11/09/2008 by Brigid.

If you are interested in our experience travelling with Tig and Foggy, click on the new “Travel with cats” page to the left.  It was written with the aim of helping others who might be thinking of taking their cats on holiday. The post is, however, extremely long, so if you aren’t into cats, I should give it a miss.

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05/09/2008 by Brigid.

Gerard Clancy has a remarkable memory. “How ‘re ye doing? It’s been a long time”, he said as he saw John enter the bar. It has, in fact, been almost nine years. The last time he saw us was when the whole family came over to scatter John’s father’s ashes at his childhood home on Mount Callan. John and his brother, Mike, had recently bought back the family farm and we spent more than one evening discussing our plans for rebuilding the ruined house over a pint or two of Guinness.

There have been changes since our last visit: the Euro, the smoking ban, Tesco superstores, metered parking … But the essentials remain constant. On Friday evening Clancy’s was packed after the market. There was standing room only when we got there at 9pm. Gradually people began to make their way home until, by around 10.30pm there were only about two dozen of us – enough to fill the narrow bar area.

John and I were struggling to maintain a conversation with Mick, a local chap whose nose appeared, at some point in the past, to have come into contact with an immovable object and who had clearly left his false teeth in the glass by the bed. “Who the feck are ye?”, he asked, stabbing John with his index finger. John started to explain …

At this point there was some sort of kafuffle behind us and someone started singing. The voice belonged to a largish man with unfortunate looks and a heavy silver necklace. The song was a baudy ode to a breakfast roll, full of double entendre and delivered in the style of a braying donkey. But then talent has never been a prerequisite for this type of public performance. The singer, we’ll call him Seamus O’Bling, lurched enthusiastically from one side of the bar to the other as his friends cheered him on. Undeterred, our elderly companion resumed, “Will ye fecking listen to me …”

It was now impossible to hear or understand a word Mick was saying, so we looked to the couple with him for a translation. “Do ye know who ye are talking to?”, said Eddie, “This is the great Mick Flynn. Have ye not heard of him?” “Was he a rugby international?”, asked John, looking at Mick’s flattened nose. “Not at all. He is one of Ireland’s most famous singers!”, said Irene, “Mick, is it not time for a song?”

Mick Flynn didn’t need much encouragement. He did, indeed, have a beautiful singing voice. His (surprisingly) clear and resonant rendition of the traditional ballad, Sean South, sent goosebumps down the spine and, in the not so distant past, would have brought a tear to the eye of every good Irish patriot in the house. Seamus, meanwhile, presumably awed to be in the presence of so great a singer, threw in a few words of support. But Mick, impervious to these interuptions, pressed on …

A Sheain a ghra …“Ah, Mick, you’ve a mighty voice” … you’re resting now … “Ye’re doin’ grand” … with the blood you gladly shed … “Good man Mick Flynn” … heaven take you to his kingly throne … “Ye’re a great man” … remember well Sean South of Garryowen … “C’mon now”

His performance finished, Mick recommenced his interrogation, “There are fecking hundreds of Rynnes around here. Who are ye again?” In desperation, John started to reel off the names of friends and family who Mick might know. “Did you know JJ Devitt?”, he asked, “JJ was a bit of a singer too.”

John struck gold. JJ was indeed a bit of a singer, just not a very good bit. His unique talent had been known to empty bar rooms and reduce small children to tears (of laughter). “Fecking JJ Devitt!”, exclaimed Mick. “Fecking JJ … How the feck do you know JJ Devitt?” Mick’s eyes sparkled as he recounted the story of how his encounter with a bloodied and toothless JJ outside a local bar had actually saved him his driving licence …

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