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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.