Cork born, John Francis Whelan [1900 -1991] possibly better known as Sean O’Faolain was one of the most influential figures in 20th-century Irish culture. A short-story writer of international repute; he was also a leading commentator and critic.
Sean O’Faolain
In his book “An Irish Journey”(from the Liffey to the Lee), latter published first in 1940, he reflects on his visit to Liberty Square, here in Thurles, Co. Tipperary.
Sean O’Faolain writes,
“Wild or not, these Thurles people have much more edge to them than the easy-going Clonmel folk. Their town shows it. The great wide square, concrete from pavement to pavement, the bright shops, every one of them well-dressed, the busy air of the streets even on an ordinary afternoon and the almost total absence of antiquities, marks this out as a modern business-town, “with no nonsense about it.”
And it has gone on improving every year. Old residents tell me that their fathers have handed to them a very different picture of an older Thurles, when as one of them said to me, “you could step from dung-heap to dung-heap in the square”. Hovels surrounded the centre of the town. The elder Dr. Callanan, the father of the present Dispensary doctor, told me he once handled 175 cases of fever in a single epidemic and he had handled typhus as well as typhoid.
Older traditions can revive the famine days, when people died in the fields by the ditches, their mouths green from eating nettles, even as Spencer records from an earlier period; while, in those unions which Dan O’Connell opposed so inexplicably, the dying were laid in rows upon rows on the floor.
An old man I met on the bridge told me he recalls the time when the town might have been thought of as composed of six shopkeepers, who made “pots of money” out of the Big Houses all about, and who were so many Gombeen-men, or tight-fisted, hard-screwing middle-men to the farmers. But he said they are gone now with the froth of the river.
(The River, by the way, is still the Suir: it rises not that much more than a mile away from the Nore up near the Devil’s Bit).
“They’re gone with the big houses on which they relied”, and he waved his hand over the river, past the old 12th century castle, the town’s only relique, down towards Fethard and up the river towards Templemore. “Archerstown House, Lanespark House, Killeen House, Ballysheehan, New Park, Mobarnane, Coolmore, Derryluskan, Brownstown House, Ballyronan , Lloydsboro, Inch…. How many of them are left now?. Ah, ‘tis a pity. For they were fine houses and gave great employment.”
“But surely the beet factory“, I protested, “must employ as many as the whole lot of them put together.” “Tisn’t alike”, he insisted, morosely. “Tisn’t alike, what’s a factory? Here to-day, gone tomorrow. What am I to a factory? No more than that shtone”, as he slapped the bridge parapet as if he wanted to crack his hand.
“They were dacent people – or the most of them were – and they attinded to the min that was working for ‘um. If a man got sick they’d give him the besht of the attention. If you get sick in the factory, what happens you, only to lie up and lose your wages, or maybe your job. Ah, tisn’t alike! There’s no nature in a factory.”
Nobody regrets more than the artist the passing of that old hierarchical form of society, so complete in its gradations of human order, still humanized in Ireland by contact with the natural life for the land, long after it had become dehumanized in England by the industrial revolution. But it had many faults even here. Its fatal weakness was that the Big House people felt themselves here, not merely of a different class to the worker and the farmer – which was natural since it happened to be true – but of a different race or religion or life mode and they took their political philosophy from England, whose problems were of a quite different nature. Master and man were not one entity, with right and proper distinctions between them, but two separate entities. And that does not work”.
To Be Continued. [Note: Part 2, the final part can be read HERE.
The eagerly awaited fourth publication by Rahealty, Thurles, Co. Tipperary, based freelance writer, author and poet Mr Tom Ryan, is about to hit the book shelves in the coming days.
This ideal Christmas gift, “The Cuppa Sugar Days”, includes light-hearted tales from another era, against the backdrop of County Tipperary, together with a collection of seven short stories and poetry.
Photo courtesy Bríd Ryan.
In“A message from Misty’s Dog Heaven” we discover that there might, indeed, be a heavenly place for our dear departed friends from the animal world.
In “The Lovers of Rathnakray”, love finds it difficult to find a way for one crazy mixed-up playwright.
The beautiful tale, “A Christmas Card From New York”, reveals how a simple Christmas card changed one man’s attitude to life, living and love.
In“Christmas Romances”an old man looks back at Christmas Eve on his cherished loves of a lifetime.
In “The Gambles of Goosegogs O’Hara”, Goosegogs and his pal Shifty Condon, get a raging ultimatum from fiery Georgia Mae, latter spouse of the horse racing enthusiast, Goosegogs.
In “Alexander’s Dream Girl”, a husband longs for a positive outcome to his wife’s battle for good health.
In “The Visit”, an unusual short story in verse, loneliness and old age is put under the microscope.
This most charming of publications also features numerous tales about interesting people, each from every walk of life in County Tipperary.
They include a Goldmining Prospector in Alaska; an International Sheep Dog Trialist of BBC renown in historic Drom; an International Designer’s achievement in China; a World Champion Powerlifter; a man who is at home in Graveyards; a Global Busker and friend of the famous; the late, Jimmy Doyle and John Doyle and hurlers of another era; Liam Sheedy’s inspiring words at Colaiste Mhuire Awards Night; the magic of the Munster Final in Thurles long ago and All-Ireland hurling traditions; Postmen; Railwaymen; Newspaper Personalities; Theatre Folk and Show Business people (both amateur and professional); Tales Out of School in Thurles and elsewhere; Tipperary Traditions; Profiles of Interesting Personalities from a Militaria collector to a Records Enthusiast; an Organic Farmer; an England-based Thurles Blues Musician; Messenger Boys; a Fiddler’s Retreat in Thurles; Scouts; Publicans; Teachers; Nuns; Ballad Singers; Rugby Personalities; Hockey Players; Athletes; Equestrian Folk; Cricket Enthusiasts; a former Inter Milan Soccer Player; an Inspiring Farmworker and Talented Wife; a Thurles family’s Military Tradition; Vintage Vehicle; Poets; Playwrights; Victoria Cross heroes; Carol Singers; reminiscences of Life in London and Dublin in the “Swinging Sixties”; the tragic Kennedy family of the United States and the Thurles Association.
There is a special tribute to eminent Tipperary poet and friend of the author, the late great Dennis O’Driscoll from Thurles.
All these and much more, feature in this wonderful publication by Tom Ryan, who has been writing about County Tipperary life and times for over 50 years in both regional, national and other media publications.
The 560 page publication includes photos by Bríd Ryan and is dedicated to Tom’s late wife, Christina (Ina). Details of the official launch by Dr Labhras O’Murchu (Director General of CCE) will be confirmed within the coming weeks.
In the meanwhile, for further information, do contact author Mr Tom Ryan, Mobile Tel. No. 0872131003.
The year was 1914; the visiting English tourist to Thurles was Mr M. W. Quirke. Details of his experience as a tourist here in Thurles is contained in a book entitled “Recollections Of A Violinist”, with same dedicated to his seven sons, Conal, Dathy, Brian, Frank, Terence, Raymond and Septimus.
Those responsible for marketing our ‘Tourism Product’, take note.
With the chat locally nowadays mostly about the supposed 9 – 12 million upgrade to Liberty Square in Thurles, this unabridged passage from Mr Quirke’s published travel book reads as follows:-
Thurles
“I continue walking along the dusty road, and after a long weary plodding, I come to two rows of houses facing each other. On the whitewash walls of each facing me is an advertisement running thus:-
Mary Doolin Entertainment for man and beast, To be drunk on the premises.
and a curious drawing of two pipes crossed. I have now arrived at Thurles and on entering one of those houses I asked if I can have lunch.
I am received with a look of curiosity mixed with surprise and asked if I didn’t know it was Friday, as of course there is no meat in the house. I thank the good woman and enquire if there’s anywhere else I might find accommodation and start for a place indicated, but history repeats itself, only this time I am informed that “Friday is the day the Lord died, there would be no use at all, at all cooking mate, as no dacent-minded Catholic would ate it”.
After this second defeat, which, by the way, did not appease my hunger in the least, I proceed through the city in quest of an hotel, and arrive at a kind of square in the centre of which stands a large haystack. This looks strangely incongruous with shops around it. But, welcome sight, an Inn occupies a corner and not far off is a Cathedral with beautiful stained windows. Albeit a somewhat small building to be so termed, it contains paintings and a sculpture of a high order.
I now direct my steps to the hotel, which I find is Mr Michael Ryan’s Inn. This establishment is reached by mounting three stone steps, but as the second one has, for some reason been removed, or fallen out, I find it necessary to jump from the bottom step to the top, holding on to the half-door meanwhile.
I am soon in a small space, presumably the bar, behind which stands a young woman, to whom I address myself and ask if I can have lunch. With a look of surprise she says “Why sir today is Friday”. I acknowledge I have been reminded of that fact several times before. She continues, “I don’t think we have anything in the house, but will you please ask Mr Ryan”, pointing to the yard where I can see but one man who looks like an ostler [Latter a man employed to look after the horses of people staying at an Inn], with a sponge in one hand and a bucket in the other.
Approaching, I enquire if he is Mr Ryan, and ask if I can have some food, as I have a long journey before me, being on my way to Dublin. He scratches his head and says, “You see, Sir no respectable Catholic would be seen doing business with a butcher on the day the Lord died, but I don’t like to be beaten for I know you won’t have another chance of getting a meal until you get to Dublin. Could you put up with a salmon?” My reply is “Certainly and only too happy to be so well provided for”.
“Well so just take a walk over to the Cathedral, if you have never been inside of it before. If you have time ask Timm Cassidy, the cobbler whom you will observe sitting near the haystack, why the people allows such a disfigurement to exist in the heart of the city. Be here in half an hour’s time and we will have something for you. Don’t worry about the train” he adds, “as it will be time to leave here when it is supposed to leave the junction, for goodness knows what time you may get away”. I assure Mr Ryan I am quite content to place myself in his hands and went my way to the Cathedral.
Passing the haystack I am again struck with the absurdity of its position, as with the loose hay lying about in the vicinity, it gives a most untidy appearance to what would otherwise be a nice little Square. But here I observe a man sitting at one end of the stack, sewing with waxed thread, a shoe held between his knees; and every time he draws the thread through his hands he makes a peculiar noise by breathing hard through his teeth. This interests me, so I draw near to him and one or two other idlers who seem to be also interested.
Remembering the hotel keeper’s hint, I asked him, “Why do the people allow this haystack to stand here?” I am at once treated to a heated denunciation of the family who persist in their old claim to have a haystack in the heart of the town, which at every election or other gathering is sure to get burnt down. And the people of the Square pay for it’s resurrection, as they have done hundreds of times before.
A peculiar hissing noise made whilst the wax thread is being used and the quick spasmodic tones of the speaker, add a most grotesque accompaniment to his tale.
I now remember the Cathedral and quicken my pace for I have used a good deal of my half hour. After making a fairly good jump I land on the other side of a large lock and in one step am just outside the building.
How shall I describe the view that meets my eye? Here is wealth, beauty and art; splendid marbles, superb paintings and every indication of culture, taste and comfort, all provided by subscriptions from the poor hard-working peasantry. Lost in reflection on a museum of such refinement existing in the midst of the deepest poverty, I retrace my steps and again jump the small swamp which separates all this grandeur from the real hard life around it.
Soon I am comfortably seated before a fine salmon weighing 7 or 8 pounds; a large dish full of floury potatoes; two or three tiny bottles of the Claret one meets with in the cafés on the other side of the Channel; and a large rhubarb tart.
I soon make a good meal off the salmon’s shoulder and after a most satisfying lunch seek the proprietor to thank him for his courtesy and settle my bill. I cannot help noticing a merry twinkle in his eye as I approach him. And now occurs a scene which I venture to say could not have been enacted anywhere but in Old Ireland.
Inquiring the amount of my indebtedness, Mr Ryan, taking two steps back, explains, “Do you think, Sir, I could charge anybody for a little bit of salmon after the treatment you have received in the city?I should be ashamed if you went to England and told them what a mean lot we were over here. Tis a nice opinion they would have of us. I am only sorry you did not have any good solid food, only I had none in the house and I am ashamed to own it”.
“Mr Ryan”, I reply, “I cannot allow myself to leave Thurles without discharging my obligations. I assure you I heartily appreciate your extreme kindness in the treatment I have received, but beg of you to be kind enough to allow me to pay”.
Here he burst into a fit of laughter and says, “I suppose you will be by asking next for me to make a special charge for the Claret, for drinking which, heaven knows, the Humane Society should award a medal”.
Seeing I have no chance of settling what I have had, I now boldly invite him to have some of the best whiskey in the house with me. He responds he will do so with pleasure and adds “I have an old drop my mother gave me years ago and it is the real John Jameson”.
Together we repair to an inner room, passing on to which I overheard Mr Ryan instructing his assistant to say that if anyone wishes to see him he is very particularly engaged. Then he opens a box of Havana cigars and ere I can possibly prevent him, forces nearly a dozen into my overcoat pocket. He also put two more on the table to be smoked with the whisky.
What amazing intelligence did I find in this man! How comprehensive was his query “Did I form any opinion as to how much of the money spent on the Cathedral might have been devoted to relieving the poverty round it?
To conclude he put a horse into a trap and drove me himself to the train, leaving me sore from kindness and with plenty of time to ruminate over one of my experiences in this remarkable country. Nor can I easily forget his last words as turning away from me with an air of impatience, when I tried to thank him for his generous conduct, he said “Goodbye come again any day but Friday and we will try to redeem our characters for the shabby treatment we’ve given you and remember you can’t lose your train, for ’tis always most conveniently late.”
“The more that you read, the more things you will know. The more that you learn, the more places you’ll go”. – Dr. Seuss
Since 2016, the Laugh Out Loud Book Awards (the Lollies) have celebrated the best and funniest children’s picture books and chapter books from Ireland and the UK.
Now in its fifth year, and voted for by children, this year’s shortlist of books is among the funniest yet. With titles including “101 Bums” by Sam Harper and “Zombierella: Fairytales Gone Bad” by Joseph Coelho, everyone is sure to get a laugh from this year’s nominated books (CLICK HERE).
FromMonday September 20th, schools can get in on the fun by taking part in a free weeklong online Lollies event, featuring writing activities, drawalongs and readings from the shortlisted authors and illustrators, as well as from the beloved children’s author and poet, Head Judge, Michael Rosen.
To register for a week of free Lollies fun click HERE.
For access to free resources and activity packs based on this year’s shortlisted books, click HERE.
To vote for your favourite shortlisted book visit HERE.
‘Semple Stadium – Fields of Legends’ – by Author Liam Ó Donnchú.
Semple Stadium, Thurles, Co Tipperary, is truly “the home of hurling”.
This illustrated history of Semple Stadium begins in 1884, when the GAA was founded in Thurles and chronicles the story of ‘Thurles Sportsfield’, from its purchase in 1910, right up to the present day.
This truly major publication features all its great days; from the development of the stadium; major games that were played there; significant players and managers; broadcasting from the grounds; the work of the groundsmen, Féile-The Trip to Tipp and other events held at the stadium over the years.
It also contains personal recollections and accounts of this place where legends are made. The publication is also richly illustrated by archive photographs and ephemera.
The Author.
Liam Ó Donnchú is a native of Hollyford, County Tipperary and now resides at Ballymoreen, near Thurles.
Having spent over four decades as a primary school teacher; Liam, now retired, is director of Lár na Páirce, the museum of Gaelic Games in Thurles and for many years, PRO of Semple Stadium. He is a former player, secretary and chairman of Thurles Sarsfields GAA club and at present its vice-president.
Liam is author of such publications as: Thurles Sarsfields GAA Story Vol 1&2, Tom Semple and The Thurles Blues, Pouldine School-Inné agus Inniu, co-author of Tipperary’s GAA Ballads, Horse and Jockey- a pictorial record and has written numerous articles on Gaelic games.
His latest book, ‘Semple Stadium – Fields of Legends’ will be published this September by the O’Brien Press and is available to pre-order online at Eason [ Link https://bit.ly/3ztEhGL ]
The book, which we highly recommend to lovers of Gaelic sports, is published in hardback; contains 384 pages and costs €24.99.
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