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I had a dream that I was at a work meeting. It was a formal setting, like a board room with a large table and everybody was nicely dressed in suits and ties, except me. I was naked.

Nobody else in the room seemed to find this peculiar because they were taking no notice. I was OK with it for a while too and this was bothering me because maybe I was doing it regularly and I was just used to the idea. But then I started to panic.

I have had these episodes a few times where I’m with groups of people in very public situations but always naked.  I don’t understand that because it’s not something I like to do. I’m pretty certain I’ve never exposed myself to the public. I’ve definitely never been to a nudist beach and have no desire to ever visit one either.

I have the kind of body that’s best kept under wraps and no amount of money would ever encourage me to present it to anyone in its naked form. So why am I dreaming about sitting at a meeting without my pants?

One theory is that we all fear being embarrassed in front of people and from a young age we’re told that we should always cover up so as to not expose ourselves to others. So, dreaming about being naked means you’re worried about how people will think of you.

There’s another dream that pops up from time to time as well where I’m in danger and trying to call for help but I can’t make a sound.

I woke myself up a couple of times when I started shouting and that was a strange experience. In the dream, I was trying to warn a friend of some imminent danger. In my head, I was shouting loudly but in the real world there was nothing but silence.

I was getting frantic as my friend was about to fall off a cliff and I was shouting for all I was worth but couldn’t raise a squeak. Then suddenly it worked, and I roared which woke me and probably startled the neighbours.

According to Japanese legend, there is a spirit animal that comes into your house in the middle of the night and eats your nightmares to give you peace. It’s called a Baku. It looks like a pig with the head of a badger while according to others, it’s a cross between an elephant, a tiger and a rhinoceros.

There’s no reference to what sound it makes but I can tell you because I know. It’s a noisy guttural roar and I know that for a fact because I’ve heard it. Let me explain.

My wife tells me I snore occasionally. Usually after too much alcohol and I know when that happens because I’ll get an elbow in the kidneys and a feed of abuse. It’s annoying for the other person in the bed and I get that, but I have come across some characters that must make bedtime a real challenge for their other half.

Back in the noughties when we were running humanitarian aid convoys to Belarus and Western Russia, we often found ourselves bunking together in large groups. It could be in a large dormitory in an orphanage or on the floor of a day care centre.

You may only have met some of the guys in the sleeping bags beside you for the first time a week earlier so you wouldn’t be familiar with their nocturnal habits. That wouldn’t last long though.

We were in one of those orphanages one night, in the middle of nowhere. There was a large grassy area surrounding the building where all the trucks and ambulances parked. Truckers don’t like being too far away from their rigs when they’re not sleeping in them – they’d bring them inside with them if they could.

Anyway, we were after a long day and looking forward to a nights’ sleep. It was a large room with a high ceiling and lino on the floor and a rough and ready toilet down the hall that you could find by following your nose.

There were about fifteen beds in the room and most of us were asleep as soon as our heads hit the pillow. Until the noise started that is.

This guy began to snore. I’m calling it a snore just so you’ll know what I’m talking about, but it was reality something more. It began with a slight rumbling in the bowels of the earth and built up gradually until it was unleashed into the room and rattled the windows. It was horrendous.

Missiles were hurled in his general direction and some hit the target which brought about short periods of peace while he shifted position. He was resilient though and never took long to pick up where he left off.

It was so bad, we couldn’t figure out how he was able to sleep through it himself, not to mention the rest of us and it became apparent that we were in for a long and restless night. But then the truckers stepped up to the mark.

A bunch of them gathered around the bed and lifted the mattress with the offender attached and brought it outside. They placed him in the back of an ambulance and left him there. That wasn’t the end of it though because he could still be heard by the rest of us in the dormitory.  

Looking back at that episode now, I feel a bit guilty because I realise after all these years, that the poor guy was blamed in the wrong. He was completely innocent. That noise was too unnatural to be human and there’s only one explanation. It was the Baku.

Back in February, Storm Dennis lashed our coastline and shoved a ghost ship onto the rocks at Ballycotton. The MV Alta appeared out of the blue and found itself the centre of attention while grounded in East Cork.

I was in the area and decided to have a look at it. Afterall, it’s not every day you get to see a real ghost ship, so I parked the car and walked along the cliff top. Many others had obviously been just as curious because the pathway was wet and muddy from all the other feet.

I wasn’t expecting that, and it was a cold and windy morning as I battled my way along the path in my sensible shoes. I didn’t realise how far I had to go either. After walking for what seemed like an eternity, and shoes covered in mud, I decided to follow Homer Simpson’s advice; “If at first you don’t succeed, give up.”

I trundled back to the car park and then I noticed an old lifeboat sitting on blocks. A final resting place after a long working life dedicated to saving lives. The lifeboat, The Mary Stanford, was involved in a famous rescue operation in 1936, saving the lives of eight men on board The Daunt Rock Lightship.

The Daunt Rock sits off the Cork Coast, near Roberts Cove. It was deemed to be a marine hazard in 1864 after a ship crashed into it. The ship, ‘City of New York’ was wrecked and as a result, the first lightship was placed there to alert other mariners to the danger.

In February 1936, there was a massive storm which morphed into a hurricane and the lightship, ‘Comet’, broke its moorings and was drifting towards the rocks and certain disaster. Time and again, huge waves crashed over it and tossed it about like a cork in the water.

The crew thought they were destined to be lost at sea but in the early hours of the morning, after several attempts, they managed to get out another mooring line. But when that also broke, they were in serious trouble.

The wind increased to gale force and the crew of the lightship decided to leave their vessel. One of the crew tapped out an S.O.S. and that message got to the pilot master on duty in Cork Harbour just before the wheelhouse was damaged and the wireless was knocked out of commission.

Despite their situation, the crew of the lightship were conscious of the potential danger to other seamen, so they continued to carry out their duty. They fired flares at regular intervals as a reminder of the hidden dangers of Daunt’s Rock to oncoming ships approaching the entrance to Cork Harbour.

In the early hours, the Ballycotton Lifeboat was alerted that the Daunt’s Rock Lightship was drifting towards the rocks. The phone lines were down but a message was sent to the local policeman in Ballycotton and he alerted Patsy Sliney.

Patsy Sliney was the coxswain of the Ballycotton Lifeboat and he contacted the rest of the crew without setting off the alarm because he didn’t want to worry the rest of the families in the area at that hour of the night.

This account of the incident by Patsy Sliney is taken from the Irish Examiner Archives;

The Lifeboat, with its crew, comprising Messrs Patsy Sliney, coxswain, John Lane Walsh, second coxswain, Tom Sliney, permanent mechanic, Willie Sliney, second permanent mechanic, Tom Flavin Walsh, John Sliney and Michael Walsh, immediately set off.

The roughest seas were running, and it was a night of terror. When we got to the position where the lightship should be, we could not find it. Visibility was very poor, although we were within a half-mile of it at the time.

We got to the lightship and remained standing by for twenty-five hours until we went to Cove for food and petrol after our supplies ran out.

‘Tremendous seas were running at the time and with great difficulty the Ballycotton lifeboat was manoeuvred alongside the distressed vessel. The lifeboat was on the crest of a wave one miniute, the next moment sunk deep in the trough of another.’

The conditions were described as horrendous and some of the crew said they had never experienced anything like it before.

They managed to get a line on the stricken vessel to tow it to safety, but the line snapped. The large waves and wind kept pushing them apart. With the lightship heading for the rocks, they concentrated their efforts on getting the men off the ‘Comet’ instead. It took six attempts in all before all eight men were rescued.

The lifeboat crew had been on duty for close on seventy hours at that stage and had eaten little apart from biscuits.

The Cork Examiner reported; ‘The men were soaked to the skin and almost asleep as they walked ashore in Cove. Considering the heavy seas, the removal of the crew required the highest degree of seamanship and its performance reflects the highest credit not alone to the gallant crew from Ballycotton, but to the boats and men that have made the name, of the Ballycotton Lifeboat Institution a revered one to sailors who sail the seven seas.’

At a subsequent meeting of the Cork County Council, it was proposed that the Council extend its congratulations to the crew of the Ballycotton lifeboat on their bravery during the rescue of the crew of the Daunt’s Rock lightship.

Their feat was described as one of the most daring and courageous that had ever taken place and the Chief inspector of the Irish Lights described it as one of the most marvellous rescues that had been affected in his experience.

It was an amazing feat by a bunch of incredibly brave men.

Many years ago, I spent some time going to Chernobyl affected areas of Belarus and Western Russia delivering truckloads of humanitarian aid. In the aftermath of the nuclear disaster, Belarus took the brunt of the fallout and many hospitals, schools and remote villages needed supplies.

They wanted clean food, clothes and medical supplies and as usual, the people of Ireland answered the call and gathered aid in huge quantities. It went on for years and the aid was delivered by volunteers in trucks, vans and ambulances in large convoys.

Most of the villages we visited were poor and in remote areas. Emptying those trucks by hand was hard work and it was all done manually because there were no forklifts. At the end of each day, we were ready for the bed even if it was only a cramped space in the back of an ambulance. On a good day we might get to sleep on the floor of a day care centre.

Our grub was basic and cooked on gas rings wherever we pulled in for the night. Usually a secluded part of a village or a bit of wasteland in the middle of nowhere. We ate lots of tinned food and when we got fed up of that, we ate more of it. It was tough going but good fun and rewarding too.

The convoys varied in size and we could have anything from sixty to a hundred people on a trip. It was a logistical challenge getting sizeable convoys from one side of Europe to the other, but it was also a challenge dealing with the various personalities. This was especially true when the pressure came on, which it invariably did.

After a week of broken sleep, hard work, eating from tins and washing with baby wipes, it was understandable that there would be some grumbling as nerves began to fray. It was like the Corona Virus. We knew it was coming but we couldn’t stop it.

We always tried to prepare volunteers for what lay ahead. We did our best to gear them up for the conditions they would experience along the way and the delays they would face at borders and customs within Belarus.

That was always a big issue for new volunteers because they couldn’t understand why they were being held up by the very people they were trying to help. It was frustrating for everyone, but it was a communist regime and we had to work with it. Getting annoyed with officialdom would only make life even more difficult so biting the tongue was important.

It affected the mood of volunteers though. Starting out on day one, everyone was full of the joys of Spring, anxious about what lay ahead but excited at the same time and ready for road. The first week was spent making slow progress across Europe until we reached the Poland/Belarus border and the beginning of the real delays.

By then, we would have had a week of rough sleeping and early starts and for some, driving on the right-hand side of the road was a new experience that they found stressful. It was noticeable that the mood of some of the volunteers deteriorated as the conditions did.

As hunger, fatigue and stress took hold, we were regularly challenged by those who insisted they could do better. It was par for the course and we were used to it, but it was sometimes difficult to take. We were giving up our free time too and it wasn’t just two weeks for us. We spent most of the year preparing for these trips.

I’m reminded of those days now as we go through this Corona Virus nightmare. Stress causes people to behave differently. I’ve seen it before. During my time in An Garda Siochana I saw sane, sensible people crumble after a minor traffic accident. I once had a priest screaming obscenities at me because he was caught in traffic and needed to get to a funeral.

We need to manage the current stress and keep things in perspective. This current crisis will pass and when it’s over we will have time to reflect on how we behaved and how our actions affected others. We saw in the initial stages of the pandemic how panic buying became an issue.

Toilet roll was clearing out of supermarkets faster than they could stock the shelves and face masks sold out. Hand sanitisers were going fast too even though soap was just as good. Food was being stockpiled despite being told there would be no shortage.

The advice from the experts was to practice social distancing and keep the hands washed but many didn’t listen. 

What really surprised me though, was the response to Leo Varadkar’s address to the nation. He spoke to us as the leader of our country and got lambasted for it. It was hailed as a political gimmick.

I’m not a member of any political party and I’m not a big fan of the current Taoiseach but I was impressed with his speech. It was an important message aimed at allaying fear and reassuring the nation.

That speech wasn’t about the presenter but the content. It was important for everyone, especially the older more vulnerable members of the community, to hear that message. They were frightened and needed a calm voice. Leo gave it.

Following the broadcast, he was accused of trying to take political advantage out of a disaster. But I think those people kind of lost the point. It was about trying to restore some calm in a bad situation and trying to get those who were losing their heads to pull themselves together.

I sympathised with him. It’s difficult to manage people when they’re stressed, and I know that from experience.

I read recently that a fierce dispute has broken out between two islands in the Canaries over their ancient whistling language. La Gomera’s whistling language, which enabled shepherds to communicate across its volcanic canyons long before the invention of the mobile phone, was recognised by Unesco in 2009.

The neighbouring island of El Hierro wants a similar status for its own whistling language but the people of La Gomera say it’s a mere derivative of its own and should not be granted official recognition.

This dispute would probably have gone over my head but for the fact while on a trip to Tenerife with my wife Gaye, we were advised to visit the island of La Gomera, one of the smaller islands in the Canary group.

Christopher Columbus had stayed there on one of his many expeditions and we thought it would be worth going for a look. So, we did.

We began with spin on a ferry. That took about an hour and when we arrived on the island, we took a coach tour. I don’t normally like organised tours, I prefer to do my own thing, but we went anyway.

La Gomera is one of Spain’s Canary Islands with a population of only 22,000 people. It is the second smallest of the seven main islands in this group, and on a clear day you can see Morocco.

The island is full of mountains, hills and valleys and once you leave the port and start to head inland, you can see all these isolated houses dotted throughout the valleys with terraces cut into the hills where they grow their fruit and vegetables.

It is pretty remote and some of these homes don’t even have electricity, but they do have something unique and wonderful.

They have the Silbo Gomero, a whistling language that has been used on the island of La Gomera for as long as anyone can remember. It is an articulate language used to communicate over long distances and is much more effective than shouting. According to our guide, this language is now a compulsory subject in schools on the island.

The whistles can be distinguished according to pitch and whether they are interrupted or continuous. When they tell you beforehand what they are about to say, and then they whistle it, you can almost hear the words in the whistling.

It’s very technical stuff but with practice, whistlers can hold a proper conversation. The sound can travel up to 3.2km, which is much further, and requires less effort, than roaring your head off.

Being able to whistle wasn’t just a matter of pleasure, it was an obligation, a necessity. If you couldn’t do it, then the alternative was to face a difficult trek through thick undergrowth just to tell Anita to bring in the washing before the rain came.

Because the houses are so far removed from each other, whistling was a much better option than walking.

The language is now under the protection of UNESCO, being recognized as the Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity in 2009. There are some other whistling languages in the world too and they can be found on the Greek island of Evia, in the town of Kuskoy, eastern Turkey, in the French Pyrenees and in some parts of Africa. Maybe on some building sites in Ireland too.

But the whistling language of La Gomera is the only one that has been studied so extensively. It is being used by the largest community of speakers and is possibly the only one that is learned in school as an actual subject.

Whistling began to decline in the 1960s, when economic difficulties forced locals to emigrate, mainly to neighbouring Tenerife. The growing road network and later, the development of the mobile phone, deprived Silbo of its practical function. By the 1970s and 80s, there were only a few whistlers left.

The Silbo Gomero has been passed on, from one generation to another for centuries, usually within the family. Now it is done through formal education in the schools of La Gomera, due to measures taken by the Government of the Canary Islands.

Today, the Silbo is mostly heard in schools and in the restaurants that provide whistling demonstrations for tourists. It is crucial to the island’s tourism industry and we were treated to one of these demonstrations by two members of staff when we stopped for lunch.

One staff member took various items from some of the tourists and swopped them around and gave them to other diners. When he was finished, he called the other staff member into the dining room and he then gave instructions to her by whistling.

It was very impressive, and he seemed to be able to explain what each item was and who the real owner was. She located the various items and returned them to the original owners.

It was a good show and everyone enjoyed it, but it’s not all sweetness and light. Some of the whistlers are in competition with each other for the attention of tourists, and some have even fallen out and are no longer on speaking terms. Or maybe whistling terms would be more appropriate.

But it is also true that there are many whistlers on the island willing to share their stories with anyone who wants to listen.

Officially, they say that the Silbo Gomero is understood by almost all islanders and practised by the vast majority, particularly the elderly and the young. It is also used during festivities, ceremonies and religious occasions.

Maybe that’s true and it would be a terrible loss if it was to disappear. Having said that, the only place I heard any evidence of the whistling language was in the restaurant for the tourists but maybe it is more widely used.

Last month I came across an item in a newspaper about an event taking place on October 15^th this year. It’s Global Handwashing Day!

According to the promotional material, the Global Handwashing Day theme will focus on the links between handwashing and food, including food hygiene and nutrition. I thought honouring it with a global event was silly so, I wrote a piece about it and filed it away for October.

Then out of the blue, along came the Corona Virus. We know very little about this illness apart from the fact that it’s spreading across the Planet like wildfire. Some think that toilet paper in an antidote and supermarkets in certain places are running out because customers are stockpiling.

But the experts are now telling us that the most important weapon in our armoury against this virus is soap and water. The humble bar of soap has become our latest super-hero.

So, as handwashing is all the rage now, it seemed appropriate to bring forward my handwashing column.

Hygiene is a serious business and the people behind Global Handwashing Day, say that handwashing is an important part of keeping food safe, preventing diseases, and helping children grow strong. The tagline ‘clean hands a recipe for health’, reminds us to make handwashing a part of every meal.

That’s fair enough but I had wondered if it was necessary to make a global day of celebration out of it, but recent events have proven that these people are right. It’s never been more important to promote handwashing.

If my mother told me to wash my hands once when I was a child, she must have told me thousands of times. It was drilled into us as children and it’s one of the first instructions I can remember getting from her. It was constant and I carried on the tradition with my own kids.

Having said that, when I worked on building sites with my father in the seventies, hygiene wasn’t always front and centre. Handwashing back then consisted of a quick wipe on the overalls and that was that.

The nicest sandwiches I ever tasted were those eaten on building sites while sitting on concrete blocks with my hands covered in a mixture of cement and sand. The best tea came from a billy can, stained from years of tea making and the water was often boiled in the can using a gas blow torch.

Before the lunch break, the dirty mugs were collected on site by the young lad, probably me, from where they had been left the previous day. On windowsills, scaffolding planks or hanging on a nail. They were rubbed with sand and rinsed out in the barrel of water that was used for mixing the concrete. There was always a barrel of water on a building site.

The tea was stirred with whatever was handy. The timber ruler that was kept in a pocket on the leg of the overalls was a popular choice. It would be wiped on the overalls after and returned to the pocket. A pencil taken from behind the ear, a screwdriver or a piece of stick would do just as well.

If health enforcers existed in those days, they would have had a field day. Building sites all over the country would have been shut down and the workers put into quarantine. There was no shortage of evidence.

Safety was neglected too. The primary concern was getting the job done regardless of the risk to life and limb.

I was about fifteen when I dropped a concrete block on my foot. My big toe took most of the impact and I rested for a few minutes until the pain subsided, my vision cleared, and I ran out of swear words. You didn’t get much sympathy from fellow workers either, only abuse if you didn’t hurry back to work.

I still have trouble with that foot and there are times when it stops working and shoots pain through my body to remind me of the seventies. Punishing me for not getting medical attention.

Now, workers have boots with steel toe caps, ear protection and safety glasses and that’s all good. We didn’t have those and that’s why so many of us are limping and pestered with tinnitus today.

Anyway, back to the handwashing. Hands obviously play a big role in the transmission of germs, as we are now finding out. But our dedication to hand hygiene is a waste of time if the person we are shaking hands with is a non-believer. So, is it time to stop?

According to research from the University of California, on average we carry 3,200 bacteria from 150 different species on our hands. That means every time we shake hands we may as well be sticking them down the toilet bowl.

Yet, it’s part of our way of life. We’re a friendly bunch and it’s natural to stick out the hand to introduce ourselves, to greet each other or to offer congratulations. It’s an automatic reaction.

If someone offers their hand and you refuse to accept it, things could get awkward. Mass goers are being encouraged to offer each other the sign of peace with a nod or a smile to those around them instead. Makes sense.

I worked with military guys from Slovakia a few years ago and they were a very sociable group. They shook hands every time we met, but if their hands were dirty, they would offer their elbow. Like a fist pump only with elbows. So that might be another way to go.

Whatever we decide, I suggest that for now, we avoid the New Zealand Maori tradition of rubbing noses and foreheads together. I don’t fancy sharing nasal mucus with anyone, especially in the current climate.

In 1797 an American farmer named Levi Dickinson used strong grass to make a broom for his wife. He lashed some of it to a stick, and it proved to be more durable and effective than previous models, so it was soon in demand.

It wasn’t long before Dickinson and his sons were selling them throughout the United States and for many years, they were a popular household item.

These days, our modern homes are a bit more sophisticated with lots more furniture and plenty of nooks and crannies to be cleaned so the humble broom isn’t always suitable. Thankfully in the 1800’s the vacuum cleaner made its first appearance and that made life easier.

I do most of the hoovering in our house. I don’t mind it and I have time on my hands since I retired so it’s no big deal. I sometimes find it even mildly therapeutic, especially when I can take my time. But I’ve had tough times too.

I took a set against our last machine and we became confirmed enemies. Our relationship had been strained for a while, but it finally reached the stage where I began to hate the sight of the thing. It had a silly face on it that constantly smirked at me. I pulled it around the house by the hose, but it always resisted.

It deliberately got caught in everything. When I tried to go around a corner, it would wedge itself in the skirting board and it tangled itself up with the furniture at every opportunity. The lead was always getting stuck under doors and in a complete act of defiance, it would often throw itself on its side and refuse to get up. But that wasn’t the worst of it.

There was also a sneaky side to it. It always waited until I was reaching into tricky places or down behind furniture that couldn’t be moved, to do its worst. That’s when the tubing that connects the hose to the head, would fall off. It only happened in the most awkward, hard to reach places where it was impossible to retrieve it.

No amount of kicking that machine seemed to make a difference. I often cursed and swore at the thing until I was bordering on cardiac arrest, but it continued to make my life a misery. I came close to wrapping it around a tree in the garden a couple of times, so it had to go.

There was only ever going to be one winner. This machine was threatening my physical and mental health so with that in mind, my queen and I headed off to find a replacement. We hit on one of those cordless gadgets and decided to take a punt on it.

I’ve only had it for a short while, but the early signs are good. The fact that there is no lead to strangle the furniture is a big plus and the various attachments make it very adaptable. As good as it is though, I doubt the European Space Agency will be rushing out to by one.

They’re about to embark on a bit of hoovering but I reckon they are going to need something a bit larger.

According to National Geographic, space junk is a huge problem and it’s only getting bigger. Hundreds of thousands of man-made objects are flying around our planet. Everything from dead satellites to errant nuts and bolts are putting the working satellites at risk.

In 2009, two satellites collided at 22,300 mph, bursting into a cloud of thousands of pieces of debris. The culprits were the inactive Russian satellite Cosmos 2251 and an active U.S.-based communication satellite Iridium 33. It was the first known time that two satellites collided in space and was a startling reminder of the growing problem of space junk.

More than 23,000 known man-made fragments larger than 4 inches, which is a little wider than two golf balls, zip around our planet. But those are just the pieces large enough to track. An estimated 500,000 pieces between 0.4 inches and 4 inches join those larger fragments.

Space junk can impact other objects faster than a speeding bullet and can damage the many satellites, telescopes, and other objects orbiting our planet. In 2006, for example, a tiny piece of space junk collided with a Space Station, taking a chip out of the heavily reinforced window.

The junk includes the stages from rockets that jettison satellites into orbit and the satellites themselves once they die. But it also includes smaller bits and pieces lost to space including paint chips that flake away from the outside of devices.

The European Space Agency has chosen a Swiss company called ClearSpace to carry out the €120 million clean-up in 2025. They plan to launch an unmanned “tow truck” spacecraft into orbit. Using robotic arms, it will grab a section of a spent rocket that is now circling the Earth at a speed of more than four miles a second.

The tow truck will then drag it towards Earth, causing both to burn up in the atmosphere. They hope the first ClearSpace mission will help to create a new “vacuum cleaner” industry to rid space of man-made debris.

I didn’t realise there was so much rubbish up there. It seems we’re not satisfied with just littering Planet Earth, but we’re determined to leave a mess after us in outer space as well. Somebody has rightly called time on this sky tipping and wants to put things right.

So, it’s time for a clean-up and I’m happy to donate my old hoover free of charge. They’re welcome to it. But I suspect it won’t be long before they lose patience and cut it adrift to join the rest of the junk up there.

I was sitting at home two weeks ago when I got a text message telling me that an ex colleague of mine in Blarney had died. Dan Ahern, a man I spent many hours sharing a patrol car with had passed away. I was completely stunned because I didn’t even know he was ill.

We worked together for a few years and got on well. Dan was a reliable character. He was someone you could depend on in a jam which was important at a time when uniformed gardai carried nothing but a timber baton for protection.

They have something more substantial now, but the pieces of hickory we had, didn’t offer much protection so it was important to have someone you could trust beside you when things got a bit sticky. And they sometimes did.

Dan Ahern would never let you down. He wasn’t a tall man, but he was broad shouldered and as strong as a bull. He never got over excited either as I discovered one night, back in the eighties, while we were on patrol in Watergrasshill.

In those days, Watergrasshill was part of the Blarney garda district and fell into our area of responsibility. That didn’t make a lot of sense geographically and when the boundaries were reorganised in later years, Watergrasshill went in with Midleton which made more sense.

Anyway, that’s how we came to be in that neck of the woods. It was around midnight when we got a radio message that Dominic McGlinchey had driven through an armed checkpoint near Silversprings Hotel in Tivoli and was heading east.

That got our attention because this guy had been on the run in Cork for a few weeks and was dangerous. For those of you who have never heard of Dominic ‘Mad Dog’ McGlinchey, let me give you some background information courtesy of journalist, Cormac Looney.

Dominic McGlinchey was the head of the Irish National Liberation Army, and he was on the run in the Republic for 18 months. He and his gang were rampaging around the country, pursued by gardai.

‘Mad Dog’ McGlinchey claimed to have killed 31 people, including a child, and was wanted for the murder of a 77-year-old woman, Hester Mullan, in Derry after his fingerprint was found on the roof of the car used by her killers.

In 1983 he tortured and murdered fellow INLA man, Eric Dale, from Armagh believing he had slept with his wife, Mary. He was insanely jealous and believed Mary had an affair while he was in Portlaoise Prison previously.

Two months later McGlinchey and Mary together murdered two other south Armagh men, Patrick Mackin and Eamon McMahon, a brother-in-law of Eric Dale.

As tensions mounted within the INLA, McGlinchey and Mary struck again, this time with the brutal murder of Gerard “Sparky” Barkley, 27, from Belfast. The couple lured Barkley to their home where McGlinchey shot him through the back of the head as he sat watching television.

They dragged him to the back yard, slit his throat and drained his body of blood to make it lighter to carry and dumped it near the border in a secret grave. On another occasion when Mary was present McGlinchey and his henchmen tortured an INLA man for hours, roasting him on an Aga cooker.

But the Bonnie and Clyde, gun-toting couple also became heavily involved in smuggling and extortion in the border area. Now they were in Cork.

They were heavily armed with automatic assault rifles, a pump-action shotgun and handguns. On two occasions his car was stopped at garda checkpoints and on both occasions, they overwhelmed gardai with their firepower. At Cobh, McGlinchey had to restrain his wife after she threatened to murder two gardai.

The gang robbed a bank in Foynes and were eventually located at a house in Newmarket. As teams of detectives approached the house, McGlinchey opened fire from an upstairs window.

A gun battle ensued as firing continued from inside the house. In the exchange, a detective was hit in the shoulder. They forced their way into the house and McGlinchey then called for a priest and surrendered after the priest arrived.

While McGlinchey was in prison in 1987 gunmen burst into his family home and murdered Mary as she was bathing her children. They shot her nine times in the head.

McGlinchey was released in 1993. A broken man, he still tried to fall in with criminals in Dublin and the border area, but they betrayed him to his former INLA enemies, and they shot him dead in Drogheda the following year.

So that gives you some idea of what we were facing in Watergrasshill all those years ago when this gang was on the run in Cork. Dan and I were driving along this narrow road, in the middle of nowhere, when we came across their car.

It was abandoned in the middle of the road with the lights on and the doors wide open. The engine was still running but there was no sign of anyone.

We weren’t about to tackle these characters with our little batons. We had no idea where they were anyway. For all we knew they could have been watching us from a ditch, so we beat a hasty retreat and there was only one way to go; backwards.

Dan was behind the wheel and he was very good driver. He slapped the car into reverse and I was lucky I didn’t get whiplash from the speed he drove up the road, not knowing whether we were driving into danger or away from it.

As it happened, they were gone but we weren’t to know that. The incident only lasted a couple of minutes, but I found it a bit unnerving. It didn’t bother Dan too much.

By now, you may have heard about a 96 page annual magazine set to be launched this year in Cobh. ‘The Cobh Chronicle’ with stunning photography and artwork by Colm McDonagh and Pat Carroll, is a non-profit venture designed to showcase all that Cobh and its inhabitants have to offer.

‘The Cobh Chronicle’ will remember the history of the town and its past achievements, while also focusing on what is happening now and likely plans for the future.

The magazine also aims to support and promote local talented people, many of whom have already been published and hopes to encourage and provide a platform for those yet, unpublished poets, writers and authors.

It will be produced to a high standard and there will be something in it to suit all ages. It is expected that the publication will appeal to a wide audience of Cobhites home and abroad, and also to visitors and those with any connection to the town.

The editorial team is appealing for submissions. Everybody has a story to tell and the more submissions that are received, the better the content will be. It might be a piece of nostalgia from your school days, old sporting memories, a bygone event in town or an old photograph.

They want to hear your stories and what you remember about the people who shaped the town and the local characters who are no longer with us. Don’t be shy.

An email address has been created specifically to gather this information. Don’t worry if you don’t feel confident enough to put your story on paper, just send in the basic information and the editorial team will find another way to get the information out of you. Torture is always a possibility.

You can get in touch through the Facebook page or through chronicle@europe.com  

I’m sure you’ve heard by now that the whole country is going to have access to super-duper wifi. That’s great news because the Internet plays a huge part in a lot of what we do, and life is more difficult without it.

It isn’t available to everyone as of now and those of us who have it, know it’s far from perfect but hopefully that’s about to change as 1.1 million people in 540,000 homes are set to benefit from high-speed broadband.

It’s taken a while to get here and there’s a long way to go yet, but it’s a start. The full roll-out of the fibre optic cables will take between five to seven years at an estimated cost of somewhere between €3 billion and €5 billion.

Before you get too carried away though, it’s not going to happen overnight. They say it’s going to take seven years to finish but most homes should be connected within the first three years. Call me cynical, but I have my doubts.

As sure as night follows day, there will be a few hiccups along the way. A rare beetle living in a laneway in Carrigtwohill or telegraph poles riddled with a unique type of woodworm could hold things up. Those habitats would have to be protected to avoid upsetting Eamon Ryan and his green pals.

If my own experience is anything to go by, we have a long road ahead.

Back in 2016, I heard that fibre optic broadband was coming to my area. I was excited at the prospect of having access to the Internet that would actually work. Internet that would be there when I wanted it and would allow me to do stuff.

In October that year, a lovely young lady called to my door from Eir. They used to be called Eircom but changed the name to Eir because, well I don’t really know why. I’m pretty sure it’s the same service and the same people. Anyway, the lovely young lady was happy to announce that the new top of the range broadband would be available within a few weeks.

I was excited, but I had been disappointed before, so I forced myself to relax.

She told me to ring Eir to order it, so I did, and went through the usual routine. Thank you for calling, pick one of the four options, press the hash sign, pick one of the next four options, press the star sign, pick the option that most suits your needs and wait for an eternity before finally talking to a human.

I told the voice about my meeting with the nice young lady and I advised her that I was now ready to sign up for the broadband.

Well, that was great news for the lady in Eir and she was very happy to assist me except that I had to wait for ten days. I explained that I would be out of the country by then so if she could just make a little note on my account that I wanted it set up, I would be very grateful.

Unfortunately, that wouldn’t be possible because I would have to ring up personally on day ten to book the broadband. As I wasn’t going to be around on day ten, I would have to leave it until I got back home.

As soon as I returned, I made another call to Eircom, now called Eir, and went through the familiar routine of choosing options, pressing hash keys and waiting patiently. I eventually spoke to a lady, told her my story and she went off to make sure the service was still available, and it was.

Just as I was about to sign up, she told me that as soon as I placed the order, my Internet would be disconnected until the new broadband was hooked up which would take a minimum of five working days excluding weekends.

As we were heading into a Bank Holiday weekend, that disconnection period would be longer so, I decided to postpone it until after the long weekend.

When I got back onto Eircom, now called Eir, I got through to a very pleasant young man and he listened patiently as I told my tale once more.

He checked that the broadband was available in my area and thankfully, it was, and it should be connected in less than the five days. But there was a new problem. The portal in my area was now full and there was no room for any new customers, so he told me to try again in a week.

A week later I called back, and I spoke to a nice young lady. I repeated the entire story once more and I told her that I was ready to go if there was some room in the portal for me. I didn’t want much, I wasn’t going to be greedy, I just needed a tiny bit.

Well, good news, there was room, but because of a huge demand for the new service, I would have to wait for two weeks and I would be without the Internet for that period. So the nice lady suggested that I should wait until the New Year when the demand would be reduced, and I would be able to get the service quicker.

So, that’s what I did. I waited for the new year and eventually got connected. But that wasn’t the end of the story. Things got so complicated after that, that I had to get the Communications Regulator involved before the matter was finally resolved.

That’s why I’m a bit sceptical about the finish dates for this project. If it’s that complicated to connect little old me, what’s it going to be like connecting the entire country?

We have a small room downstairs in our house that’s multifunctional. There’s a desk, some drawers and a printer in there so when I’m using it, I call it the office. Sounds posh. My wife is more practical, and she calls it the junk room.

She has a point because there are times when I can hardly find a space to sit down. In fact, sometimes I can’t even find the desk. There is a coat stand in there that is so full of coats, there’s no room for coats so they end up on the desk and they’re joined by everything else in the house that doesn’t have a place of its own.

Every now and then I make a burst and tidy the place up and, on those occasions, I love to sit back and enjoy the space.

It was on one of those rare moments that my solitude was broken by an unusual sound. Unusual for that room anyway. It was the sound of water dripping and it didn’t take me long to find the source. It was coming from above my head.

There was a large circular damp patch on the ceiling and a drop was forming in the centre of it like a bullseye on a dartboard. Every now and then it would plop onto the timber floor. I went upstairs to investigate, and I soon established that it was coming from the shower in my son’s room.

I sent for the builder who examined the bathroom and immediately declared it a disaster area and closed it down. He sealed it off like a crime scene. Then he started banging things with his hammer and dismantling stuff and within a short period of time, the shower was removed and was lying in several pieces out in the back garden.

The full state of the damage was revealed. The shower had obviously been leaking for years because some of the timber underneath was completely rotten. This was going to be a bigger job than we had anticipated originally and a lot more expensive too, so we decided that we would involve our insurance company.

I contacted our insurer and a lady spent a few minutes telling me what I wasn’t insured for and how I would be penalised if I made a claim. She told me she would send an assessor out to view the damage.

A lady assessor arrived a few days later accompanied by a builder, and he got down to business surveying the affected area. He quickly concluded that the cause of the problem was a badly sealed shower and not an issue with the pipework. The assessor advised me that this was bad news for me.

She was very sympathetic but because the pipework wasn’t the cause, she couldn’t cover the cost of the repairs.

I wasn’t particularly concerned with how the damage was caused. I was more concerned with the state of the bathroom and the large gaping hole in the floor in front of me and how it was all going to be paid for.

The sympathetic assessor lady offered more sympathy and then drove off with her builder friend leaving me alone with my wasteland of a bathroom and my thoughts. And no money.

I questioned the value of having insurance when it wouldn’t help me in my time of need. I always seem to be paying top price and receiving nothing in return except sympathy.

I have been paying for car insurance for over forty years and I’ve never had a claim. I have a full no claims bonus for all that time but in spite of that, I paid more for my car insurance this year than ever before.

My mother’s house has been vacant since she died two years ago and there’s nothing in it. We have the heating coming on a couple of times a day to keep the dampness at bay and for the privilege of having that empty house sitting there minding its own business, I have to pay an annual premium of six hundred and sixty euro.

As far as I can make out, the house is covered for very little, but the company will pay out in the unlikely event of a plane crashing into it which is very useful.

A few years ago, I was driving to Dublin when somewhere near Cahir, I hit a brick that was sitting in the middle of the overtaking lane on the motorway and I ended up on the grass verge on the left-hand side of the road. I was lucky it wasn’t more serious, but the tyre was in bits and the alloy wheel was goosed.

It cost me over €500 to replace them so I contacted the insurance company to see what they had to say for themselves. They told me that I would have to pay the first three hundred euro myself and it would also affect my no claims bonus so they suggested it would be cheaper for me to pay for it myself. So I did.

We had a Nissan Almera as a second car a few years back until a drunk driver crashed into it and wrote it off. The insurance company deemed the car to be worth a lot less to them than it was to us, so we got buttons for it.

So, the long and the short of it is, I’ve been paying insurance all my life to cover one thing or the other and I never get any benefit from it. If I didn’t have it though, I’d be the first one to suffer the consequences.

If my mother’s house was uninsured for a single day, I guarantee you a Boeing 747 would plough straight through the bedroom window.