Tag: Limerick

Limerick fans celebrate

Monday, 1 July, 2019

Munster Senior Hurling Championship Final result: Limerick 2-26 – Tipperary 2-14. It was a rout in the end but there were sunny Sunday moments to savour at the LIT Gaelic Grounds. Some of the scores were beautifully taken, some of the skills displayed were exquisite and some of the hits that went in were so hard that the spectators felt them. All in all, a memorable day out.

Limerick fans celebrate


At the cider vinegar farm

Wednesday, 20 February, 2019

Ballyhoura Apple Farm’s orchard is located on the outskirts of Kilfinane in Limerick.

Ballyhoura Apple Farm


“If gold rusts, what then can iron do?”

Saturday, 19 January, 2019

Geoffrey Chaucer’s philosophical question from The Canterbury Tales was posed during the early morning rain in Glenaree, above Glenbrohane, County Limerick, Ireland.

Gate


The Galtees and the Irish apostrophe

Sunday, 10 June, 2018

Today’s climb of the Galtees, the Munster mountain range that encompasses Tipperary and Limerick, is in aid of the Mercy University Hospital Foundation, which does good work for the people of Cork and neighbouring places.

The Galtees

Punctuation note: When referring to the Galtees, there is no need for an apostrophe. In Ireland, though, the fact that the apostrophe is seldom used to form a plural noun in English, is ignored, generally, and the general punctuation rule that the possessive of a singular noun is formed by adding an apostrophe and s, whether the singular noun ends in s or not, is applied arbitrarily.


Hurling is their song and their verse

Sunday, 3 June, 2018

Splendid evening had by all in Páirc Uí Chaoimh, where Cork and Limerick delivered 70 minutes of epic hurling in front of 34,000 delighted spectators, for whom this uniquely Irish game is their song and their verse.

“I believe hurling is the best of us, one of the greatest and most beautiful expressions of what we can be. If you could live again you would hurl more, because that is living. Hurling is our song and our verse, and when I walk in the graveyard in Cloyne and look at the familiar names on the headstones I know that their owners would want us to hurl with more joy and more exuberance and more abandon than before, because life is shorter than the second half of a tournament game that starts at dusk.” — Dónal Óg Cusack

Hurling


Catch of the day

Friday, 1 June, 2018

It is said that some people in Limerick deliberately self-harm just so they can visit Ford’s fish & chip shop after being discharged from the nearby St. John’s Hospital. Located on John’s Street in one of the city’s more rugged quarters, Ford’s offers solid comfort at reasonable prices. For example, a whiting filet costs just €2.80. The fish is covered in a batter that was traditionally made from beef dripping and then deep fried, although oil is used today. For those in need of food, fast, Ford’s offers substantial filling, affordably, and St. John’s Hospital is at hand when it comes to healing the customers.

Ford's


Effin (good) cheese

Thursday, 24 May, 2018

Effin is a townland in County Limerick named after Saint Eimhin, a sixth-century cleric. Effin borders on the townlands of Garrynancoonagh North to the south, Garrynderk North to the west, Ballyshonikin to the east, Gortnacrank to the east and Tobernea West to the east.

In 2011, the people of Effin were told by Facebook that they could not register their townland as “Effin” because this word was deemed to be “offensive”. The conflict led The Guardian to headline the story as “Effin woman launches online fight for Facebook recognition.” In the end, Anne Marie Kennedy won.

Effin Irish Cheddar, by the way, is a creamy pleasure made from Golden Vale milk.

Effin cheddar


Where Drunken Thady met the Bishop’s Lady

Thursday, 22 February, 2018 0 Comments

Michael Hogan was born in Thomondgate in Limerick in 1832 and following the publication of his epic poem “Drunken Thady and the Bishop’s Lady,” he was crowned “The Bard of Thomond”. The work tells the tale of the vengeful wife of the Bishop of Limerick and her life of unspeakable vice. One night, while roaming the city streets, she met a Thomondgate drunk known as Thady and tossed him over Thomond Bridge into the Shannon. Drowning, he found religion, and asked God for forgiveness. Having repented his sins, his life was spared, and he was the Drunken Thady no more. The Bishop’s Lady was not for turning, however.

Each night, she roamed, with airy feet,
From Thomond Bridge to Castle-street;
And those that stayed out past eleven,
Would want a special guard from Heaven,
To shield them, with a holy wand,
From the mad terrors of her hand!
She knocked two drunken soldiers dead,
Two more with battered foreheads fled,
She broke the sentry-box in staves,
And dashed the fragments in the waves!
She slashed the gunners, left and right,
And put the garrison to flight!

Thomondgate


When You’re Gone

Wednesday, 21 February, 2018 0 Comments

Dolores Mary Eileen O’Riordan led The Cranberries from 1990 until their break-up in 2003, and again when they reunited in 2009. She died in London on 15 January and is buried in Limerick, in Caherelly Cemetery, where the oldest headstone dates from 1717.

When You’re Gone appeared on the band’s “To the Faithful Departed” album (1996).

“And in the night I could be helpless
I could be lonely, sleeping without you
And in the day, everything’s complex
There’s nothing simple when I’m not around you”

Dolores Mary Eileen O'Riordan


New Year’s reading: Bowen’s Court

Friday, 5 January, 2018 0 Comments

We’re finishing our week of reading books that were the presents of this Christmas past. On Monday, we had The Best of A.A. Gill, a gift from Noel Donnelly, on Tuesday it was Five Escape Brexit Island, placed in the Rainy Day Xmas stocking by Ian McMaster, on Wednesday was the turn of Change Agent, given to this blogger by himself, and yesterday was Motherfoclóir, put under the tree in Clontarf by Brian. This series ends today with Bowen’s Court & Seven Winters by Elizabeth Bowen, a Christmas present from our valiant sister, Mary.

Bowen’s Court & Seven Winters is the history of one Anglo-Irish family in north County Cork, from the Cromwellian conquest of Ireland in 1653 until 1959, when Elizabeth Bowen, the last of the family, was forced to sell the house she adored. With the skill that marks all her writing, she describes the lives and loves, the highs and lows of ten generations of Bowens. These were a class apart — the Protestant Irish gentry — and theirs was a story of war, land, powerful women, ruinous lawsuits, horses, hunting, entertaining, sex, drinking, melancholy and loss.

The date is 5 August 1914 and the Bowens have set out from their estate by pony and trap for a party at Mitchelstown Castle, the home of the Earls of Kingston. They stopped at the village of Rockmills to collect Silver Oliver, a playmate of the 15-year-old Elizabeth, and they could not have anticipated that an event in far-off Sarajevo would start a conflagration that would inspire Irish men to burn Mitchelstown Castle to the ground on 12 August 1922. Snippet:

At Rockmills my father — whose manner, I do remember had been growing graver with every minute — stopped the pony and went into the post office. There was a minute to wait, with the pony stamping, before I again saw him framed in the low dark door. He cleared his throat and said: “England has declared war on Germany.” Getting back into the trap, he added: “I suppose it could not be helped.” All I could say was: “Then can’t we go to the garden party?” … We picked up Silver Oliver and drove to Mitchelstown — Henry, with his whole mind, courteously answering a rattle of questions from us girls. If at ten or twelve I had been precocious, at fifteen I was virtually idiotic. The bye-roads had dried in the wind and were glaring white; the War already had given them an unreal look.

That afternoon we walked up the Castle avenue, greeted by the gusty sound of a band. The hosts of the party were the late Lady Kingston’s second husband, Mr. Willie Webber, and his companion, Miss Minnie Fairholme. They were not young, and, owing to the extreme draughtiness everywhere, they received their guests indoors, at the far end of Big George’s gallery. In virtue of this being a garden party, and of the fact that it was not actually raining, pressure was put on the guests to proceed outside — people only covertly made incursions into the chain of brocade saloons. Wind raced round the Castle terraces, naked under the Galtees; grit blew into the ices; the band clung, with some trouble, to its exposed place. The tremendous news certainly made that party, which might have been rather flat. Almost everyone said they wondered if they really ought to have come, but they had come — rightly: this was a time to gather. This was an assemblage of Anglo-Irish people from all over north-east County Cork, from the counties of Limerick, Waterford, Tipperary. For miles around, each isolated big house had disgorged its talker, this first day of the war. The tension of months, of years — outlying tension of Europe, inner tension of Ireland — broke in a spate of words. Braced against the gale of the mountains, licking dust from their lips, these were the unmartialled loyalists of the South. Not a family had not put out, like Bowen’s Court, its generations of military brothers — tablets in Protestant churches recorded deaths in remote battles; swords hung in halls. If the Anglo-Irish live on and for a myth, for that myth they constantly shed their blood. So, on this August 1914 day of grandeur and gravity, the Ascendency rallied, renewed itself.

It was an afternoon when the simplest person begins to anticipate memory — this Mitchelstown garden party, it was agreed, would remain in everyone’s memory as historic. It was also a more final scene than we knew. Ten years hence, it was all to seem like a dream — and the Castle itself would be a few bleached stumps on the plateau. Today, the terraces are obliterated, and grass grows where the saloons were. Many of those guests, those vehement talkers, would be scattered, houseless, sonless, or themselves dead. That war — or call it now that first phase of war — was to go far before it had done with us.

Elizabeth Bowen


The Signposts of Happiness

Wednesday, 27 December, 2017 0 Comments

“We need a home in the psychological sense as much as we need one in the physical: to compensate for a vulnerability. We need a refuge to shore up our states of mind, because so much of the world is opposed to our allegiances. We need our rooms to align us to desirable versions of ourselves and to keep alive the important, evanescent sides of us.” — Alain de Botton, The Architecture of Happiness

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