An Irishman in London

12:32:01 o'clock BST

St Johns Bridge, Kilkenny City

 

Its All Ireland hurling final day and Kilkenny are playing Cork. The Kilkenny colours are perpendicular black and amber stripes and they are known as the cats. They are usually laid back but when roused they can quickly get into spitting mode. This is the county song or ballad for Kilkenny and when the supporters are in in full voice its a sound to hear. Like the Welsh choirs in Cardiff Arms Park for the rugby, it moves the soul. Strange how the old romantic ballad is close to Irish hearts.

 

How sweet is to roam by the sunny Suir stream
And hear the doves coo 'neath the morning sunbeam
Where the thrush and the robin their sweet notes entwine
On the banks of the Suir that flows down by Mooncoin.

Flow on, lovely river, flow gently along
By your waters so sweet sounds the lark's merry song
On your green banks I wander where first I did join
With you, lovely Molly, the rose of Mooncoin.

Oh Molly, dear Molly, it breaks my fond heart
To know that we two forever must part
I'll think of you Molly while sun and moon shine
On the banks of the Suir that flows down by Mooncoin.

She has sailed far away o’er the dark rolling foam,

Far away from the hills of her dear Irish home,

Where the fisherman sports with his small boat and line,

By the banks of the Suir that flows down by Mooncoin.

Then here's to the Suir with its valley so fair
As oftimes we wandered in the cool morning air
Where the roses are blooming and lilies entwine
On the banks of the Suir that flows down by Mooncoin.

 

 

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22:17:05 o'clock BST

River Lee, Cork, Ireland

How oft do my thoughts in their fancy take flight
To the home of my childhood away,
To the days when each patriot's vision seem'd bright
Ere I dreamed that those joys should decay.
When my heart was as light as the wild winds that blow
Down the Mardyke through each elm tree,
Where I sported and play'd 'neath each green leafy shade
On the banks of my own lovely Lee.

And then in the springtime of laughter and song
Can I ever forget the sweet hours?
With the friends of my youth as we rambled along
'Mongst the green mossy banks and wild flowers.
Then too, when the evening sun's sinking to rest
Sheds its golden light over the sea
The maid with her lover the wild daisies pressed
On the banks of my own lovely Lee
The maid with her lover the wild daisies pressed
On the banks of my own lovely Lee

'Tis a beautiful land this dear isle of song
Its gems shed their light to the world
And her faithful sons bore thro' ages of wrong,
The standard St. Patrick unfurled.
Oh! would I were there with the friends I love best
And my fond bosom's partner with me
We'd roam thy banks over, and when weary we'd rest
By thy waters, my own lovely Lee,
We'd roam thy banks over, and when weary we'd rest
By thy waters, my own lovely Lee,

Oh what joys should be mine ere this life should decline
To seek shells on thy sea-girdled shore.
While the steel-feathered eagle, oft splashing the brine
Brings longing for freedom once more.
Oh all that on earth I wish for or crave
Is that my last crimson drop be for thee,
To moisten the grass of my forefathers' grave
On the banks of my own lovely Lee
To moisten the grass of my forefathers' grave
On the banks of my own lovely Lee.

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09:55:05 o'clock BST

Irish Tinkers on the road to Blarney

 

When cocks curved throats for crowing

And cows in slumber kneeled

She tiptoed out the half door

And crossed her father’s field

 

Down the mountain shoulders

The ragged dawnlight came

And a cold wind from the westland

Blew out the last star’s flame

 

Her father, the strong father

Had horses sheep and cows

One hundred verdant acres

And slates upon his house

 

And she stole with the starlight

From where her life began

To roam the roads of Ireland

With a travelling tinker man

 

His hair was brown and curling

His eyes were brown as well

His tongue would charm the hinges

Off the gates of hell

 

At Cahir fair she saw him

As she was hurrying by

And the song that he was singing

Would lure lark from the sky

 

Her footsteps slowed to standing

She stood and stared that day

He made a noose of music

And pulled her heart away

 

And so she left her slate roof

And her father rich and strong

Because her mind was turning

About a tinker’s song 

 

They walked the roads of Ireland

Went up the hills and down

Passed many an empty bogland

Through many a noisy town

 

She rode upon the ass cart

To rest a tired leg

She learned the lore of tinkers

And he taught her how to beg

 

“The tree tied house of planter

Is colder than east wind

The hall door of the gombeen

Has no welcome for our kind”

 

“The farmstead of the grabber

Is hungry as a stone

But the little homes of Kerry

Will give us half their own”

 

She cut the cards for girls

And made their eyes grow bright

She read the palms of women

And saw their lips go tight

 

“A dark man will marry you

On a day in June

There’s money cross the water

Coming to you soon”

 

“Oh he’ll be rich and handsome

And I see a bridal feast

Your daughter will dwell in Dublin

Your son will be a priest”

 

They rode along together

The woman pale and wan

The black ass young and giddy

And the brown eyed tinker man

 

He bought up mules and jennets

And sang songs far and wide

But she never gave him children

To fill his heart with pride

 

She never gave him children

To spoil his sleep with cries

But she saw his empty arms

And the hunger in his eyes

 

She saw the lonely bogland

She felt the killing wind

And the fine home of her father

Kept turning in her mind

 

She felt the chill rain falling

She grew tired of it all

And twisting in the darkness

She died within her shawl

 

They dug a cold grave for her

And left her all alone

And the tinker man went with them

His heart as grey as stone

 

“She was the best of women

The flower of the ball

She never gave him children

But that’s no blame at all”

 

“A lass may break her mother’s heart

A son his father’s head

Maybe she is happier now

Sleeping with the dead”

 

He drank his fill of porter

And turned his face to life

And hit the road for Puck Fair

To get another wife

 

Sigerson Clifford

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08:47:05 o'clock BST

The Road to the Mountains  Paul Henry

 

The matter of employment reared its difficult head and I signed on with an agency on Hammersmith Broadway. You would have thought that you were applying for lunar exploration with the all details that had to be answered. Most of the work involved was basic warehouse or bar and they wanted to know the colour of your eyes and your education down to play school. At last I was selected and a group us was picked up by mini-bus and driven to a warehouse of a large clothing chain store near Heathrow airport.

 

As soon as we arrived we were marshalled into the canteen and addressed by a manager type. The warehouse was full of all manner of clothing, shirts and trousers and tweed and leather jackets, and the manager warned us that if anyone were caught pilfering they would be immediately reported to the police and charged. We went to work in the warehouse and a large number of my colleagues packed underwear down their clothing and wore two shirts and a couple of jackets on the return journey to London. I had told a foreman that I found it difficult to count a container of trousers because a lot of the hangers had broken and I wanted to rehang them before checking. He interpreted this as being cheeky and told my supervisor that he did not want me back. I had worked diligently and got the boot and my fellow workers, who were ripping the place off wholesale, were welcomed back. Now that’s what you call good old British management.

 

When the mini-bus got back into London my supervisor took me into the Princess Victoria at the top of the Earls Court Road and commiserated with me and bought me a drink. He said not to worry that he would find something else for me and by a strange quirk of fate the next job I was offered was to last for fifteen years and many jolly times. Who said that getting the sack was bad news? I was sent to Honda in Chiswick and from the moment that I got off the tube at Gunnersbury and found my way along to Power Road I was interested.

 

The area was just on the edge of inner London and was pleasant with a suburban feel yet pacy with lots of life. I was brought to the packing department and we had to check and pack the parts for motorcycles before dispatching them mainly over the British Isles but also export and back to Japan as well. The old English foreman sat chatting most of the day to one of the female packers, who he fancied and she him, and the rest of the squad casually got on with the job in an easy going environment. I was working with the charge hand who was of Irish extraction and he could not have been more helpful or done more to make me feel at home. He treated me kindly and as it was nearing Christmas he encouraged me to become permanent to be in line for the Christmas bonus and free turkey and bottles of spirits, which were given out at that time.

 

The work was somewhat mundane and dirty but there was enough to keep your interest and the day whipped past and there always overtime in the evenings and on Saturday mornings. We had radio two on all day and it was music while you worked and we listened avidly to the chat and song programmes. I offered to go for the drinks at the tea breaks in the mornings and afternoons. Two of my fellow packers were Irish women and I was delighted to be able to bring a little lightness into their lives with their chocolate and tea drinks by having a chat and a laugh.

 

They on their part were very supportive to me and we worked well together making our lives as comfortable as possible. The rest of the people working in the stores were all men and they were the usual warehouse mix of floater, gambler, drinker and those who had not got an education or been able to develop a trade or skill. Very often they were just unlucky and the breaks in life did not fall across their paths. But again as is common in stores they made the best of it and there was good humour and cooperation and lots of laughs.

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12:33:59 o'clock BST

Photo: Donal Sheehan

The wee birds were lining the bleak autumn branches
Waiting to fly to a far sunny shore
When the tinkers made camp at a bend on the river
Coming back from the horse-fair in Ballinasloe
The harvest being over the farmer came walking
Along the Feale River that bordered his land
'Twas there he first saw her 'twixt firelight and water
The tinkerman's daughter, the red-headed Ann

Next morning he woke from a night without resting
He went to her father, he made his claim known
In a pub in Listowel they worked out a bargain
For the tinker a pony, for the daughter a home
Where the trees shed their shadows along the Feale River
The tinker and the farmer inspected the land
And a white gelding pony was the price they agreed on
For the tinkerman's daughter, the red-headed Ann

With the wedding soon over the tinkers departed
They're eager to travel on south down the road
The crunch of their iron-shod wheels on the gravel
Was as bitter to her as the way she'd been sold
She tried hard to please him, she did all his bidding
She slept in his bed and she worked on the land
But the walls of that cabin pressed tighter and tighter
On the tinkerman's daughter, the red-headed Ann

White as the hands of the priest or the hangman
The snow spread its blanket the next Christmas round
The tinkerman's daughter slipped out of his bedside
Turned her back on the land and her face to the town
It's said someone saw her at dusk that same evening
As she made her way out o'er Likelycompane
And that was the last time the settled folk saw her
The tinkerman's daughter, the red-headed Ann

Where the North Kerry hills cup the Feale o'er Listowel
At a farm on its banks lives a bitter old man
He swears by the shotgun he keeps at his bedside
He'll kill any tinker that camps on his land
Whenever he hears iron-shod wheels on gravel
Or a horse in the shafts of a bright caravan
Then his day's work's tormented, his night sleep's demented
By the tinkerman's daughter, the red-headed Ann

Micheal McConnell

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19:41:42 o'clock BST

Thinking of Knocknarea

The old brown thorn-trees break in two high over Cummen strand,

Under a bitter black wind that blows from the left hand;

Our courage breaks like an old tree in a black wind and dies,

But we have hidden in our hearts the flame out of the eyes

Of Cathleen, the daughter of Houlihan.

The wind has bundled up the clouds high above Knocknarea,

And thrown the thunder on the stones for all that Maeve can say.

Angers that are like noisy clouds have set our hearts abeat;

But we have all bent low and low and kissed the quiet feet

Of Cathleen, the daughter of Houlihan.

The yellow pool has overflowed high up on Clooth-na-Bare,

For the wet winds are blowing out of the clinging air;

Like heavy flooded waters our bodies and our blood;

But purer than a tall candle before the Holy Rood

Is Cathleen, the daughter of Houlihan.

W B Yeats

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19:25:52 o'clock BST

Its all in the teeth

 

The Carnival is coming on scene

It's surely the place to be seen

While the dancers groove round

To the steel drum beat sound

You’ll find me laid out on the Green

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11:44:54 o'clock BST

Carnival hoarding

 

Here we go again – the Notting Hill carnival is round the corner and we’re all getting ready to groove. They are in the process of putting the hoardings up to protect the flats and these are a nice canvas to display artistic talent. In my younger days I followed the floats with a can of Tennents Super but now I look on feeling a little bemused. 

 

Back some years the floats were more frequent and you saw some nice displays every couple of minutes but now you could wait for twenty minutes. The crowds have got too big and it’s a lot of hype now with too little substance.

 

There are two schools of thought here. Some people love it for the energy and music and vibrancy and food and the chance to let off steam. To listen to great sound systems and meet friends and be part of the scene. Others detest it for the fact of been practically locked into their homes for days and subjected to a cascade of throbbing sound. And then there’s the litter. For months afterwards every hole and cranny in the area is filled with crisk packaging and old beer bottles and unfinished chicken legs and the rest. Not too mention the chewing gum stamped into the ground.

 

One of my neighbours is going to Hastings and there he will sit on the beach sipping a beer and wondering at the ebb and flow. I think he has the right idea but man; he’ll miss the buzz.

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11:33:38 o'clock BST

Cool Cat, Notting Hill

You could have problems in the shop. Oxfam sold tea and coffee and honey along with many other articles under the section that it called Fair-Trading. These items were purchased from different parts of the world and were an attempt for the growers in poorer countries to be paid a fair price for their labour.  A woman walked into the shop with a jar of Oxfam honey that she had bought and said she was not satisfied with the purchase. She had tried it on her toast in the mornings and did not like it and had made a cake with more of it and it was not a success. There was less than half the honey left in the jar but she was insisting on a full refund. Normally I would have agreed and it was probably shop policy to keep the customers happy at all costs but her demanding and unreasonable approach stirred my stubbornness and I refused her request. The shop was busy at the time and she took the opportunity to take me apart piece by piece and saw in me all the characteristics that I saw in her of being power mad and arrogant.

 

She was erudite and continued to harangue for what seemed like forever but I stood my ground and gave her the name of my line manager that she demanded. It was a bruising battle and I retreated downstairs for a reviving cup of tea but on reflection if she had of come in the next time she could have had all the honey in the Gambia rain forests.

 

Chris, the shop manager, was moving on to a higher managerial position and they wanted somebody to oversee the shop until a new manager was appointed. As I was already looking after the duty roster and was trained in cashing up at the end of the day and was now familiar with the running of the shop, Chris asked me if I would take on the extra responsibility.  Running the shop was a different matter than being a volunteer for although there were good systems in place and most of the volunteers were helpful and co-operative there was a small number who could be difficult.

 

I did not go out of my way to impose my authority but by the nature of things I had to get the job done. I had an Irish temperament of being quick to let fly if I felt offended and you had to have oceans of calm and self control to deal with some aspects of the volunteer character. You had to be part counsellor and part therapist and part magician to handle their sensitivity and some of them were going through periods of change in their lives or were rehabilitating from mental or emotional stress. I could be very patient and understanding and would listen for what seemed like hours to the minute outpourings of people’s lives but it was all beginning to chip at my own equilibrium and I started to get wound up myself.

 

It all came to a head over the pricing of some bric a brac and I argued with a volunteer over our different valuations. This was the straw that tipped the balance and I realised that the whole business was getting to be more than it was worth and it was time for the walk down the road to new horizons.  It had been an illuminating experience and I treasure the people whom I had met and lived with their dreams for a while.

 

www.liampurcell.co.uk

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12:55:58 o'clock BST

Painting in art gallery window waiting for a good home

 

I helped out some days in the bric a brac section. This was the area of the shop where we sold anything that did not fit into a definite category. There might be pictures or glass or jewellery or ceramics or jigsaws or any object on this broad and interesting earth. Somebody would walk in from the street with a large carrier bag and it would be like wandering through Aladdin’s cave.

 

I had very little specialist knowledge but I came to know the local businesses that were in that field and they would help me out with valuations. The camera shop next door was always busy but spared time to assist and the jewelers would put a price on a piece of silver or whatever I put before them. I would ask the other volunteers in the shop for their opinion and in most cases I was not too far off the mark with my pricing. But occasionally you would get it wrong and somebody would walk into the shop and practically with a whoop and a holler dive on some item in the bric a brac display and purchase it instantly without question. You knew that you could have got more but on other occasions we sold junk masquerading as art and so we hoped that it all balanced out in the end.

 

There were the customers who would quibble over anything and would want to beat the price down. This was part of the culture of some nationalities and even though it was against Oxfam guidelines to do this I bargained the odd time rather than risk losing a nice sale. You had the regulars who drifted every day into the shop and these could be quite eccentric or just people who wanted a bit of a chat and in time they became part of our community. It was wonderful the way the ethos of helping and giving lowered the barriers between different classes and whereas we would never move intimately in each other’s circles we certainly learnt to tolerate each other.

 

Although it was a charity shop we had our fair share of thieves who probable felt that because we were mainly volunteers they could help themselves with some ease. I found it abhorrent that people would rob in this environment but they did and although we tried to be vigilant there was little we could do if they were really determined.

 

I was trained to sort the good clothes from the large bags of mixed stuff that came in. We had a list of all the designer labels and I would stand at the sorting table with an experienced volunteer and thrill to the feel of fine materials and keep any sound garment and put them in their own category. It the garment was even slightly flawed it was offered to the volunteers for a knocked down price or sent to the recycling centre where all the old clothes were sold on as rags.

If a garment was made from good material like velvet or lace or satin we recycled it ourselves and it was sent to one of our shops nearby where they designed fashionable clothes mainly for the young market. This little business was called No Logo and it was a training centre for the young creative aspiring designer and the clothes sold very well. Nothing was wasted and it was a positive environmentaly friendly use of all our resources. I was proud to be part of the team.

www.liampurcell.co.uk

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