Many years ago my daughter Emma was entered in one of the dance categories of the Jersey Eisteddfod. She practiced 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.

48 kids never came home from the Stardust nightclub in north Dublin on Valentine’s Day, 14th February 1981. I have posted before on the subject here and here. The bare facts are

•  A fire broke out in the upper part of the building. It quickly spread to the main nightclub area, which was packed.
• There was panic, those inside fled for the exits. Some of the fire exits were chained shut and padlocked. The lights failed.
• 48 died, 214 were injured, some very badly.
• A Public Enquiry found that arson was the probable cause. This enabled the building’s owners, the Butterlys, to claim compensation of 580,000 Irish pounds.
• A further enquiry in 2009 ruled that there was no evidence of arson. (No repayment of compensation of course.)
• Despite the original enquiry finding clear evidence of ‘recklessly dangerous practices’ against the operators of the nightclub, no one has ever been charged with any offence.
• The Butterlys have brazened it out to this day, re-launching their business on the site with never the hint of an apology or regret.
• In recent times much more evidence has been gathered that, if accepted, would prove beyond doubt that the fire was the result of an electrical fault in the roof space. And who is responsible for ensuring electrical safety?

Now, after more than 38 years of campaigning, the Attorney General has ruled that fresh inquests into the 48 deaths will be held.

Will the new inquest finally see justice done, as with the Hillsborough tragedy?

Christy Moore’s 1985 song for which he was found guilty of contempt of court. The lyrics are still libellous in Ireland.

Ray Heffernan’s beautiful song of remembrance.

I was about 8 years of age. The various stalls in the field next to the racecourse were doing a roaring trade. A bit bored, curious, I wandered around to the back of a tent and pushed back a flap to peak in. Immediately there was a stinging slap across my earhole and a mouthful of unintelligible words from the gypsy woman. Crying, I ran to tell my Dad. ‘Well, you must have deserved it so,’ was his comment.

Ballabuidhe 2014

The Ballabuidhe (Bal-a-bwee) Races have been held from at least 1615 when King James I granted a charter to Randal Og Hurley to hold Ballabuidhe Fair in Dunmanway, west Cork in Ireland. The 414th edition has just ended and the pubs are counting their takings. For in every fair and festival to be held in Ireland during the summer, horses and drinking are the main distinguishing features. By day there is music, dancing, beauty competitions. Then there is horse trading, especially among the travelling community. Exiles from all over the world come back for the Gathering. And the bars serve non-stop with no one appearing to bother with licence restrictions and all that. No need even for the traditional ‘lock-in’ when the Gardai cruise past after closing time to make sure that the pubs ‘appear’ closed.

Ballabuidhe (skibbereeneagle.ie)

After Ballabuidhe the travellers and their horses might head westwards to Killorglin and Puck Fair. Their charter dates from 1613. There the only difference is that a wild goat is crowned King Puck and presides over the messy festivities.

Puck Fair (irishamerica.com)

And all over Ireland there are horse racing festivals held once a year. Tralee, Dingle, Galway. The travellers will happily follow the crowds. Maam Cross in wild Connemara mixes horse trading with that of sheep and cattle all year round.

Puck Fair (irishcentral.com)

Ireland may be a more prosperous and outward looking nation these days but you don’t have to look hard to find life as it has been lived over the centuries.

My early weeks living in Dublin were relaxed. My previous acquaintances with the city mainly involved high-tailing it out of there down the country to Cork or Kerry. This time I meant to embrace Dublin and get to know it. Besides, this was generally where the work for accountancy professionals was.

I took a nice though overpriced apartment near to Trinity College and got my first contract (for contracting was how I meant to proceed). It was great, working at one of Dublin’s many language schools. It was an insight into a different type of organisation and how it ticks. My job was to make some sense of some strange historic accounting, but also to analyse the schools’ activities and suggest budgetary improvements. That gig came to an end after a few months and it was immediately onto the next.

Samuel Beckett Bridge over the Liffey – I saw it installed during my time in Dublin

Meanwhile I was having a great time in Dublin, seeing the sights, drinking the Guinness and picking up my athletics coaching again at Crusaders A.C. I’ll remember the kids and my other friends at Crusaders for ever.

Irishtown Stadium, home of Crusaders AC

And what an enlightening year I spent at the HQ of the Irish Red Cross in Merrion Square. The books were hopelessly confused and I was assisting a financial consultant in sorting them out, producing overdue financial statements and updating the processes. But far more interesting was observing the workings of the organisation. The relationship between Head Office and the branches, between Head Office and the Board of Directors, between paid staff and volunteers. And some of the ‘creative’ accounting and archaic corporate governance that was taking place exploded into the public realm soon afterwards. But there were some lovely people at Merrion Square whom I remember fondly.

The Irish Red Cross HQ, Merrion Square

But meanwhile the worldwide recession had bitten deeply in Ireland. After my contract at the Red Cross was up, I struggled. Every business struggled, many thousands were out of work and things were only getting worse. There were no more contracts. Every job vacancy was overwhelmed with applications.

As a last throw of the dice I bought into a gym franchise in Waterford – a real change of direction. It quickly failed – people had no money for gym memberships.

St Finbarr’s Cathedral in Cork City, my spiritual home

My resources dwindling I went to stay with friends in Cork whilst job hunting. It was no use. In the final days of 2009, two years after I’d left for good, I bought a ticket back to Jersey.

The pagan feast of Samhain – the last night of October – marked the end of the harvest and the arrival of winter. It was also understood to be a time when the boundary between the world we are familiar with, and the Otherworld, could most easily be crossed. The Otherworld is where the fairies/gentry/little people/good people of Old Ireland dwell. They were the ancient race, the Tuatha De Danann, who were banished underground many centuries ago having been defeated in battle.

The poet and author WB Yeats says* ‘This night they (the fairies) dance with the ghosts, and the pooka is abroad, and witches make their spells, and girls set a table with food in the name of the devil, that the fetch (apparition) of their future lover may come through the window and eat of the food.’

Lady Jane Wilde (sheroesofhistory.wordpress.com)

And Lady Jane Wilde, mother of Oscar** ‘It is esteemed a very wrong thing to be about on November Eve, minding any business, for the fairies have their flitting then, and do not like to be seen, or watched; and all the spirits come to meet them and help them. But mortal people should keep at home, or they will suffer for it; for the souls of the dead have power over all things on that one night of the year; and they hold a festival with the fairies, and drink red wine from the fairy cups, and dance to fairy music till the moon goes down’.

The only entrances to the Otherworld are via fairy forts, or raths. These abound in Ireland, in all parts of the country. They vary in size and prominence, are generally circular and are often covered with hawthorn. And, even to this modern day, it is considered most unwise by many Irish people to plough or disturb these raths in any way.

Farmers leave them undisturbed, the way they have been for centuries. Planners of roads and other developments take great care to avoid a rath wherever possible. It is said that extreme bad luck will befall anyone who disturbs a rath.

Capeen Ringfort, Co Cork

Famously, one of Ireland’s richest businessmen, Sean Quinn, saw his empire collapse and he filed for bankruptcy in 2011. This after he had an ancient burial tomb moved to extend a quarry.

And in 1999 workers downed tools and refused to uproot a lone hawthorn bush. The Ennis by-pass was re-routed and the hawthorn bush remains.

Ardnamagh, Co Meath

I couldn’t, of course, resist writing about such a rath in A West Cork Mystery. Well, would you defy the fairies and disturb their home? You’re braver than I.

* Fairy and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry

** Ancient Legends, Mystic Charms and Superstitions of Ireland. Read this online now.

If I have a spiritual home then it’s in Cork, Ireland. My parents came from the west of the county and I always get a clear sense of ‘coming home’ as I arrive there. Last week I made my first visit in six years.

These days there’s a cheap Dublin Airport – Cork express bus link. A bit of a rugby scrum to get on but it deposited me in the city centre in the early evening. For a Thursday the pubs were hopping with music everywhere as I re-made my acquaintance with Murphy’s stout, Cork’s superior answer to Dublin’s Guinness.

Corner House, Cork city

The next day, a few miles out to Douglas to stay with my old friend Deirdre. Formerly a stand-alone village, Douglas is now firmly part of the city. It has the best of both worlds having all modern amenities (though including an alarming number of fast food outlets) but situated beautifully on the estuary of the lovely River Lee as it completes its journey from the Shehy Mountains.

For a runner, especially a slow one, it is perfect. The route of the old Cork – Blackrock – Passage West railway line has become part of a well-used and picturesque trail for walkers, runners and cyclists. Three nice runs of 8-9 miles with not a hill of any sort – lazy stuff but just what the doctor ordered.

Old railway bridge over the estuary

Blackrock Castle

Harbour, Passage West

Some of this good work unravelled in the course of evenings of Murphy’s and crisps at my favourite-ever bar, the South County. The weekend pub crowds were buoyant with the Cork hurlers winning the Munster title and thereby progressing to the All-Ireland semi-finals. The early week evenings were quieter though always with a bit of music not far away.

South County Bar, Douglas

Trips into the city included Elizabeth Fort, the new Nano Nagle Heritage Centre and the Crawford Art Gallery, with a final evening Chinese meal overlooking the beautiful Lough, protected since 1881.

St Fin Barre’s Cathedral, from Elizabeth Fort, Cork city

Back to Jersey with yet more fond memories. A pity that my aversion to flying makes these visits so infrequent, but it certainly makes them precious.

I’m not sure what’s bringing on this poetry jag – second post in a row. This one caught my eye on social media today. The writer DS Shorter (1866 – 1918) was a part of the so-called Irish literary revival which reflected a new and scholarly look at the country’s ancient traditions.

image from bloodontherainbow.com

The Kathleen of the poem is the mythical Kathleen Ni Houlihan, the Spirit of Ireland.

They lit a fire within their Land
That long was ashes cold
With splendid dreams they made it glow
Threw in their hearts of Gold
They saw Thy slowly paling cheek
And knew Thy failing breath
They bade Thee live once more Kathleen
That were so nigh to death

And who dare quench the Sacred Fire?
And who dare give them blame?
Since he who draws too near the glow
Shall break into a flame
They lit a beacon in their land
Built of the souls of men
To make Thee warm once more Kathleen
To bid Thee live again