I last wrote about this horrific tragedy in 2019, noting that a fresh inquest was to be held. And at last, a full 42 years after the event, this is under way. It is only under way due to the persistence of the families who were affected. Left to their own devices the Irish Government would long ago have forgotten about the manifestly wrong outcomes of two previous enquiries.

Now it seems the families of the 48 children killed that night (not forgetting the many more badly injured) are getting some sort of closure.

The first few weeks have been given over to the families who have, in turn, addressed the inquest. Their memories of their children are beautiful, the events and aftermath of the evening of 14th February 1981 haunting and unrelenting to this day. “How can you ever wake up from a nightmare like this?” says one.

And perhaps one sister spoke for all. “Marie has been lost in the smoke and devastation of the Stardust for too long. The decades-long fight for answers has taken far too much from us already. So today we are taking her back and remembering her life. We are reclaiming her from the darkness and despair and bringing her back into the sunlight where she belongs.”

All that they now ask for are the full facts and an honest verdict. Any charges to follow on from the inquest now seem relatively pointless.

In the early 1980s I was on holiday in West Cork, visiting relatives. I was persuaded to head along with a few cousins and friends to a dance at the Lilac Ballroom, Enniskeane. I wasn’t to know but this was just before the death throes of the Irish dance hall and the discotheques became the new ‘scene’ for youngsters.

I based a scene in A West Cork Mystery at the Lilac. Here it is.

She stood, mesmerised. The big neon light sign above the hall flashed, promising a great time to all who would pay the entrance fee and come inside. Her friends Roseanne and Mary-Jo, both of whom were old Lilac hands, lit up fags and scouted all around them, taking in the scene.

The lads had gone for a quick drink and they wouldn’t be long, they said. Rory had driven them all out from Dunmanway in no time at all, swinging the Vauxhall Viscount with abandon along the, largely unlit, country roads. There was plenty of parking in front of the hall and, as eleven o’clock approached, the place was getting busier as more cars arrived from the surrounding countryside.

The girls hung around by the car, wrapping their shawls closer around their shoulders against the cold breeze. They fidgeted about, anxious to get inside. Occasionally one or the other would see and greet a friend, mutually admiring dresses, hairstyles, saying ‘hi’ to friends of friends.

Orla knew no one apart from her two friends, and of course Rory and John. She was nervous now, not quite knowing how to act, unsure of herself in these strange surroundings. She had on her best dress, a grown-up dress showing off her pale shoulders and a lowish neckline, though not so low as to bring on more tribulation from her mother. It had been a compromise purchase but Orla was happy with it. She had slapped on the make-up liberally, heavy on the eye shadow as she had seen the older ones do. She now pulled out her lipstick from her handbag and applied a little more, checking in her compact mirror and surreptitiously pursing her lips to see the effect. She sighed. She considered her face too thin, nose too sharp, cheekbones too high. Which boy would ever ask her to dance – a blind one maybe? But already there were admiring glances from both boys and girls at the striking tall girl with the red hair.

At last the local pubs seemed to be emptying and, to Orla’s relief, Rory and John reappeared refreshed and ready for action. The five of them joined the queue which had suddenly formed outside the doors which led into the foyer.

Orla had her half-crown ready, it was double for the men. It was money that Orla could ill afford. All of her group seemed to be paying their own entrance so that way there could be no misunderstandings afterwards.

They paid their money and took a ticket. Mary-Jo reminded Orla to keep the ticket as a pass-out, in case she went outside later and needed to regain entrance. Now they could hear the band, and the music hit them as they pushed through the swing doors into the hall.

At the far end was the band, presently playing an Irish dance-tune set. This was expected early in the night and only two couples were taking advantage to swing each other around the floor.

‘See ya later’ said Rory and John and they wandered over to where the men were standing. Orla followed Mary-Jo and Roseanne across to the opposite wall to join the women. There her two friends chatted animatedly to others they knew, Orla joining in when she could. She didn’t want to be the wallflower that no one talked to. Some, though very few, of the women smoked cigarettes. Orla had never tried one and had no intention of doing so. By contrast most of the men puffed away creating a foggy, slightly mysterious atmosphere over the dance floor.

At the end of each set – three tunes – the band paused for a few minutes and sipped from bottles of water. Some of the women headed off to the toilets or to the café-bar. Orla looked across the smoky room at the men. Almost all men these days had long hair, in complete contrast to the clean-cut looks of the showband who were getting ready to play again. Most had jackets and ties though, and flared trousers were all the rage. The men were laughing, joshing, horsing about, showing off. Just like the church hall after all, thought Orla. But she nevertheless noted that the men would cast their occasional glances across the room, sizing up the women. In much the same way, she fancied, that the farmers would assess the cows in the market square. She hoped that she might catch a nice one.

The band struck up again and, to cheers, the leader announced a set of pop songs. Taking his cue the singer launched into the first number, joined by many of the assembled crowd.

‘Oh Sugar, Oh Honey Honey…’

The girls commenced jigging on the spot; the first of the men bravely crossed the room.

‘You are my Candy Girl…’

The prettiest girls were the first to be asked. And, just as inevitably, they politely refused. ‘Sorry, I’m not dancing.’ The older, more experienced men took the early rebuffs without demur and went along the line until a girl would step out with them.

‘When I kissed you girl I knew how sweet a kiss could be…’

Soon the dance floor became less of a no-mans-land. Some of the women, still partnerless, danced around their handbags. A proportion of the men were now dancing, with varying degrees of style or none at all, cavorting, smiling, inviting their partner to be impressed with their moves.

‘Like the summer sunshine pour your sweetness over me…’

‘Thank you’ the girl would say at the end of the set and would retreat back to her fellows without further ceremony, head high. Even if the lad was a dish a girl wouldn’t risk her reputation publicly by pairing off that early in proceedings.

Orla got a dance on the third song of the set. A young, spotty lad but she supposed she ought to be polite and start to make an effort. She swayed her hips to ‘Bad Moon Rising’, gazing vacantly over the lad’s shoulder, ignoring his efforts to smile and make eye contact and, as the set drew to a close, she retreated back to the line with a ‘thank you.’

‘Come on, let’s get a drink.’ Roseanne led them upstairs to the bar area. Soft drinks only, which explained why the men tended to dally elsewhere before the dance. They bought Tanoras and sat at a table overlooking the dance floor.

‘I hope that Pat fellah asks me out again. He’s gorgeous.’

‘Well I dunno. There’s not many here tonight I’d look at twice. Be as well sitting at home with me Ma.’

The night wore on. The songs became livelier, the crowd less inhibited. Even the most sorrowful wallflowers were asked to dance though even they had the dignity not to cling onto their welcome saviour.

But then the last, slow set was announced and it was all to play for. Though Orla had been ‘up’ a number of times by now she had met no one interesting. Still, she hoped that she might partner a nice lad for this last set and maybe progress to a kiss or two outside before the drive home. At least then she’d have something of interest to say to the others afterwards when they’d be gassing in the back of the car.

But her heart fell when she saw Spotty making a beeline for her. She was sure that one or two other men had their eye on her as well but he was almost at her side. No one wanted to be left at the wall at this stage. Already there were a few stranded and loveless who were making for the exit as if they didn’t have a care in the world. As did many lads who had only been there for the music and the craic really.

Mary-Jo and Roseanne had disappeared. Orla resigned herself to her fate, no one was going to save her so she gave her best attention to her eager beau. Yes, a bit spotty, but not unpleasant, nice smile, teeth, Patrick he said. They one-two-threed around the floor among the other couples. He danced nicely enough, tried to hold her closer. She gently resisted. He bent his head to hers and, as she angled away he nibbled her neck. It tickled and she giggled. He laughed too and planted an unexpected kiss on her unwary lips. She smiled and returned the kiss. It was a nice sensation, gave her the shivers, and Orla thought this was the best she was going to get. She hadn’t had that many kisses from a boy and was quite unpracticed. Certainly at the church hall Patrick and Orla would have been prised apart by now. As the last number drew to a close Orla consented to Patrick holding her ever closer.

The main lights were switched on and the band said goodnight. Orla looked around but her friends were nowhere to be seen. Never mind, they wouldn’t go anywhere without her.

‘Well goodbye Patrick, thank you for the dance.’

‘Thank you Orla, I’ll see you outside. Do you have a coat to get?’

The Lilac is still there in Enniskeane, though it’s now a Skoda dealership.

A West Cork Mystery is available here https://amzn.to/3i3n3w6

I blogged about Ireland’s Bloody Sunday some time ago. In a nutshell, on 21st November 1920, in reprisal for IRA assasinations earlier that day, British military forces went along and sprayed bullets around Croke Park in Dublin where the Dublin team were playing Tipperary at Gaelic football.

15 were killed or fatally injured, and many wounded. Amongst those killed was Michael Hogan, the Tipperary captain.

Last weekend was 100 years since those landmark events. The provincial Gaelic football finals were played, amongst them the Munster final Tipperary v Cork. Tipp hadn’t won the Munster championship since 1935, i.e. 85 years ago – Kerry (especially) and Cork habitually fight it out amongst themselves.

It was written in the stars that Tipp would win, which they duly did, thus honouring their former captain who was taken too soon.

And another strange coincidence occurred. That year, 1920, the provincial champions were:
Munster – Tipperary
Leinster – Dublin
Connacht – Mayo
Ulster – Cavan

That was how they finished last weekend as well.

He’s not been seen for over a week now. The mainstay of tourism in the town of Dingle, Kerry in the far west of Ireland is gone and hopes are fading.

Fungie originally turned up in Dingle Harbour in the early 1980s. He fascinated locals and visitors alike with his friendly nature, but surely he’d soon join his mates in deeper waters.

Not so. He became a regular attraction and a little industry quickly grew up, – boat trips certainly but also the hospitality trade which found itself suddenly busier with the influx of tourists. No longer was Dingle a peaceful, niche corner of old Ireland, it was suddenly on the beaten track, a short and scenic trip down the road from celebrated Killarney.

Now, here’s the thing. Some of us, maybe with rival Cork sympathies, thought it was all a cod (pun intended). Fungie might have been a real dolphin at the outset but those cunning Kerrymen weren’t about to lose their new income stream. I, for one, reckoned that the thing was now a blow-up dolphin, dragged about the harbour on display to gullible Americans.

One time I espoused this thought to the (previously friendly) ladies in the Tralee tourist office to be met with the fiercest of death stares (and I’ve received a few so I should know).

I repent; there is nothing in the present grief that suggests that Fungie was anything other than a real fish (or mammal). Fungie come back 😢😢

Have you ever seen a ghost? If not, do you believe in them, or at least have an open mind? If there was a scale of belief 0 – 10 where would you be? I reckon I’d be a 7 or an 8.

Obviously, if you’ve seen a real live ghost you’ll be a 10. Others, many of you, will be a sceptical zero. So no, I’ve never had the pleasure though I’d desperately love to learn that ghosts exist on a physical level.

We’re short of apparitions here in Jersey. We do have a few old legends but they are firmly rooted in the past with no sightings (to my knowledge) in modern times. Our medieval castle Mont Orgueil does supposedly have a resident ghost whose dark corner I point out to our visitors; there is a little substance to this maybe according to previous ghost hunters. Doctor John Lewis, in his memoirs of the Occupation years, describes taking rooms in Bath Street and, for several nights in a row, heard a tumultuous racket coming from the room next to his own bedroom. Upon opening the dividing door there was silence and emptiness. He had almost got used to this phenomenon until one night the noise stopped abruptly, never to reoccur. (The building has since been demolished.)

A family I know well once experienced the sensation of an invisible ‘someone’ walking slowly across their living room and out through the wall – there were three of them who simultaneously experienced this. I re-wrote this scene in A West Cork Mystery.

And of course, Ireland is where you will find ghosts, if anywhere. There is a rich cornucopia of myth, legend and folklore documented by the likes of WB Yeats, Lady Gregory and more recent writers like Michael Scott. And Ireland of course doesn’t just have ghosts; it has the faeries which, as everyone knows, are the descendants of the Tuatha Dé Dannan who were driven underground to the Otherworld by their conquerors the Milesians. They interact with the human race in myriad ways.

As a child, on a visit to an aunt in west Cork, she’d say, “Go to sleep now but wake up at midnight to see the leprechauns dancing outside.” And next thing the morning light would be streaming in through my window.

Walk (or run, as I’ve had the pleasure of doing) through the misty wilds of Connemara, wander through the deserted village of Slievemore on Achill Island, listen carefully to the dark silence descending over any Irish village once the pub door has been closed for the night, sit for a while, your back against a standing stone which pre-dates any history we know. Then tell me again that you’re a zero.

Any spooky experiences out there?

Many years ago my daughter Emma was entered in one of the dance categories of the Jersey Eisteddfod. She practised her ballet-based piece of work for weeks beforehand and, on competition night, she pulled it off perfectly. Three little girls performing bog standard Irish jigs took the three prizes.

Traditional Irish step dance has its origins in the 1700s when dance masters travelled the country teaching the dances. These visits were apparently very popular with the townsfolk as they represented a chance to have a bit of a party.

In 1893 the Gaelic League was formed. This was a kickback against colonial oppression and the perceived anglicisation of Irish culture. As well as promoting indigenous Irish sports, the League standardised step dance in the country and re-branded it Irish dance.

In 1935 the Public Dance Halls Act effectively confined dancing to Catholic-controlled dance halls. The style of dancing thus remained isolated from outside influences. It continued to be a rather formal and chaste affair, arms stiffly by side, upper torso rigid. Girls and women wore colourfully embroidered velvet dresses, boys and men kilts, though dark trousers started to become accepted. The Irish Dancing Commission retained strict rules concerning the teaching of Irish dance, and the rules of competition were unbending.

The Eurovision Song Contest was held in 1994 at the Point Theatre (now the 3Arena) in Dublin. Ireland were hosting the contest as the previous year’s winners. The national broadcaster RTE televised the show across the continent. During the intermission half way through the contest a dance performance took place. Those seven minutes revolutionised the perception of Irish dance. Riverdance, fronted by American-born champion dancers Michael Flatley and Jean Butler, took everyone’s breath away. It was sensational. Irish dance was suddenly a theatrical performance. It was energetic, freed from convention, progressive, sexy, smiley. The costumes were now light, modern, sequinned, allowing freedom of movement. It perfectly captured the mood of modern Ireland and the Celtic Tiger years.

Irish dance expanded worldwide, outside its heartland and those of Irish descent worldwide. Riverdance became a full-length show which is still touring the world 26 years later. Flatley broke away to run his own shows. If you’ve never seen Lord of the Dance, it is still touring. If you can’t see it live then it’s worth 90 minutes of your life to watch it here, with Flatley himself.

And, I understand anyway, back at non-theatrical competition level, the judges now accept innovation as part of the evolution of this ancient dance form.