic properties.

The nightly uproar begins at about one o'clock in the morning. This must be the canine equivalent to pub closing timeas all these satiated suitors, having been stuffed to the point of obesity ontheir favourite canned marrow-bone jelly, concentrate on their second instinct,and howl like hungry wolves, craving carnal fulfillment. The fact that, being securely incarcerated, they are wasting both theirtime and their energy makes it even worse, prolonging their plaintive appeals until the sun peeps over the horizon. One could almost admire the persistence of their futile chorus, nightafter night for hours on end, yearning for nuptial fulfilment. Their obstreperous rumpus penetrates my deepest slumbers whenever I am foolishenough to retire early. As the captiveones howl they draw strays from miles around, bringing the decibel level closeto what it must be in Ballsbridge during a Bruce Springsteen concert. Maybe this is why they call the bass section of a speaker a woofer!

I don't know a lot about the much extolled law that was enacted with indecent haste some years ago to control dogs and quiteobviously I am, in this regard, in the majority. I haven't checked the officialfigures on what any effect, if any, it has had in controlling the dogpopulation in general, but I do know one result. Whoever is running the show haseither exempted my area or they have rounded up all the strays and releasedthem in this neck of the woods. Whateverbecame of all the plans for wardens and dog-catchers rounding up strays? Such was the enormity of the problem we wereassured that the entire nationwide scheme would be completely self-financingand we would not have to fork out fortunes from the already over-stretchedexchequer, i.e. your pocket and mine! The magnitude of the financial penalties threatened for such offenceswas enough to make Barbara Woodhouse turn to budgie breeding.

The plan, it was confidently forecast, would soonensure that any dog roaming free would immediately be nabbed and carted offwith great haste and a minimum of formalities to the nearest pound (and there would be one nearby - regardless ofwhere you live) where it would beremanded in custody pending collection by it's owner who would have to dig deepin the wallet and cough up for the fine, or see his precious poochdispatched without further fuss or ceremonyto the great kennel in the sky. Thatquaintly deceptive expression "put down" was the order of the day. Unfortunately,someone appears to have tipped off the dogs and they have, so far, eluded all efforts to bring them to heel, soto speak.

I have often observed these marauding packs during thedaytime, wandering in hordes, driven by their two great appetites: to scavengefor food and to ensure the future of their species, with little regard tovariety! None have collars, so wenaturally conclude they are strays, but this would be a false assumption. You see, if you put a collar on your littledarling, it can be traced to you, and you would face stiff penalties. Leavethe collar off and Bob's your uncle, no I.D., no pay! And sure the risk of him being hauled off bythe scruff to the pound is not worth bothering about, let's face it, how many dog licence detectorvans have you seen cruising in your area lately?

You could be forgiven for concluding from this that Idislike dogs, but nothing could be further from the truth. Nor, indeed, do Idislike people, it's the combinationthat's causing me problems. People willinsist in keeping two great big hulks of Labradors or Doberman pinschers (of the same gender, naturally) in the twoup, two down town-house (what we used to call terraces before someone spotted amarket opening). Add to this that the childless (by choice) couple in residenceare career yuppies competing to outdo each others bank balances and spending all their time pursuing thatgoal and you begin to get the picture. The unfortunate over-fed, under-exercised animals' only excursions tothe great outdoors are confined to those rare Saturdays when there are no rugbyinternationals or golf championships on the telly -providing, of course, it doesn't rain!

So now I am at peace with the dog population. I have muffled their efforts to keep meawake. I have built high walls around myhouse to keep them away from my bins (what do you do about cats andbirds?) and out of my flower-beds. I can close my windows at night and hear... not a thing.
And so, you maynaturally assume, I no longer have any problems sleeping. Not so. The trouble is, when I keep these totally draught-free and airtight windows closed, the house becomes so stuffythat I can't sleep. Now I lie awake remembering that I used to be kept awakeby dogs howling, happy in the knowledge that I have put this problem to bed.

It's a dog's life... or am I barking up the wrong tree?

Doolin, County Clare

2006-11-28T20:02:00.004Z

For many years now, travellers known as "vasindoolins" have wandered our fair land in great numbers. These culture chasers are to be found all over the country - and further afield. The name derives from the account of their travels: "I vas in Doolin".

They had to get rid of the coin box phones opposite Gus O'Connor's pub in Doolin, a surprisingly cosmopolitan village on the edge of the Atlantic Ocean in North Clare. The man from the phone company was coming four times a week to empty them; it wasn't often enough. The multinational throng of callers pumped fifty pees into the chute at an alarming rate as they chattered to cherished loved ones in distant lands - or plead with Papa to send more cash. The coins filled the boxes at a fearful rate. When the boxes were full, the phones went on strike, paralysed by fiscal indigestion, refusing further remuneration. The internet café has helped in recent times.

This is Doolin at the height of summer. Tourists here tend to be younger, less opulent, walkers and hitch-hikers, back-packed and chronically curious, cautious with cash, pernickety about diet, frugal in consumption. For some, the favourite tipple is the atmosphere, which elicits derisive grumblings from over-worked publicans and reclusive imbibers. During this spell, the locals adjourn to more idle haunts, exiled from accustomed corners by mysterious murmurings in foreign tongues.

But they accept it in good heart, conscious of the huge boost the travelling throng brings to this otherwise impoverished area of the West of Ireland. Tourism is the lifeblood; gift horses are readily accepted and greatly valued. The occasional grumble is suppressed, the berating is blunted.

They all come to Clare for the music and the friendly, unceremonious, laid back nature of its people. If Clare is Ireland's hub of music, then Doolin is surely Clare's. Here the great musical traditions of the past have flourished, not only for festivals and summer schools, but throughout the year. There is no folk revival here. This is a place where it never went away, it has always been this way.

In recent years, Doolin has suffered a tad from its own success. Word of tremendous musical sessions and mighty craic has spread far and wide, with visitors coming from all over the world, having heard of its reputation, as often as not, in their home place. This can be a drawback at times for lovers of music.

But in spite of the crowds and the noise and the logjams of cars on the narrow thoroughfare of Fisherstreet, Doolin has a unique, distinctive charm. The cosmopolitan ambience is a feature of this remote village. Here you are likely to meet a carpenter from Newfoundland, or a student teacher from Auckland, or a nun on holiday from the mission fields of San Salvador, all lodged together in the corner, playing a few reels.

But be careful. Doolin is notoriously difficult to leave. You will meet weekenders still there on a Tuesday, all thoughts of home waived, the craic too tempting to depart.

Doolin is not just a summer place, the diversion here is permanent. July and August can be a bit crowded but the rest of the year - bank holidays apart - the crowds are down to manageable proportions, the traffic is normal enough, and the music is flowing and audible. You might even get a set-dance going.

There are a few excellent restaurants in the immediate area to keep the most fastidious palate contented, or if you fancy something less elaborate, the pubs serve good food all day and most of the evening.

There is an extensive range of activities to keep you out of the pub for a while (don't force yourself) here on the edge of the Burren, of which Cromwell said that there was not enough water to drown a man, nor a tree to hang him, nor clay to bury him, and he passed by. His indecent haste was his loss, and the Burren's ultimate gain.

A visit to the Burren centre in Kilfenora is a must before wandering through this fascinating and unique landscape. Its barren appearance belies a profusion of flowers in great variety, with many rare specimens growing side by side . You will it enjoy all the more armed with a little foreknowledge.

The best way to explore this extraordinary 100 square miles of limestone landscape is either on foot or by bicycle. You can hire bikes locally, the mountain variety being desirable, and available!

Further north, near Ballyvaughan, is Ailwee Cave, once home to the brown bears which roamed this land. Now fitted with electric light and staffed by well-versed guides for the less adventurous speleologist, it provides the sort of caving suited to not-so-active grannies. The award-winning entrance is an architectural paragon, beautifully blended with its surroundings. The cave has the added advantage of being immune to the vagarious whims of the weather, the inside of the cave remaining at ten degrees all year round, regardless of the vagaries of weather.

Doolin is the nearest port to the Aran Islands. The smaller of the three, Inis Oirr, is about five miles away. Ferries run from Doolin pier and the islands are a must, if only for a day trip. Silence is the golden crown of this Atlantic jewel where the noise and smell of ceaseless cars, to which we have apparently become immune, is unknown. It takes a little while to acclimatise to the silence of Aran. It is worth the wait.

The Cliffs of Moher are an essential element of any visit to this part of the Banner County. Here the powerful swell of the mighty Atlantic Ocean pounds the towering walls 600 feet below. Each year, 600,000 visitors come to experience the titillation of gazing down upon the restless surge. The more active will walk from Doolin along the grassy path which skirts the cliffs - less than two hours at a leisurely pace.

But it is, after all, for the music and the song and the dance and the craic that visitors come, and of these there is no shortage. Music is a nightly feature with musicians from far and wide converging to play and sing traditional tunes and song.

If you need a break from the arduous rigours of bibulous recreation you can ramble up to Roadford, half a mile away, where McGann's and McDermott's provide more of much the same.

Unless, of course, you started in McGann's - or McDermott's - in which case you can head for O'Connor's.

Doolin is like that.

* How to get there: Doolin is on the North-West coast of Clare, four miles from Lisdoonvarna. There are daily buses from Limerick, Galway and Dublin. Nearest airport is Shannon

* Where to Stay: Accommodation in the area is as plentiful as it is diverse. Prices to suit all pockets from the camp-site which boasts showers, kitchen and a launderette, to the more salubrious surroundings of the local hotels and a plethora of B&Bs. There are also a number of hostels. It is judicious to book, especially during summer months.

(first published 1994)

Crag Cave, County Kerry

2006-03-28T20:57:00.002+01:00

Tourism Goes Underground
It is freezing cold, wet, and impenetrably dark. Visibility is zero: you can see nothing at all. You have no sense of direction; you cannot even tell up from down. This is a lifeless place, not even the lowliest insect or the most insignificant lichen. You are alone, underground and underwater, and cold. No one has ever been here before. Progress, such as it is, is by what slight sense of touch is possible through thick gloves, necessary to keep your hands from freezing to disabling numbness. The only way back to safety is by means of a thin lifeline you tied at the entrance and laid out behind you. The way forward is unknown.

This is cave diving, readily acknowledged by the hardiest of mountain climbers and the most fearless bungee jumpers as the world's most dangerous leisure activity.

This was the scene in 1983 when Welshman Martyn Farr entered Crag Cave near Castleisland in County Kerry. He was heavily laden with the very cumbersome paraphernalia essential for cave diving. The cave diver must wear two complete sets of unwieldy life-support equipment, one as an emergency backup. Two reliable torches are the minimum, three is more normal. Wetsuits or drysuits, weight belt, knife, hammer, depth gauge, decompression meter and the indispensable helmet complete the picture. The tenuous lifeline is crucial for a safe exit; it could break, or tear against the jagged rock; you could drop it. If you lose this feeble contact you have little likelihood of negotiating the return journey through an unmapped labyrinth of dark and muddy water-filled passages and chambers.

On that fateful day, Farr, an experienced speleologist (cave explorer), started his journey in a dry cave that was known in the area for generations. A small pool marked the end of previous explorations. It was called the Green Lake. The water was clear, but experience had taught him that his presence would soon stir up the ever-present sediment, instantly reducing visibility to nil. He had no way of knowing what was ahead, how far would he have to go, how deep the water would be.
He followed the underwater passage, the depth a mere two metres, but without the reassurance of a surface overhead.

In the event, his journey was short. After a mere seven metres of line, he broke surface and emerged in the absolute darkness of a cavern. His powerful lights unveiled a scene that had never before been seen by anyone. He was in a huge grotto abounding with thousands of stalactites and stalagmites. He named it Divers Delight.

Exploration of the cavern, eroded from the limestone by rivers that have vanished tens of thousands of years ago, continued over a number of years. Each gallery and tunnel was named from scenes in Tolkien's fantasy, "Lord of the Rings", and it is indeed reminiscent of the enchanting images in the book. It was quickly discovered that there had been another entrance at some distant time in prehistory - huge boulders filled an enormous hole in the ground that had once been a natural opening.

Work soon began on clearing the tons of rock and replacing it with a staircase to the cave sixty feet below ground level. Lights were installed, carefully supervised by Michael Scott of the Irish National Theatre, a former Artistic Director of the Dublin Theatre Festival. Paths were painstakingly laid and barriers erected, discerningly placed to protect the visitor from danger and - perhaps more importantly - to protect the delicate formations from the visitor.
Crag Cave has now been explored for nearly four kilometres. Three hundred and fifty metres of this is open to the public on guided tours. The centre has a restaurant and gift shop.

The temptation to compare the cave to Ailwee in the Burren of County Clare is difficult to resist, but comparisons are not easy; the caves are very different. Ailwee is longer, but Crag has such an affluence of stalactites and stalagmites of all shapes and sizes that the huge caverns assume a fairytale enchantment. The subtle lighting enhances the spell but the staid background music is a mistake, intruding on the intimacy of a visit to this exotic place.

There are numerous caverns and galleries, opening one into another in ever more splendid magnificence. Knowing that this is but a small part of a labyrinth of passages and tunnels, stretching for four kilometres or more, is mesmerising. The temptation to sneak away from the tour party and crawl into one of the tunnels is great, but beyond the ostensible innocence of such an entrance lies a lonely darkness as dead as dinosaurs.

Great pains have been taken to preserve the fragile straw stalactites from acquisitive souvenir hunters, but the planners have thoughtfully declared open season on one large specimen, allowing each visitor to touch and feel this beautiful substance which nature has taken so long to produce. Estimates vary on the rate of growth but it is measured in millimetres per century. When one wonders at those which are several metres in length, the stillness of time in this subterranean realm becomes real.

Crag Cave has fixed Castleisland firmly on the tourist map. More than thousand visitors have come since it opened to the public in It is owned by the Geaney family, who spent more than £500,000 in developing the complex. It the only major tourist attraction in this part of the Kingdom but it has become Kerry's compulsory stopover for tourists and school tours alike. And when the Lakes of Killarney don't look quite their best on extra soft days or Fungie the Dingle dolphin is shielded from his human visitors by Atlantic storms, the cave is just the ticket, the temperature inside being constant throughout the year at about ten degrees.

Admission to the cave is €12 for adults but even this modest sum will be waived, on condition that you use the same entrance Martyn Farr used on that first fateful visit. Most of us will cheerfully part with our cash for the simpler option of paying at the gate.

www.cragcave.com

Pedalling Manhattan

2006-03-28T20:54:00.001+01:00

Manhattan is the home of dire warnings: this is no place for the faint-hearted. They tell you that driving cars in this madhouse should be left to the cabbies. Survival rates for the stranger are said to be slight.

The worst warnings came from the new natives - those living in the Big Apple for nearly a year; they know everything. They warn against getting behind the wheel because it is mad, and anyway cabs are so cheap and plentiful and parking is impossible or extortionate.

Yes, parking is difficult and the cabs are steady and yes, the traffic is unmerciful. But anyone who has driven in Cork or Dublin can do Manhattan with a blindfold.

Gobsmacked by the lack of any real challenge driving around the little island of mostly square blocks, and undeterred by the fact that I have not pedalled anything other than dodgy articles for years, I took to the bicycle.

Astonishment greeted my off-handed announcement to some friends who live in the city: "You didn't make the six o’clock news with the car, but we're looking at the top story here", laughing in my face as they mentally re-scheduled their week to include hospital visits or a quick trip to the auld sod for a funeral.

I set forth on my journey north along the East River. It was quiet enough, flat and almost free of traffic. After ten minutes my sense of adventure forced a left turn onto 34th street. One good thing about Manhattan is that there are not too many hills. A slight climb westward and I was passing the Empire State Building, nearly meeting a cab the hard way as my gaze was drawn irresistibly upwards. A few more blocks and I hang a right to head north for Central Park.

The park is a cyclists dream. Traffic is quiet (they do have special bicycle-only days, though I did not have the foresight to check), shanks mare and roller blades are the order of the day, save for those with dollars to spare to pay for a pony and trap. Here poodles lead their liveried dog-walkers equipped with silver poop scoopers as they stiffly stroll from the nearby exclusivity of 5th Avenue apartments. These dogs are treated better than their human neighbours a dozen blocks north in The Bronx. I soon tire of this tranquillity and set recklessly forth into the hubbub, eager for adventure.

Down Broadway, a nice slow hill, and into Times Square. When you drive through here you see little and hear nothing, being too preoccupied with avoiding all the traffic. At night the famous lights sparkle but in daytime you could be anywhere. Walking is no joy because the pavements are thronged with tourists asking directions. But on a two-wheeler it is a different story.

Traffic is sparse enough for me to use the middle of the road, an undertaking fraught with danger but spiced with adventure. Extra care is needed belting down the centre of Broadway, the wind in your face, making the best of the breaks in traffic; this is the way to see mid-town. Here, where Broadway crosses Fifth Avenue at the Flatiron building, my favourite in the city. Built in 1903, it is often incorrectly reported as having been the first steel-framed office block, though it was, for a short time, the tallest, as were dozens of others for brief periods before they were outgrown by their neighbours.

I travel all the way downtown until I get to Chinatown. Here it is time to trust the bike to a stout lock and a large lamp-post and have a look around the small shops and stalls - this is a mill.

Having bought all the five-dollar Cartier and Rolex watches I could use in a lifetime, I continue on my mission, across Delancey Street and into the Wall Street area, dodging limos and enjoying the exaggerated stature of the buildings created by the narrow streets. Some of the nicest buildings in Manhattan are here, including the old Courthouse and City Hall.

Onwards to Battery Park, the southern tip of Manhattan, looking out to the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island in the bay, a fine place to have a rest after all that pedalling.

Having given up the bike on the streets of Dublin, mainly though fear, I can recommend that the Big Apple is best seen from the saddle.

Millenniamania

2004-01-01T00:22:00.000Z

This article “celebrated” the Dublin Millennium madness and was first published in the Evening Press.

Ithas two words: the first identifies the place and the second tells us it is onethousand years old. I absolutely refuse to use either of them.

The ubiquitous logo

It isthe Capital's greatest ever splurge of histrionic pageantry. Emblazoned withtinsel ritual, it requires of all participants the greatest degree ofpunctilious pomposity. Carmencirra* even got an honorary degree in it!

Wecan't bring in the milk in the morning but they've stamped the bloomin' bottleswith it. They have badges and stickers, flags and bunting, flower-beds andmurals, paintings and tapestries, cups and cutlery, plates, jugs, candles,wallets, hats, coats, teeshirts, towels, umbrellas, postcards and even aspecial stamp, all ruined with it!

Youcan't open your eyes in the morning but its there - on the buses and the DART,the taxis and the trains. Boats and planes are adorned with it. It's on carbumpers and back windows beside those infernal noddy dogs.

Thereare shows and displays, films and plays, concerts and recitals, footballmatches, chess tournaments, exhibitions, competitions, schemes, projects andplans, all because of it.

They'reselling 88 gas cookers for 88 pounds to the first 88 people to answer 88questions in 88 seconds. You must pay by cheque (no. 88 - naturally) and youmust live in a house numbered 88. You must have lived there for 88 years and itmust be your 88th birthday. Simple, isn't it? Pop in and get yours now - whilestocks (and your patience) last. It's enough to turn a body all-electric.

Asfor Michael Smurfit's private bath in the main thoroughfare, I can't expressany feeling about it that would pass the sub-editor's watchful eye in a familypublication.

I amsick of it! Sick, tired and bored with the subject. And I know I am not theonly one. I belong to the large and too long silent majority of innocentvictims. We have had five months of the damn thing. I cannot suffer anotherseven.

Let'stake the place. They tell us that it is one thousand years since it gotsomething or other - nobody is quite sure what! This supposes it was prettywell established at that time. One look around it now would tell you that it isnot yet established.

Thelocals, who think they are natives, all have grannies from the sticks. Theyspeak in a dialect that couldn't be understood by any of us unfortunate enoughto have been raised to speak in the English language. It's a sort of mixbetween cockney bearla and the Inisboffin blas of the vernacular, spoken at ahundred miles an hour when sober and in reverse after ten o'clock at night inany half decent pub outside the area known only as "four". Four isthe old-age-Yuppie quarter of the city.

The dreaded words are on the stamp!

Accordingto the census figures, there's about a million people in the place. But if youcount all the civil servants from Kerry, publicans from Donegal, journalistsfrom Cavan, builders from Mayo, more Corkmen than you would find in the wholeof Munster, and all the other countymen from the four corners of Ireland livingin the place, you would be left with about a dozen real full blooded natives.

They have taken over our radio and tv, ournewspapers and magazines. You can't turn a page or look at a screen withoutsome yobbo telling you about the latest news of it. It took months for everyoneto get the spelling right - two l's and two n's - and even now there seems tobe no regard for good old English grammar. Please note: the adjective is"millesimal".

GayByrne is in on it - by appointment, no doubt. Please Gay, give us the doctorwho won't be happy 'till we're all hypochondriacs, or the mystery sound used by the mothers-of-ten to say hello to all their children and thehundreds of grand-children (by name) and the cousins in Australia (we'll sendthem the tape), or the sordid details of secret sexual affairs in far off ruralplaces. You don't need this particular bandwagon - it's overloaded already. Isnothing safe from its global grip?

As aredneck who has been obliged to help out the few real Jacks for nearly twentyyears, I want to raise the voice of the oppressed majority. It's time to call ahalt to the madness. It's time the truth was told and I will tell it. It's timethe lid was blown.

Even our money isn't spared

Thefact is, the whole miscegenation was started by the printers. They are thebeneficiaries of all the hype and promotion. They are the ones who make the bucksout of every object and event for the entire year. Look carefully, dearreaders, and see what's going on around you. Everything connected with thisinfernal anniversary has a logo on it. And who puts this logo on it? Yes,that's right - printers! Hundreds of printers in tiny back-street printingworks churning out millions of logos on everything from ties to toilet paper.History will recall it as the Great Printers' Plot of 1988.

If we survivethe year of this dreadful curse, I can only hope that it does not spread withinfectious speed throughout the entire island. We have already had the Galway500 and Cork 800. Perish the thought of what will be created by the commercialsuccess of this madness. Like the festivals and their roses of the sixties, thiscould spread to every town and village in the country, culminating no doubt inone big national bash to celebrate the anniversary of the tectonic separationof the island from the rest of Europe. Rest assured, someone will be able topinpoint the exact date of that too - and we'll believe it!

* Carmencirra:Carmencita Hederman was Lord Mayor of Dublin for the Millennium year.